#I’m British and have never stepped foot in America but I am American for the weekend

[foreverfearlessred]

Logan Sargeant through to Q2 and that’s on American Independence x

[jaceyneedsabetterusername]

Doyenne ~ Part 1

Pairings: Tommy Shelby x Reader

Summary: Tommy needs the help of one of Birmingham’s most successful and secretive underground gangs, the Hemlock Angels. Little does he know, he’s not the king of Birmingham after all.��

Warnings: None for this chapter

Word Count: 2591

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Thomas Shelby awaited your arrival anxiously in his office. He’d never admit it but he was always slightly anxious when it came to making deals, especially with new partners. With old associates, like Alfie Solomons, Tommy could predict their actions. He knew the likelihood of them double crossing him, how much threatening it would take to get them to comply, and who to threaten to harm if they didn’t. There was too much out of control with new potential business partners. 

You, on the other hand, loved making new business partners. Your “business,” as one could call it, was much more underground than a lot of the other ones like it but that didn’t mean that you were unsuccessful. Quite the contrary. In fact, you were the leading exporter of whiskey to the United States, had control of the fighting rings, and had begun to dabble in money laundering and counterfeiting. Unlike the men, however, you kept your dealings quiet. All these other gangs liked to do things like offer protection or have designated territories that others could get shot for stepping foot in. All of this was unnecessary to you and, typically, you preferred to stay out of it, but when Thomas Shelby requested a meeting, you couldn’t resist. 

At 10:00 am sharp, you found yourself walking into the doors of Shelby Company Limited. You looked around, noting the dark colors on the walls and all of the wooden furniture. You made sure to take note of every door and window that you could see and the position of all the employees around the building. Some might call it paranoia, but you preferred to call it covering your bases. No such thing as being too careful when it came to dealing with gangsters. 

“Can I help you, miss?” A gruff voice asked. You looked up to see a man with the same haircut as all the other men here, buzzed short on the side and long on top, and a large mustache over his top lip. 

“I’m here to see Thomas Shelby.” You explained. 

The man shook his head slightly, “May I ask what for?” The words were polite but his tone was interrogative. 

You weren’t sure who this man was or what he was allowed to know. “I have a meeting with him at ten,” you paused, making a show of checking your pocket watch, trying to indicate that you didn’t have time for this go around, “Or well, now, I suppose.” 

The man looked you up and down before nodding, “Follow me.” You followed him to an office in the back, “You have a meeting at ten? Tommy doesn’t usually do business with representatives. Where is Mr. L/N?” He asked. 

You nodded, “I am L/N. Y/N L/N.” Every time you went in for a meeting with anyone, this happened. They always expected a man. The man’s eyes widened in realization but you saw his expression lighten just slightly. “You are?” 

“Arthur Shelby. Vice President of Shelby Company Limited.” He announced, stopping at a door that clearly read Thomas Shelby, CEO. 

You extended your hand to the man, “Well, thank you Mr. Shelby. It’s nice to meet you.” Arthur’s eyes flickered to your hand for a moment before taking it, shaking it hesitantly. 

He rapped his knuckles on the wooden door. “Tommy. I have L/N here to see you.” 

“Come in.” A rough voice answered from the other side of the door. Arthur opened it and you stepped inside. The office was quite spacious and clean for the most part. 

A rather attractive man that you correctly assumed to be Thomas Shelby sat at the desk facing you, removing his glasses and looking at you with confusion in his piercing blue eyes, “Who are you?” He questioned bluntly. 

Every time. 

“L/N. Y/N L/N. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Shelby.” You took the initiative to introduce yourself.

The confused look melted away, quickly fronted with sudden professionalism. He stood up front behind his desk and readjusted his black jacket just enough to flash the pistol at his side, an action you assumed was a habit of his when meeting new people to intimidate them as if everyone in this line of work wasn’t armed. “Of course, Miss. L/N. My apologies. I was just expecting a-” 

“Man. I know. Most people do. We came to discuss business though. Correct, Mr. Shelby?” You asked, eyebrow raised. Straight to the point, concise. It showed that you meant business and didn’t come to be dismissed due to your gender. 

Thomas nodded, “Ah, yes. Please, have a seat.” He extended his hand, gesturing to the seat across the desk from him. “Thank you, Arthur, we have it from here.” You had forgotten that the other Shelby brother was still in the room. Without glancing back, you heard the door close behind you. 

“So, Miss. L/N, you’re the head of the Hemlock Angels?” Tommy leaned back in his chair, glancing down into his glass of what you knew was whiskey. 

The name always made you cringe inside, never intending for your operation to have an official name. But Tommy didn’t need to know that. “Yes, as a matter of fact I am.” You answered straightforwardly. 

“You’re a very difficult person to find.” He noted, leaning forward now.

You nodded, “That’s how I prefer to keep it. It’s hard to run these sorts of businesses in the open. I would say I’m sure you would understand but the Peaky Blinders have been running the streets for the last decade or so quite publicly, if I remember correctly.”

“We all had our quiet beginnings. It would just appear to me that perhaps our goals were different.” He sipped his drink, “But back to what I called you for. From what I hear, you export whiskey to America, correct?” 

You crossed your legs, sitting back in your chair, “That is true.” 

Tommy continued, “And I hear you also counterfeit and launder money?” “Yes.” You confirmed. 

His fingers laced together on his desktop. “I need your services. I’ve come into possession of certain�� acquisitions that I need transported to America discreetly. I currently have no secure means of transportation.” 

You cocked your head slightly, listening intently to him with a straight face, “And you wish to transport your acquisitions with my alcohol?” 

The man nodded, “Yes. And as for the money, I need $100,000 American dollars counterfeited.” 

At that request, you shook your head, “I don’t do American dollars.” 

“If you can make British money, there must be a way to make American money. They don’t need to be perfect. In fact, I only need them to pass at a glance. I need the police to be able to detect them as counterfeits.” Tommy explained. 

Your eyebrows scrunched, “Why do you need the police to detect them? And wouldn’t that just trace the money back to us?” 

Tommy inhaled audibly, “I’m assuming that you have secure methods of ground transport for your whiskey. I, however, am relying on people I’ve never met personally before. I also happen to have people who’ve double crossed me and think I don’t know about it. I owe the latter group $100,000 American dollars. The plan is to give them the money and call in to the police about it. Have their whole operation busted. While the police are occupied with such a huge bust, we’ll be moving our goods with less of a chance of getting caught.”

“That seems like quite a bit of hassle for something that is only a diversion. Forgive me for saying so but this doesn’t seem like a very foolproof plan, Mr. Shelby. I don’t think I’m willing to risk my assets for this.” You admitted honestly. 

“The counterfeit bills are not only a diversion but the ends to another deal with an old partner. Don’t think of it as a diversion. It’s killing two birds with one stone. And as for the security of this plan and your assets, rest assured that I’m no amateur, Miss. L/N. I am in control of everything. There are no loose ends.” Tommy’s words were spoken with reassurance but his tone also told you that he didn’t appreciate his skills being doubted. 

You leaned forward, “And all of this in exchange for…?” You were curious as to what he’d offer. How would he know what you wanted or what your company needed? 

Tommy tapped his hand on the desk, “I figure you name your price. We can negotiate from there.” 

Well this was new. Usually people came in with their offer already prepared. You thought for a moment. What did you need? “Protection.” 

“I can offer men to keep you safe.” 

You shook your head with a chuckle and side smile, “You misunderstand, Mr. Shelby. I’m a big girl. I can keep myself safe. I need legal protection. From what I understand, you have an in with Winston Churchill. I have some exports that were seized by cops on the way to the drop off site. The number of whiskey bottles lost is not the concern but the men who were transporting them were good men. They have children and wives. We have a protocol in place just in case anything was ever seized. A specific story they've been instructed to tell to keep the company safe and keep them in as little trouble as possible. Considering our distillery hasn't been raided yet, I'm assuming they did as instructed. I need them released."

Tommy drew a sharp breath between his teeth and shook his head slightly, "I did have an in with Churchill but he's already done favors for me. I can't ask him for another." 

Grabbing your bag, you shifted to begin to stand, "Well thank you for your time Mr. Shelby but that's all that I'm in need of at this time. Unfortunately, it seems like this deal won't work out after all." 

"Wait, wait," Tommy put a hand up and you returned to your seat, "Now, look. I have no more pull now with Churchill but I have come into some incriminating on the Chief of Police. Career ruining information. If you provide me with $100,000 American dollars and use of your transportation, we will blackmail the chief into releasing your men.” 

A small smile cracked on your lips and you nodded in agreement, your fingers crossed in your lap. But there was still something that had been concerning you since you heard that the infamous Thomas Shelby even wanted to speak with you. “One last issue I wanted to discuss with you, though, prior to finalizing this deal-” 

“Is…?” He interrupted. 

“Is that many people I know that’ve worked with you have warned me that you’re not to be trusted. I’ve heard stories of you double crossing partners, coming up short on your end, and sometimes not upholding your end at all. ‘Sudden changes to the agreement’, you called it I believe? I’ve been told that you force people to cooperate by threatening to kill them, even if they held up their end of the bargain.” You cocked an eyebrow, allowing him time to figure out exactly what you were insinuating. 

You leaned forward, elbows now on his desk resting eye level with him. His face was emotionless but his eyes showed that he was deep in thought, trying to figure out what to say. But rather than let him, you continued, “Mr. Shelby, I do not do business with liars and crooks. The way it sounds like you make deals, it’s a miracle you even have people still willing to do business with you. I am willing to give this a chance but I am telling you this now. You will not fuck me over. I don’t care who you are or what you do. Because your past dealings have left you with a less than stellar reputation as a business partner, this is how things are gonna go: you’re going to get my men released. Then and only then will I hand over the money and accept whatever cargo it is that you’re shipping.” 

Even when you were done, you didn’t lean back. You stayed put, eyes locked with his, not backing down. Your face was serious, eyebrows raised slightly, daring him to protest. The air hung thick between the two of you in the brief moments of silence where you found yourselves locked in each other’s eyes. It was like when you stared at a buck through the sights of a rifle, reveling in the beauty of the creature but also ready to pull the trigger. He leaned across the table, pointing a finger at you and speaking sternly but low, “Who the fuck do you think you are, coming into my office and telling me how things are gonna go?” 

“I’m the person who has everything you need when you’re simply doing me a convenience. Y’see, I don’t need you. In time, I will get my men released without you. You’re simply expediting the process. I, on the other hand, am the best in the country in everything you need done.” Judging by the fire behind his eyes, he wasn’t used to being talked to like this, especially by a woman. You could see the cogs working in his head, trying to formulate an appropriate response to this. Usually, with the men, it was all violence and threats. But even Tommy knew that women typically took a different approach. Or maybe he could benefit from it. 

“I don’t need you. I need your resources. If I wanted to, I could have you killed and your assets seized. Whatever press you print your counterfeits on would be in my possession and I’m sure your employees wouldn’t mind telling me how you transport your whiskey to America given the right encouragement.” His threat rambled on but you couldn’t help but laugh. 

“Ah, Mr. Shelby, you’re already off to a bad start with all these threats! See, you do need me. You don’t know where my distillery is or where we print bills or where we ship things from. You didn’t even know I was a woman. You know nothing and it scares you. Your insecurity shows through in the form of unnecessary violence. I’m not intimidated, though. And quite frankly, I’m tired of all of this back and forth. I simply needed to express to you that you will be upholding your end of the bargain without any threats and/or manipulation. I am, however, still willing to go through with all of this if you’re willing to meet my requirements.” 

Tommy though for a moment. Was he able to pull this off? Sure, he did actually have dirt on the chief of police, and most men in power always caved in when their job was on the line, but how soon could he pull this off? It didn’t matter. These were logistics he’d figure out later. 

Confidently, he nodded, “Alright, Miss. L/N. $50,000 American dollars up front before the men are released, the other $50,000 after. Final offer. Consider it a show of good faith on your end as well.” 

Internally, you snickered at him for treating counterfeit bills as if they were the real deal, but you shook his hand nonetheless, figuring if it made him seal the deal, it was worth it. “It sounds like we have a deal then, Mr. Shelby.” 

[the-observant-frisbeetarian]

Chapter 1 (Revised)

The Tiger and the Dragon by George deValier

February, 2010 A city in America

.

"Yao, honestly, would you lighten up? You've barely said a word all night!" Arthur snatched a red paper streamer from a passing vendor, scrunched it into a ball, and tossed it at Yao's head. Yao attempted, unsuccessfully, to catch it before it hit him.

"It's called fatigue," Yao grumbled irritably. "I haven't had a day off in two weeks." He fumbled for the red paper ball and tossed it back at Arthur. Alfred neatly intercepted it then unravelled it, placed it over Yao's neck, and tied it into a neat little bow. Yao stopped and glared at the too-cheerful American.

"Yao, you have to celebrate!" Alfred grinned down brightly.

"Why?" Yao asked through gritted teeth.

"Because it's Chinese New Year! It is a time for your people to gather, dress as giant dragons, consume fortune cookies, and purchase tacky little Buddha statues!"

Yao continued to glare blankly. He did not know which was more astounding - Alfred's wilful ignorance, or the fact that after all these years, it still managed to surprise him.

"Alfred, you are an imbecile," said Francis disdainfully, swatting Alfred over the back of the head.

"What?" asked Alfred indignantly, rubbing his head as Arthur just laughed. The four young men continued walking down the busy, colourful inner-city street, passing energetic performers, crowds of onlookers, and endless rows of bright market stalls. A swarming, yelling, cheering mass filled the streets of Chinatown, and Yao could feel a headache developing. He had not ventured out for Chinese New Year in a very long time, and now he remembered why. He never did do well with crowds. He grimaced in annoyance as a loud group of men suddenly pushed through them and nearly knocked him over.

"Watch where you're going you bastards!" shouted Arthur. One of the men flipped them his middle finger and Alfred had to wearily restrain Arthur from chasing after him. It was the third time Arthur had tried to start a fight all evening. "Wankers!" Arthur finally gave up and fell back into step with the others, pulling a cigarette from his pocket and lighting it swiftly.

Yao sighed in exasperation. This was all far too much hassle. "Guys, seriously, why did you make me come out here? We could have just had a few drinks back at my apartment."

"You never want to go anywhere lately," whined Francis. "You're becoming a complete shut-in. Not to mention a bore, mon cher." Francis took a swig from a bottle concealed in a paper bag and offered it to Yao. Yao took it and drank - maybe it would get rid of his headache.

"That's not true." Yao coughed slightly. He never was a big drinker; even a few sips of strong wine were enough to burn his throat. "We just went out like last week, remember? That big party at the Beilschmidt's place."

"That was a Christmas party," said Arthur, reaching insistently for the wine bottle. "A rather early Christmas party, if I remember correctly."

Yao took a few more gulps before handing the bottle over. "Fine, so it's been a few, er, months. So? You know how busy I get at the restaurant."

"Oh, for the days when our Yao was the life of the party," said Alfred, sighing loudly and shaking his head melodramatically.

"What days were those?" asked Arthur before taking a large gulp of wine. "I never remember our Yao being the life of the party."

Alfred shrugged. "Well, at least we could drag him out of the house."

"Um, guys, I'm not dead," snapped Yao. "I've just been busy lately, aru." He immediately swore under his breath, annoyed that his friends had got an 'aru' out of him. An old nervous habit, Yao only came out with it these days when either very angry, irritated, or nervous.

"Oh please," said Francis flippantly. "You are making excuses. I work the same hours as you at the restaurant."

"You see?" said Alfred, waving his hand. "And Francis hasn't turned into a predictable, boring old man!"

Yao scowled. "I hate it when you call me an old man. And I'm not that predictable." He quickly tried to remember the last change to his routine. "Uh... only the other night I stayed up until two a.m."

Alfred whistled then shouted, "Two a.m, look out, he's a wild one!" He immediately ducked as Francis aimed another swipe at his head.

"Really?" asked Arthur, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "What were you doing?"

"I was… rearranging my shoes." The others stared blankly as Yao tried to explain. "I couldn't sleep, and they were messing up my closet, and…" Yao trailed into a mumble. He felt slightly embarrassed, but the feeling was quickly drowned by indignant anger. Fine, so he'd been a little antisocial lately. That was no reason to attack him! "What the hell is it to you if I want to stay home and organise my wardrobe anyway?" Yao shouted. "I don't have an obligation to go out with you anytime you want, you know!"

Alfred and Arthur looked faintly amused at Yao's outburst, but Francis tilted his head apologetically. "Oh, forget this, mon cher. We are here to have fun, no? Here, have a Buddha statue." Francis stopped in front of a stall, picked up a small figurine, and threw it to Yao. Yao was surprised when he managed to catch it. "It may bring you luck." Francis winked before turning to pay the stall owner.

Yao seethed silently as they came to a stop on the street. He knew he should be used to his friends' teasing by now, but he was still annoyed - not least because he knew they were kind of right. Sure, Yao worked long hours. Sure, he was a perfectionist when it came to his work. And sure, he had chosen a competitive business and strived to be the best. But maybe that was all just an excuse. Maybe Yao really was as everyone saw him - tedious, boring, and predictable.

"Red streamer neckties, little Buddha statues… you're getting into the spirit of the New Year after all." Alfred grinned widely. Yao restrained himself from kicking Alfred's foot.

"Is there an off-licence around here somewhere?" asked Arthur, waving the now-empty bottle as Francis rejoined them. "I finished your wine."

Francis' face twisted in disgust. "Merde, who gave you that?"

Arthur straightened up confrontationally. "Whad'ya mean by that?"

Francis put his hands on his hips and met Arthur's stare. "I mean, ros-bif, that it is never a good idea to hand you a full bottle, for it will invariably be empty before you hand it back."

"Sod off, Frog, this French piss tastes like vinegar anyway." Arthur exhaled a stream of smoke in Francis' direction.

Alfred looked confused. "What the hell is an off-licence?"

Arthur scoffed and flicked his cigarette butt to the ground. "Oh, I'm sorry, I forgot you only speak Dumb American."

Alfred folded his arms huffily. "You expect me to keep up with your insane British names for everything? Why can't you talk normal?"

Yao took a few short steps away from the group and looked down at the tiny Buddha in his hand. Years of practice had enabled him to tune out the sound of his friends bickering, so all he heard was the noise of the crowd buzzing in his ears. He turned the small brown figurine over in his hand, contemplating the previous conversation. Yao was utterly sick of being thought of as boring, predictable, old man Yao Wang. It was infuriating. It was insulting. And it wasn't who he really was. Yao squeezed the lucky Buddha and slowly came to a decision. Starting right this moment, he wasn't going to be old man Yao Wang anymore. This was the New Year, after all. It was time for a new beginning. It was time for his luck to change. Yao nodded decisively, put the figurine in his pocket, then immediately jumped when he heard an unfamiliar voice right behind him.

"Hello."

Yao spun around. The first thing that struck him was the man's size. His chest and shoulders were massive, and Yao almost had to strain his neck to look up into the man's smiling, interestingly handsome face. The next thing that struck him was the man's eyes - cold, piercing, and the strangest shade of violet. The third thing that struck Yao was that he was frozen still, staring dumbly up at a stranger in the street and gawking like an idiot. He quickly cleared his throat. "Um, hi."

"You are very beautiful. Can I buy you a drink?"

Yao paused, feeling a little thrown. Well, this was unusual. The man's voice was heavily accented, most likely Russian. He was dressed immaculately in a boot-length trench coat, slightly open to reveal a black suit and a pale scarf around his neck. His presence was overwhelming. Yao opened his mouth but did not know what to say. The man just smiled down at him, those violet eyes stared through him, and Yao felt some reckless part of himself grasp at what seemed a perfect opportunity. "Okay." Yao turned to his friends to find them all staring at the stranger warily. He smiled smugly. "I'll be back soon, this strange Russian man is going to buy me a drink."

Arthur, Alfred and Francis stared at Yao with open mouths and raised eyebrows. "You're not bloody serious," said Arthur.

Yao shrugged nonchalantly, enjoying the shock of his friends. Now who was being boring? "Hey, it's still early." He grinned. "I'm being unpredictable."

Alfred abruptly grabbed Yao by the arm and dragged him a few metres from the stranger. "Are you crazy?" he hissed. "Accepting drinks from Russians in trench coats isn't unpredictable - well okay it is, but it's also insane!"

Yao narrowed his eyes, muttering quietly so he wasn't overheard. "Don't be ridiculous, Alfred, it's just a drink."

"Yeah," snorted Arthur, "Francis does it all the time."

"And if Yao doesn't go, I will," said Francis, gazing appreciatively at the Russian. "He's hot."

"I am going," said Yao insistently, shaking his arm free and backing away. He gave a tiny wave. "Bye guys!"

"Wait!"

Yao stopped at the frantic tone of Alfred's voice. "What?"

Alfred looked almost panicked. "Do you have a can of mace?"

Yao raised his eyebrows, rolled his eyes, and turned back to the still-smiling stranger. The Russian had simply waited patiently during the entire whispered conversation. Yao looked up at him, heart thumping in his chest, and smiled back. "So. Where are you taking me?"

.

Next Chapter

Disclaimer: This story belongs to George deValier. Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya. I own nothing.

[trashcanmarvelfan]

Best. Job. Ever. (Tom Holland x Reader) 1/?

Summary: Reader gets a job on the set of Spider-Man: Far from Home for the 3 weeks they are shooting in New York City as what she thinks is a production assistant, but a twist of fate has her reassigned as Tom Holland's personal assistant. As she & Tom grow close during filming, will their budding friendship turn to more or will they go their separate ways after filming concludes?

Warnings: Language, but that’s pretty much it? This is basically a PG-13 rom-com.

Word Count: 2109

Author’s Note: As this was written WAY before Spider-Man: Far from Home was released (actually before Avengers: Endgame was as well) I've kept plot details and which scene was being shot on what day extremely vague. Also, I'm American but tried to write Tom as British as possible, although I do think he'd try to stay(ish) in character and use as much American slang as he could while he's still playing Peter.

Requests are always open! 

Cross-posted at AO3.

“I really need your help here,” Y/N's best friend Laura said over the phone. “Please, Y/N.”

Laura had wanted to direct films, so she immediately moved to L.A. upon Y/N’s & her college graduation that past spring to work in the film industry. So far she had worked as a production assistant on a few feature films and was currently scheduled to work as part the Spider-Man: Far from Home crew, but she had been offered a position as a 3rd assistant AD on another film after the director saw one of her student films, which unfortunately required her to drop out of the Spider-Man crew. Before leaving Laura had promised that she would find a reliable, trustworthy replacement.

“I don’t know,” Y/N replied.

“I promised Anna I’d find a replacement PA since I had to back out. You don’t start your new job for like a month, right?”

“Right…”

“It’s only for the final 3 weeks of shooting, while they’re in New York. They’ll put you up in a hotel, you’ll get to meet the cast, and you’ll get to see the city! Think of it as a paid vacation… that makes you work for it. You might actually get to meet Tom Holland himself!”

Y/N sighed wistfully.  She had had a crush on Tom Holland ever since she had seen him in Captain America: Civil War, and had loved him in both Spider-Man: Homecoming and Avengers: Infinity War. Laura wouldn't have recommended her if she didn't believe that Y/N could do it, right? “You’re so lucky I love you… and that I really need the money.”

Laura squealed. “So you’ll do it?”

“Yeah, I’ll do it.”

“Great! I’ll let them know and send you the details.”

One week later, Y/N stepped off of the plane in NYC. She grabbed her bags from luggage claim, caught a cab, and headed to her hotel to check in and drop her luggage off before catching an Uber to the crew meeting.

She nervously tapped her foot the entire way to the filming location. Once she had arrived, she made her way through security and to the set.

She spotted a woman holding a clipboard, who was directing various people where to go, so she walked over to her. “Excuse me, I need to check in. I'm the new production assistant, taking over for Laura Pearson.”

The woman peered over her glasses at Y/N. “Name?”

“Y/F/N.”

The woman glanced at her clipboard. “Y/N, Y/N”, she muttered, running her finger down the page. “Ah. Yes, we’ve been expecting you. You’ve actually been reassigned from production assistant to personal assistant to Tom Holland.”

“Wait, excuse me-- What?”  Y/N thought that there was no way that she had heard right. “Did you just say that I’m Tom Holland’s personal assistant?”

The woman nodded. “Yes, well, Tom’s in need of an assistant for this leg of the shooting and you seemed like the perfect choice.”

Y/N was still convinced that there had been a mistake. “But I’ve never even worked on a movie set before. When I was told I’d be a P.A. I assumed that meant I’d be a production assistant to the director or something.”

The woman arched an eyebrow. “Is there a problem? You came very highly recommended, and your background and references were excellent.”

Y/N shook her head. “No, no problem. Just surprised, is all.”

Suddenly things started to make sense.  She had thought that the NDA Sony had made her sign had some extra clauses to it regarding speaking to the media about the cast, and the hotel she was staying at was more fancy than she had been expecting. Tom must be staying there.

The woman handed her a manila envelope. “Here’s Tom’s schedule for this week. On Saturday I’ll give you his schedule for next week, and next week I’ll give you the final week’s schedule.  You’ll be meeting with him at the hotel restaurant at 5 pm today to go over it and to make sure that nothing conflicts or has changed in his availability. We start shooting tomorrow. Any questions?”

Y/N took a deep breath and shook her head. What is my life?

She went back to her hotel and reviewed Tom’s schedule, noting with relief that she would have Sunday off, which would at least give her one day this week to go sightseeing. Better than nothing, I guess. She had hoped to be able to do some exploring before filming started the next day but instead opted to take a nap before her meeting with Tom.  Jet-lag must’ve hit her harder than she thought, because Y/N slept for longer than she thought she would’ve. Luckily she had set an alarm, which gave her enough time to shower, throw some fresh clothes on, and get downstairs to the restaurant about 10 minutes early.

She gave her name to the hostess and was led to a small table in the back of the mostly-empty restaurant. A few seconds later their server came by. “Hi, my name is Michael and I’ll be taking care of you. Is someone joining you tonight?”

“Ahh, yes, actually. He should be here any minute,” Y/N replied.

“Ok, great. Can I get you anything while you wait?”

Y/N bit her lip. She was working, so… “An iced tea and a water would be great to start with.”

“Ok, I’ll get you that tea and water and be back momentarily.”

“Thanks so much.”

As Michael walked away Y/N checked her phone and noticed that she had a message from Laura. How was the crew meeting?

I have so much to tell you, Y/N responded. But it’ll have to wait.

She put her phone away.  Michael came back with her water and she thanked him before pulling out Tom’s schedule.  She was reading over it again when she heard a crisp British accent. “Excuse me, Y/N?”

She looked up and her heart skipped a beat. Holy shit. Tom Holland himself stood in front of her. “Um…” she stammered. “Yeah. I mean yes.”

“Hi, I’m Tom,” he said, taking a seat across from her and sticking his hand out.

Y/N shook his hand. “Y/N… but you already knew that.”

Tom grinned. “Nice to meet you.”  He leaned back in his chair as Michael returned once more.

“Hello there! I’m Michael. Can I get you something to drink?”

“Um, yeah, I’ll take a water.”

“Ok then, I’ll give you a few minutes to look over the menu and then I’ll be back.”

Tom picked up the menu. “I’m famished. Y/N, would you like something to eat?”

At the mention of food Y/N’s stomach growled loudly, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten yet that day. Her eyes widened in embarrassment.

Tom laughed. “I’ll take that as a yes.” He picked up his menu.

“So,” he said once Michael had returned with his water and they had placed their orders, “tell me about yourself. I figure if we’re going to be working with each other for the next few weeks we ought to get to know each other, am I right?”

“Um, right,” Y/N agreed. “Well, I’m originally from (hometown) but I recently graduated from the University of Chicago with a degree in English with a focus on journalism.”

Tom looked impressed. “How on earth did you wind up as an assistant on a movie set then?”

“My friend and former college roommate Laura was originally scheduled to be a production assistant on this shoot but had to back out, so she asked me to fill in. I was recently offered a position with a publishing company in Los Angeles, but I could really use the money while I’m waiting on my background check & paperwork to go through, so I agreed to help her out, plus this is my first time in New York so I thought it’d kind of... be like a vacation? I really wasn’t expecting to be your assistant for the next 3 weeks… Not that it’s a problem!” she quickly corrected herself. “I just… It’s just not what I expected to be doing.”

Tom was obviously amused. “Well, it’s not the most glamorous job in the world since you basically have to follow me around everywhere, but I promise to make it easy on you.” He winked then pulled out his phone. “Since we're going to need to stay in touch over the next few weeks how about you give me your mobile number and email address? Anna didn't give me your personal information, just your name.”

Y/N flushed slightly. “ Oh um, sure. And thanks.” She rattled off her phone number and waited while Tom added her contact information, then  picked up Tom’s schedule. “So since shooting starts tomorrow, shall we go over your schedule?”

They hashed out the details of the next week in between bites, Y/N making notes in her phone and setting alarms so she wouldn’t forget anything.

Once they were finished, Tom insisted on taking care of the check. “It’s on me. It’s the least I can do to thank you in advance for keeping me on schedule.”

“Oh, well, thank you so much,” Y/N said.

They left the restaurant and headed toward the elevator together. “Which floor?” Tom asked.

“10,” Y/N replied.

“Oh, is that so? I’m actually on the 10th too.”

“Cool,” Y/N replied. “Oh that reminds me, since I have to come pick you up from your room… which one is it?”

“Right, I guess that would be important, wouldn’t it?” Tom chuckled. “I’m in 1043.”

“Ok, so, a car is supposed to pick us up at 7:30 tomorrow morning to make sure you’re at the set for 8,” Y/N confirmed, so I’ll be around about… 7:15ish?”

“7:15 it is,” Tom nodded.

“Umm… do you want me to pick you up some coffee in the morning? Oh wait, you’re British, you probably don’t drink coffee. Tea then?”

Tom laughed. “Actually I DO drink coffee, and that would be lovely, thank you.”

“Great! There’s a Starbucks in the lobby of the hotel, is that ok?”

“Yes, that’s perfect.”

The elevator doors opened on their floor and they stepped out into the hallway.

“Ok, well, I’m this way,” Y/N said, pointing in the opposite direction of Tom’s room.  “I’ll… see you tomorrow?”

“See you tomorrow. Good night, Y/N.”

“‘Night, Tom.”

As soon as Y/N got in her room she pulled out her phone and Facetimed Laura.

“Hey, Y/N,” Laura answered. “What’s up?”

“So when were you going to tell me that I was going to be Tom Freaking Holland’s personal assistant on this shoot?” Y/N hissed.

Laura’s eyebrows went up in surprise. “What? You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope. I walked on set fully expecting to be a production assistant helping everyone out, not personal assistant to the star of the freaking film! What the hell did you tell these people about me?”

“Just that you were super reliable and trustworthy and a little about your background. You’re the one who sold them on you with your phone interview and resume. This is a good thing,” Laura reassured her. “I’m sure it’ll be a lot more fun keeping Tom on schedule than running around set as a glorified gopher who hands out scripts and fetches coffee for everyone.”

“Well that's true, plus the pay is actually double what I would’ve originally made, and they put me up in a swanky hotel,” Y/N replied.

“Well see, it’s definitely working out!” Laura paused. “Have you met Tom yet?”

Y/N sighed. “Actually, yeah. We just had a dinner meeting.”

“Is he as cute as he is on screen?”

“Oh my gosh, Laura, he’s even more adorable in person, and he seems really nice. And that accent-- So dreamy.”

Laura squealed. “Take lots of pictures and send them to me!”

Y/N laughed. “I have to be professional, but maybe I’ll be able to get a selfie with Tom before filming is over.”

A bell rang in the background and Laura looked over her shoulder. “I’ve got to go, but have fun and keep me posted!”

“Will do! Bye!” Y/N ended the call.

She brushed her teeth and got ready for bed. 8 PM in New York City and I’m already in bed, she thought sardonically. What a wild life I lead.

She snuggled in bed with her tablet and rewatched Spider-Man: Homecoming before falling into a dreamless sleep.

[lifejustgotawkward]

My Favorite Albums of 2018

Now that we’ve reached the end of December, I’ve compiled a list of my favorite albums from this year. I’m particularly proud of the emphasis that I placed on listening to new music by women, which will be obvious as you make your way through the post. As I hope is the case every time I make these annual rankings, my goal is not so much that anyone should be awed by my short paragraphs of explanation (doubtful since my schedule didn’t allow me enough time to edit my writing too closely - let me know if there are any weird errors!), but rather that my mentions of these artists will spread positive awareness of them. If I can share my appreciation for a singer or band and subsequently inspire someone to become a fan, the work will have been worth it. Have a good time with this, everybody!

Tagging @shadowfaxstables, @entrancedintime, @mr-top-secret, @walkingwiththemoon, @thehoodedone, @yung-lawsuit, @oystersaintforme - I hope you enjoy the music!

15. Seinabo Sey, I’m a Dream

Standout Tracks: “Never Get Used To,” “I Owe You Nothing,” “My Eye,” “Truth,” “Breathe,” “Good in You”

I might never have heard of Gambian-Swedish singer-songwriter Seinabo Sey if I didn’t regular check out Pitchfork reviews, although luckily I started listening to I’m a Dream before reading Katherine St. Asaph‘s piece, which unfairly marks Sey’s album with a 6.0 grade. Sey’s second album, following Pretend (2015), continues her interest in marrying soul/R&B with pop, moving through different tempi to exhibit her perspectives on romantic and familial relationships. Most inspirational among the songs is “Breathe,” an empowering reminder from Sey to herself that no matter what hardships she endures, she is valuable and magical.

14. Black Belt Eagle Scout, Mother of My Children

Standout Tracks: “Soft Stud,” “Keyboard,” “Mother of My Children,” “Yard,” “I Don’t Have You in My Life,” “Sam, A Dream”

There may not have been a more impressive debut single in 2018 than “Soft Stud,” a searing ode to unrequited lust. The rest of Katherine Paul’s album is fairly quiet by comparison, but her first full-length project as Black Belt Eagle Scout burns with longing. A self-described “radical indigenous queer feminist,” Paul draws from her experiences growing up in the Swinomish Indian Tribal Community in Washington to tell stories both deeply personal to her and universal in the desires they communicate. Album closer “Sam, A Dream” is the best example of how Paul blends those two concepts, taking a minimalist lyrical approach to expressing her love for the song’s subject before spending a solid two and a half minutes on a guitar solo to finish the record, a sound so beautiful that you feel like you’re floating when you hear it.

13. Blossoms, Cool Like You

Standout Tracks: “Cool Like You,” “Unfaithful,” “How Long Will This Last?” “Between the Eyes,” “Lying Again,” “Love Talk”

For those of us who love a good tune that pays homage to 80s New Wave and synthpop, Blossoms are your band. They don’t seem to have made anywhere near as much of an impact in the US as they have in their native UK, and British critics weren’t exactly bowled over by this sophomore album (despite it hitting #4 on the charts), but I’ll bet that most of today’s young American bands would kill to put out a single half as catchy as “Cool Like You,” or anything close to the upbeat yet still sort of bittersweet perfection of “Love Talk.”

12. Shannon Shaw, Shannon in Nashville

Standout Tracks: “Bring Her the Mirror,” “Broke My Own,” “Leather, Metal, Steel,” “Love I Can’t Explain,” “Cold Pillows,” "Make Believe”

Stepping away from her role as frontwoman of Oakland, California’s surf-punk outfit Shannon and the Clams, Shannon Shaw’s debut solo album Shannon in Nashville is an entrancing collection of songs deeply inspired by 60s girl groups, Roy Orbison and, of course, Dusty “Dusty in Memphis” Springfield. Even if you’d never heard Shaw’s voice before now, it would instantly become iconic to your ears thanks to melodies that sound just as timeless as their predecessors from half a century ago.

11. Say Sue Me, Where We Were Together

Standout Tracks: “Let It Begin,” “But I Like You,” “Old Town,” “After Falling Asleep,” “About the Courage to Become Somebody’s Past,” “Coming to the End”

Korean-American indie rock band Say Sue Me have a sweet, light touch that makes both their snappy power-pop efforts like “But I Like You” and “Old Town” and also somewhat more serious-minded guitar showcases like “Let It Begin,” “About the Courage to Become Somebody’s Past” (an instrumental that gives me real “This Magic Moment” vibes) and “Coming to the End” equally appealing. I don’t speak or understand Korean, so I don’t know how lead singer Sumi Choi’s lyrics of “After Falling Asleep” translate, but the fact that I love it anyway is a testament to the fact that fantastic music always transcends barriers of language.

10. Robyn, Honey

Standout Tracks: “Missing U,” “Human Being” (feat. Zhala), “Baby Forgive Me,” “Send to Robin Immediately,” “Honey,” “Ever Again”

I didn’t expect to love Robyn’s newest album upon first listen back in October, but now I do, so here we are. A couple of months spent absorbing her woozy beats has made me appreciate Robyn’s ability to evoke moods that feel specific to her particular talent as an artist. The loss that inspired the album - the death of one of her closest friends, Christian Falk, in 2014 - pervades nearly all of the tracks, but they are relatable and will still make you want to dance, closer to light than to darkness. Even in songs like “Human Being” and “Baby Forgive Me,” where the rhythms and (to cite the latter’s credits in the album liner notes) “sad robot voice” play with notions of human artistic creation juxtaposed with machine-manufactured products, Robyn herself is always in front and center, and in the album’s crown jewel, the title track “Honey,” her maturity as a storyteller is evident.

9. cupcakKe, Eden

Standout Tracks: “PetSmart,” “Cereal and Water,” “Garfield,” “Prenup,” “Blackjack,” “A.U.T.I.S.M.”

All Hail Queen cupcakKe. On her second album of the year, following January’s Ephorize, the Chicago rapper continues to show why she’s one of the best women in the game. “PetSmart” starts things off incredibly, exhibiting one entertaining brag after another, then the rest of the album displays more of her often laugh-out-loud humor, endless pop culture references, a bunch of her quintessential sex-centric jams (”Garfield,” “Typo,” “Blackjack”) and a song dedicated to people on the autism spectrum (”A.U.T.I.S.M.”). Every now and then there are moments that indicate that cupcakKe still has room to grow, like when she uses the R slur on “Garfield,” but ultimately her heart is in the right place; besides the aforementioned “A.U.T.I.S.M.,” she has also recorded songs in support of the LGBTQ+ community (”LGBT,” “Crayons”), so I am certain that she’ll eventually learn from her mistakes. As one YouTube commenter wrote on one of her videos: “She should be where Cardi B is.” Indeed.

8. Chelsea Jade, Personal Best

Standout Tracks: “Ride or Cry,” “Pitch Dark,” “Colour Sum,” “Laugh It Off,” “Over Sensitive,” “High Beam”

New Zealand-based singer-songwriter Chelsea Jade has not yet hit it big in America like her younger compatriot, Lorde, but there is an ample proof on Personal Best that Jade can craft earworms with memorable hooks and intelligent lyrics. (Seriously, when was the last time you heard the word liminal used in a pop song, as Jade does on “Laugh It Off”?) She has her foot in the door in America as a lyricist, credited as one of the writers of this year’s Chainsmokers single “You Owe Me,” but one hopes that the “Accidental Dream Pop Hero” of Auckland, NZ will claim her own chart-topping stardom one day.

7. Beach House, 7

Standout Tracks: “Lemon Glow,” “L’Inconnue,” “Black Car,” “Lose Your Smile,” “Girl of the Year,” “Last Ride”

I thought I knew what to expect from a Beach House album after following their career for the past few years, but “Lemon Glow” and “Black Car” hit me like gorgeous sledgehammers anyway when they were released earlier this year, still taking my breath away every time I hear them. I don’t know how Victoria Legrand and Alex Scally manage it, but they keep finding sophisticated ways to update their mining of the same musical territory in a tried-and-true comfort zone. Beach House’s secret seems to be that they have deduced all the algorithms necessary to hypnotize listeners. 7 is perhaps less exciting to me than the duo’s last album, Thank Your Lucky Stars, since the freshness of first being introduced to their music in 2015 has faded, but I’m glad to report that their new songs are absolutely worthy of praise.

6. Soccer Mommy, Clean

Standout Tracks: “Still Clean,” “Cool,” “Your Dog,” “Last Girl,” “Skin,” “Wildflowers”

Nashville, Tennessee’s Sophie Allison, who performs under the moniker Soccer Mommy, wowed me with this ten-track album full of indie rock gems. At age 20, she is ready to take the music industry by storm, evoking her heroes Liz Phair and Mitski while always maintaining a recognizable individual style. This is most apparent on the more upbeat tracks - “Skin,” for example, is a brutally honest articulation of yearning, and if ever there was a year that needed a blistering takedown of abusive relationships like “Your Dog” as its rallying cry, it’s 2018.

5. Courtney Barnett, Tell Me How You Really Feel

Standout Tracks: “Hopefulessness,” “Charity,” “Need a Little Time,” “Nameless, Faceless,” “Help Your Self,” “Sunday Roast”

It took a while for Courtney Barnett’s latest album to sink in with me. Tell Me How You Really Feel is the definition of a slow burn; it has just as much of Barnett’s trademark dry humor, but it also brings to the surface a sensitivity beyond what she revealed on her breakthrough album, Sometimes I Sit and Think, and Sometimes I Just Sit (2015). Most of all, I think she’s enjoying exploring what she can do with her melodies, like the guitar solo on “Help Your Self,” her incorporation of Margaret Atwood’s famous “men are afraid, women are afraid” quote in the chorus of the #MeToo/#TimesUp anthem “Nameless, Faceless” or the amount of time it takes her to reach the “Keep on keeping on/You know you're not alone” part of “Sunday Roast.” Listening to new music by Courtney Barnett is as rewarding an experience as any modern-day alternative rock fan could want.

4. Caroline Rose, LONER

Standout Tracks: “More of the Same,” “Jeannie Becomes a Mom,” “Getting to Me,” “To Die Today,” “Soul No. 5,” “Animal”

I was magnetized to Caroline Rose’s music from the intriguing opening notes of “More of the Same,” the first of many riffs that LONER gifts to us. My favorite track is “Jeannie Becomes a Mom,” which continues a classic singer-songwriter tradition of relating the ups and downs of another woman’s life, especially her dreams for a brighter future. She also moves through a few genres besides indie rock with skill, employing elements of trip-hop on “To Die Today” and R&B on “Talk” and “Animal” in engaging ways. (According to Rose in a press release, LONER is “as much inspired by Justin Timberlake and Britney Spears as it was late-’70s punk,“ which I can believe.) Rose’s sense of humor might be the best part of the album, though, as seen in her sharp wit and sarcasm on “Money,” “Soul No. 5” and “Bikini,” the last of which is a bouncy number mocking the industries that compel women to become sexualized puppets tailor-made for public consumption.

I also find this Out Magazine quote from Caroline Rose about how she incorporates her own sexuality enlightening: “When I was first starting, I was kind of afraid to make being queer a part of my identity for fear that it would consume it, because that happens to a lot of artists, unfortunately. When you’re first starting, that is the way people identify you cause that’s all you get. You get one elevator pitch and if you’re lucky, a 30 second clip of what your music sounds like—and that’s the pitch. But I hit a point where I was like, ‘That’s dumb.’ People should be as much of themselves as possible, ‘cause then everyone would be super unique. No one else is you. You are independent of other people and you can do whatever you want with your identity and your body and the way you dress and the way you act. I realized I should just be myself—middle fingers up and no fucks given, ‘cause life is really short. My life is zipping by and I’m okay with that, but I want to make sure I do it right.”

3. Wild Moccasins, Look Together

Standout Tracks: “Boyish Wave,” “Temporary Vase,” “Longtime Listener,” “Missing You (the Most),” “No Muse,” “Waterless Cup”

Few bands that I discovered in 2018 have dazzled me quite like Houston, Texas’s Wild Moccasins. When the pair at the heart of the group, vocalist/keyboardist Zahira Gutierrez and guitarist Cody Swann, ended their romantic relationship a few years ago, they turned their complex jumble of reasons and reactions into art. But Look Together isn’t a mopey breakup record; “Longtime Listener,” the song that immediately turned me into a fan, is a slice of New Wave heaven, while “Missing You (the Most)” and “No Muse” are just as jaunty but dig into the more personal side of the duo’s songwriting. “Missing” ends with a repetition of the lines “You only want me if you get the chance to change me/You only want me if you get the chance to save me,” while “No Muse,“ a pointed examination of how men (especially artists) undermine and belittle the women in their relationships, features this cogent chorus: “I’m no use to you unless I’m undressed/I’m no muse to you/You cut me in two unless I say yes/I’m no muse to you/And you can sing about it all you want/I must not want it bad enough, bad enough.”

2. Miya Folick, Premonitions

Standout Tracks: “Thingamajig,” “Premonitions,” “Stock Image,” “Stop Talking,” “Deadbody,” “Baby Girl”

Thanks to Pitchfork, I first heard of Miya Folick when her single “Deadbody” came out this past March. It immediately struck me as a manifesto for our new age, where women can move forward with confidence thanks to the #MeToo and #TimesUp movements. That song alternately demonstrates subdued menace and loud, unapologetic anger, but “Stock Image” and “Premonitions” show that Folick has a strong leaning towards modern pop music; “Stop Talking” is so commercially accessible that it’s as much of a bop as any sugary confection by Carly Rae Jepsen. Folick’s debut album - after having released a number of EPs and standalone tracks over the past few years - showcases a woman whose voice and songwriting abilities have limitless potential, and she’s only just getting started. To quote some of Folick’s lyrics from “Stop Talking,” seemingly a summary of her artist’s statement: “You have to make a choice/Don’t be an accidental voice/We have to speak with grace/We will become the words we say.“

1. Mitski, Be the Cowboy

Standout Tracks: “Geyser,” “Me and My Husband,” “Nobody,” “Pink in the Night,” “Washing Machine Heart,” “Two Slow Dancers”

It’s no mistake that so many end-of-year best-of lists have placed Be the Cowboy at the top of their rankings. Mitski’s fifth album finds her wading through deep pools of emotion in brief, lovely bursts of song, with twelve out of the fourteen tracks running two and a half minutes or shorter. It was pretty difficult for me to pick only a handful of highlights from an album that is so impressive in every conceivable way, so just know that every cut is a masterpiece. She puts words to the feelings we all carry inside, diamonds that glisten for fleeting moments but linger in the memory for a long time afterward.

HONORABLE MENTIONS (alphabetical)

Cher, Dancing Queen (”Dancing Queen,” ”Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! (A Man After Midnight),” “The Name of the Game,” “Waterloo,” ”Fernando,” ”One of Us”)

Farao, Pure-O (”Marry Me,” “Get Along,” “Luster of the Eyes,” “Cluster of Delights,” “Gabriel,” “Triumph Over Me”)

Florence + The Machine, High as Hope (”Hunger,” “Big God,” “Patricia,” “100 Years,” “The End of Love,” “No Choir”)

Juliana Hatfield, Juliana Hatfield Sings Olivia Newton-John (”I Honestly Love You,” ”Physical,” “Hopelessly Devoted to You,” “Xanadu,” “Dancin’ ‘Round and ‘Round,” “Make a Move on Me”)

Marie Davidson, Working Class Woman (”Your Biggest Fan,” ”Work It,” ”The Psychologist,” “Day Dreaming,” “So Right” [although the extended version is even better since the opening lines are brought back in the last thirty seconds, making the song’s ending even more effective], “Burn Me”)

HONORABLE MENTIONS #2: EPs (alphabetical)

Ellis, The Fuzz (”The Drain,” “Frostbite,” ”What a Mess”)

Hatchie, Sugar & Spice (”Sleep,” ”Try,” “Bad Guy”)

King Princess, Make My Bed (”Talia,” “Upper West Side,” “Holy”)

Margaret Glaspy, Born Yesterday (���Before We Were Together,” ”One Heart and Two Arms,” “I Love You, Goodnight”)

Sevdaliza, The Calling (”Soul Syncable,” “Energ1,” “Human Nature”)

[thirstygirlclub]

Duchess - 5

Chapter 5 –  I’ve really confused you, haven’t I?

I just wanna say this chapter is really fucking cute and I love Happy and Cat together and this chapter is literally 2000 words of her being confused and it’s adorable.

Happy/3rd POV

Happy was sat in the bar when Clay, Jax, Tig and Chibs came back from the meeting with Mr Duke-Dillinger. He sipped on his beer as they walked in chatting animatedly about what had happened and laughing about something happening to Jeremy Vivaldi.

“When the dog fucking bit him!” Chibs laughed and grabbed his hand as if imitating how Jerry had pulled his hand away, “I don’t think I could’ve stopped laughing if he paid me a million dollars!”

Tig howled with laughter as well and Happy knew exactly what dog he was talking about. He looked up at them with interest, listening intently to what they were saying. Something about Catherine’s little rat-dog biting Mr Duke-Dillinger’s business partner on the hand and Catherine walking out crying.

“That family is real mean to her, man,” Jax said once the laughter had died down, “they’ve made her feel like she’s not good at anything and she called herself dumb…”

Happy felt himself bristling up at the mention of the girl who had been so kind and gentle to his dog. Most people were scared of Scrap but Catherine hadn’t even given him a second thought and fussed him with just as much love as she showed her little, perfect dog.

“Yeah,” Clay interjected, sitting across from Happy with the rest of the guys joining him, “when you were outside they called her beautiful but stupid; Jerry’s exact words were, ‘she’s more like an ornamental doll than a computer; she is useless.’”

“Bastards,” Jax spat, “they know that’s their kid right? You can’t say that about your family in front of a bunch of strangers.”

Catherine seemed to be the topic of choice for them, not the actual events of the meeting. They all agreed that she was pretty and cute but maybe she wasn’t the most intelligent of people. Jax brought up the fact that she got confused about the difference between his house and the clubhouse but Happy thought that was an easy mistake to make if you didn’t know they didn’t live in the clubhouse. He didn’t say anything though, obviously. Jax also told them about Catherine saying she failed school, no big deal in Happy’s opinion, and that she apologised for almost everything.

“Poor kid,” Chibs sighed and took a sip of his beer, “I feel kind of bad for her. The brother seems like a bit of a shit.”

“Nah, he’s cool,” Jax shrugged, “just a rich kid.”

Once the conversation about Catherine had been exhausted, they started talking about what had actually been spoken about in the meeting. Jerry had told them that they had run into some trouble with a few of the investors for the project and Mr Duke-Dillinger had made a deal with some pretty bad people to get the funding for it so they would need to at least lower the amount of money the sons were being paid. Clay hadn’t let them pull out of the ‘protection order’ or even lower the amount they would be being paid but nobody had expected that he would; Mr Duke-Dillinger and Jerry were just going to have to find a way to both fund the project and pay the SOA.

“You heard she’s never had a boyfriend?” Tig asked in that same conspiratorial voice that he always used when he was talking about her, “imagine that? How old is she, 18?”

“23,” Jax corrected.

“23.” Tig mused, “I cant even remember being 23.”

“That’s ‘cause you’re an old bastard!” Chibs laughed.

Tig’s offended face made Happy smile and the other guys laugh.

It was a few days until they heard from the family again. Catherine had driven her car into the TM lot, dog in the passenger seat with Mr Duke-Dillinger following in his sports car. The younger woman stepped out, tossing her golden blonde hair over her shoulder and waiting until Romeo jumped out before slamming the door shut. As soon as Happy saw her he ducked into the mechanics store room to ‘look for something’ as she went towards the office, shoes clomping over the concrete and Romeo skipping by her ankles. Mr Duke-Dillinger waited until his daughter reappeared with Gemma to get out of his car, asking where Clay was.

Happy peered out from the doorway of the storeroom to watch the blonde girl talk to Jax, looking slightly sad and a whole lot more angry. She had her arms folded and her left hip jutting out to one side and her foot tapping on the ground. When he looked down at her bare legs, he noticed a dark blue/purple bruise just under the leg of her shorts. Happy had seen, and caused, enough bruises in his life to recognise it as it being from someone holding onto her too tightly. It would have caused her pain and that made him feel even worse. Who would want to hurt her? He had his suspicions but even Happy knew to have some restraint from going out and punching a rich guy in the face.

“What are you doing in here?!” He heard a quiet, British voice ask from the other side of the door, it was Viv, Chibs’ old lady, daughter of Clay Morrow and one of Happy’s closest and most trusted friends, “Hap?”

“Nothing,” Happy said with only a slight jump of surprise, “just looking for-” he picked up a car rag, “this. Why?”

“Because,” Viv laughed and leant against the doorway, “it looks like you’re spying on that girl.”

“I’m not spying.”

Viv followed Happy as he walked back over to the car he was working on and started polishing a random section but keeping his eyes on Catherine. Viv chuckled and Happy knew she had seen right through him, like she always did, and folded her arms.

“If you like her, go talk to her.”

“I don’t. I don’t even know her.”

“Liar! You’ve not taken your eyes off her since she came in! Who is she?”

Happy sighed and quietly informed his friend about who she was, about how she had spoken to his dog and the first time he noticed her pretty grey eyes in the light of a broken vending machine. His friend was looking at him with a small, fond smile and leaning her back against the car so that he was blocked from Catherine’s line of sight to hide how he was blushing slightly and had a smile of his own on his face.

“Oh, hey Mr Lowman!” they heard Catherine say, “I didn’t see you there! How are you?”

Happy looked up and saw Catherine stood behind him. He prayed she hadn’t heard him talking about her but she didn’t seem too. He nodded a greeting to her and Viv shot him a smug smile before letting them know that she needed to help her dad with… something and leaving them too it.

“Wow,” Catherine breathed, “she’s really pretty! She your girlfriend?”

“No,” Happy said quickly, “she’s Chibs’ lady.”

She looked at him with a confused expression, that he thought was incredibly cute, and shook her head. Obviously, she didn’t know who Chibs was even though she had met him at least twice before but he guessed she probably didn’t care either; she only knew who he was because her nanny made her talk to him and he had a dog.

“Hey Hap? You seen Viv? She said she’d be here but…” Chibs said, coming towards them, “hi Lass, you alright? I hope you’re ok after the other day.”

Catherine looked up at him with the same confused expression she had given Happy. The Scotsman looked between her and Happy with a raised eyebrow after she hadn’t said anything after she hadn’t spoken for a while. Happy felt himself smile slightly; the other man must have confused her somehow although he couldn’t tell why.

“Chibs,” Happy introduced her, gesturing towards the other man then back to her, “Catherine.”

Realisation dawned on the girls face and she stuck her hand out to shake his. Romeo sniffed around Happy’s feet before settling down to sit on his left foot, watching his momma and wagging his tail.

“Are you German?” Catherine asked him when she got her hand back.

Chibs, possibly the most Scottish person Happy had ever met, laughed but then stopped quickly once he realised she was being serious. He shuffled to rest his weight on one foot and put his hands on his hips, classic Chibs.

“Am I German?” He asked her, humour in his voice.

“I don’t know,” Catherine shrugged but she wasn’t being sarcastic, “are you German? You sound kind of weird and I think you are German.”

“No sweet pea. I’m Scottish…”

“From Scotland,” Happy clarified when her confused expression returned.

“I know where Scottish people live, Mr Lowman,” she laughed and rolled her eyes; looking at him with a small smile.

Chibs blinked in confusion. He started to see what people meant when they said she wasn’t the brightest of people but Happy almost looked like he was smiling; he found her funny.

“But I live here,” Chibs said then immediately regretted it when she looked around the work area, “in America, I mean. Not… here.”

“Oh. Me too! Did it take you long to learn English? I could literally never learn a new language”

Happy covered his mouth with his hand to hide the grin that was now fully formed on his face. Chibs had no words to even try to begin explaining to her about how Scottish people do speak English but there is also a language of their own but few people speak it. Just then, Viv came over shouting for Chibs but calling him Filip and this set a whole new level of confusion on Catherine’s face.

“There you are!” Viv scolded Chibs, “I have been looking everywhere for you Filip! What have you been doing? Are you ready to go?”

“I thought your name was Chibs?” Catherine asked, her frown deepening and her arms crossing over her chest, she looked extremely stressed, “I just- what? And you’re not American, you’re British?”

Happy bit back his laughter, pressing his hand tighter to his mouth. Chibs looked at him with a really lost look on his face and Viv was smiling at Catherine. Viv nodded and told her that she grew up in England so yes, she was British before patiently explaining to her about Chibs’ nickname and how he got it; telling her his real name was Filip but the guys called him Chibs.

“Oh sweetheart,” Chibs smiled kindly, “I’ve really confused you, haven’t I?”

Happy glared at him when Catherine hung her head, trying to hide her blush beneath her hair. He was angry that she was embarrassed when it was a kind of complicated thing to think about.

“Oh Mr Lowman,” she sighed, looking up at him with wide, confused eyes, “my brain feels hot.”

He pressed his lips together and nodded at her with understanding. At least he understood why she found it so confusing. She nodded back at him with furrowed eyebrows and creases on her forehead. Chibs looked between them now, finally understanding what was happening. Viv stepped forwards and put her hand on Catherine’s shoulder.

“Why don’t,” Viv said with a mischievous glance at Happy who shook his head at her with slightly wide eyes, “you come to a party on Friday? You can bring your brother if you like? I assume you won’t be drinking so you can come for a diet coke and a bit of a dance, yeah? You’ll have fun, I promise.”

“Oh, Mrs Chibs, I don’t think that would be a good idea! I don’t think Daddy would like it if I came to a party here.”

“You’re a grown up, right? Why not? It’s not like your Dad can control you forever. Besides, it’ll do you good to get out and meet people from Charming.”

Happy knew Catherine wouldn’t be able to say no to Viv; if she had all of the Sons wrapped around her finger and doing what she said, Catherine had no chance. The blonde girl thought for a moment before nodding with a smile. Happy wasn’t sure whether to be pleased or worried that she would be joining them for Friday night.

“Right, Mrs Chibs,” the scot said and tugged her arm, “we’ve got a table booked. Let’s go. See you on Friday, Catherine.”

“Bye! Thanks for the invite Mr and Mrs Chibs. See you on Friday.”

Happy smiled again at how adorably confused she was. What was even more endearing is that she was so convinced she had everything right. He tapped her on the arm as she waved goodbye to the couple. When she looked at him, she was smiling; obviously over her previous confusion. He pointed to where her dad was leaving the office with papers in his hands and her face fell.

“Oh,” she said, “I forgot about that. I can’t believe Daddy is selling my car to Mr Morrow just because Romeo bit Uncle Jerry. It’s literally so unfair. It wasn’t his fault! Uncle Jerry shouldn’t have tried to stop me from walking out; if he hadn’t done that he wouldn’t have been hurt. You know?”

He glanced down at the bruise on the top of her thigh and scowled. Perhaps it was this Jerry that had hurt her. He could ask her on Friday once he had had a beer or two, for courage. If her dog had bit the man than he was obviously not a good person. You should always trust a dog’s judge of character; they know the difference between a good and bad person.

“Ugh, and now I have to get a job. What am I supposed to do, Mr Lowman? I wish I was clever, I could have like, any job I wanted if I was clever.”

“Hey,” Happy interrupted her, “just ‘cause you ain’t good at math doesn’t mean you ain’t clever.”

She looked at him like she was going to cry but she didn’t look sad. It was like she hadn’t heard that before and Happy wasn’t sure where to look. He didn’t want to look at her; he wasn’t good with crying women but at the same time he didn’t just want to leave her to cry in the middle of the workshop. He put his hand on her hair and ruffled the perfect blonde curls into a mess with a slight smile until she laughed and pushed his hand away gently. She ducked out from under his hand with another laugh and straightened out her hair as best as she could. He was happy he had made her smile and wanted to make her laugh more.

“Thank you, Mr Lowman,” she said, still smiling up at him, “that- that’s really nice of you.”

He nodded but then looked to his left as her dad shouted her over. Happy noticed the quiet growl that came from her dog, even if she didn’t. Catherine huffed and stamped her foot slightly before turning to say goodbye to Happy and pick up her dog. Happy nodded a farewell and watched after her as she walked slowly over to her dad.

“Are you kidding?!” She suddenly shouted, “I don’t even get the money for it? Daddy!”

“Get in the car sweetheart, we’ll talk about it later,” Mr Duke-Dillinger hissed, looking around with a frown, “come on, in.”

Catherine huffed, stamping her foot again and got in the passenger side of the sports car. Happy didn’t miss the glare he received off of Mr Duke-Dillinger but he made sure to fix him with the darkest look he could muster, smirking when the man went pale and looked away. He kept his eyes on the car as it backed out of the lot and drove away.

Once it was gone, Happy stalked across to the office to talk to Clay and Jax. When he stepped in they stopped talking and looked at him.

“What happened?” he asked them.

“Mr Duke-Dillinger just exchanged her car for a month’s worth of protection. They are gonna run out of money eventually,” Clay said with a smirk as he leant back in his chair, “poor little rich girl is gonna have to get a job and work for once in her life.”

They chuckled when Happy left wordlessly and with a slight scowl on his face.

Catherine POV

I sat with my arms folded as Daddy gave me a stern talking to. He was talking about boring things like responsibility and working and being an adult. The doors of the car had been locked so I couldn’t get out when he reached a red light, like I had planned, and had to listen to him talk at me. I nodded and made agreeing noises as he spoke to make it seem like I was listening but I was actually thinking about Mr Lowman and Mrs and Mr Chibs. They were nice, even if they did confuse me. Mr Lowman had been really nice to me when he didn’t need too. I smiled when I thought back to when he messed up my hair; he had been more gentle than I had expected him to be. He had smiled at me too and that was nice.

“Are you listening Catherine?” Daddy asked harshly.

“Yes Daddy,” I said automatically.

Then he continued to talk until we got home. As soon as the doors were unlocked I jumped out with Romeo in my arms and stormed through the front door to go up to my room. Greta came in not long after and sat with me on the bed, asking if I wanted to play the piano with her but all I wanted to do was eat and sleep.

The next day, I was trawling around the streets of Charming, looking into all of the businesses asking if there were any jobs but it was like no one wanted to hire me. I guess they could tell I was stupid just by looking at me.

“Try in here Miss Cat,” Greta said and pointed to a door.

“Nanny, that’s a strip club,” I sighed in defeat, “I don’t think Daddy would be happy about me being a stripper. Come on, I’ll try that diner.”

“It’s called The Velvet Lounge Miss Cat. That doesn’t sound like just any strip club. Besides, what’s wrong with being a stripper? I was a stripper at your age and I made good money.”

I looked back at her with a laugh. Nothing surprised me about Greta anymore. Before I could say anything she was shuffling inside with her handbag clutched in her arm and looking around curiously. I sighed and followed her inside and was surprised by how classy it all looked. It was also pretty full considering it was a Wednesday afternoon. It was also not a strip club; it was more of a high class bar with lots of people in suits and ladies in dresses all talking quietly with fancy drinks in their hands. I looked around, amazed at the fact I had never been in here before; it looks like the kind of place that Daddy and Jerry would love to come too.

I followed Greta over to the bar to talk to the bartender. He looked at her with a polite smile and then at me. I smiled back. He was a relatively young guy but older than me; he was maybe about 35ish?

“Hello young man,” Greta said, “is there someone I can talk too about getting my lovely Miss Cat here a job? A manager perhaps?”

“Oh,” the guy said, “yeah sure! I’m actually the owner, my name it Theo Martin. It’s nice to meet you, Miss Cat.”

“Please,” I laughed at Greta and held out my hand for him to shake, “call me Catherine. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Catherine,” Theo repeated, “pleasure’s all mine. What kind of thing were you looking to do? We’ve got an opening for a cocktail waiter or waitress? Have you done this kind of thing before?”

“Oh… well, no not really. I mean, I have had things served to me?”

Theo laughed and nodded. Greta sat herself onto a bar stool while I talked to Theo. He explained to me about the job; pointing out a couple of people dressed in waistcoats and ties walking around with silver trays in their hands. They were walking around the tables and then coming back to the bar to pick up drinks and to go back to the main seating area. He asked me about myself, where I’m from and stuff, what experience I had (which was none) and my career plans. I hadn’t really thought that far ahead; Daddy said I would just marry a rich guy and run a household so that’s kind of what I was gonna do. I didn’t say that though. Theo seemed to like me because he offered for me to have a trial shift waitressing.

“You think it’s something you would like to do?” He asked and I nodded enthusiastically, “good, so you wanna come for your trial on Friday, 12pm sound good?”

“Yeah! Yeah definitely, I can’t wait!” I smiled and nodded.

“Alright then Catherine, I’ll see you Friday afternoon.”

“Thanks Mr Martin, see you Friday!”

I skipped out of the door of the lounge, blinking in the sunlight and laughing. I couldn’t believe I had a job, a trial at least. I just hoped I would be good at it. Greta hugged me once the door shut and we cheered, giggling and gently pushing each other.

“Well done Miss Cat!” she exclaimed, “I’m so proud of you!”

We went for a coffee and an ice cream to celebrate. I didn’t even feel bad for having sugar; it was like Mrs Chibs said, I am an adult after all.

((I want to split up the story but FFN will literally not let me do anything that I usually do so here))

CUTIES!- what do we think? huh? Mr Lowman has seen her bruises, is she gonna go to the club party or will she chicken out of going against her dad? is Happy going to finally say something over 2 words to her? will he get drunk and go in for a kiss or will he be too scared?

Are we proud of me for posting this instead of procrastinating? I know we are!

Anyway, thanks for all of your encouragement! You are lovely!

Jeffyzfavoriteskittle27, your review of chapter 3 made me laugh because that’s kind of how I wanted people to see her! Like, I wanted to convey the fact that she has literally no idea what the real world is like!

See you in the next one!

Love, Doe

xxxxxx

[sitkowskiryan]

tag yourself, shit my american history professor says

“fuck it, i’m supposed to take notes”

“I befriended the cheif’s daughter...twice”

“a long fucking walk back to that ship”

“300 at bannan republic, mother fucker!”

“fuck that song”

“soldiers taunting eight year old kids”

“‘all men are created equal’ fucking love this one”

“you wanna go through your friends bag, find drugs, and smoke them”

“ray and i are going out back [ to do drugs ]”

“you smell *stabs*”

“it’s no wonder why professors show up drunk

“there’s a lot of shit happening”

“i am fucked”

“who the fuck is that?” 

“does that calculator do other shit?”

“british were kicking ass in the first years”

“i don’t like mexico...you forget you can’t drink the water and then you are in your room all weekend”

“we have all been there...not allowed back”

“fucking burn his house down”

“shay’s rebellion: shit went wrong”

“courtney don’t quote that!” 

“let’s take the party bus back to the dorms”

“throw all their shit outside”

“get drunk, get rifles”

“you can’t send your ‘policemen’ and arrest me”

“Why not fucking crush these guys?”

“holy shit, it’s washington”

“you know he fights dirty too”

“those bastards”

“fuckin’ a, i’ll do that”

“he fucking marches out there on a white horse”

“those scrawny bastards!”

“thousand of miles away from anyone...with his 400 slaves”

“he steals all that shit from john locke”

“[ about the french ] they understand, they get it”

“big army? fucking dangerous”

“can’t run around naked in the corridors!”

“old white dudes that’s what it is”

“bastard of a founding father”

“aaron burr doesn’t give a shit”

“disney land, but with muskets”

“they are blowing shi-ships up!”

“princeton boy, five foot tall”

“you’re driving, i’m drinking”

“if you come to ohio, we’ll kill your ass”

“future president...terrible person [ william harrison ]”

“you from new jersey? i won’t hold it against you”

“burn that shit up”

update from today’s ( 4/6 ) class

“the old man is rambling again, oh shit”

“you, you could go either way. i see the shit you write [ talking to me about liking me as a student ]”

“sometimes i do a little dance for them [ the security cameras ]”

“as if we are going to steal all this paper!”

“i’m trying to start a revolution”

“next time lie to me”

“america’s first drug dealer [ jefferson ]”

“i don’t care that he grew weed and sold it to his virginian friends”

“boom. it’s getting hot in here”

“it just fucking pumps him up [ the embargo act ]”

“you can do it at royal farms when you are waiting for your chicken”

“i didn’t make this shit up”

“i don’t even need glasses, i’m just playing the part”

“is that all me? god help me. [ he saw my notebook with all of these ]”

“if you publish this, i want a cut. write that one down”

“#disappointed”

“text jay, tell him he fucked up”

“you’re from delaware? i won’t hold it against you”

“baltimore was fucking shit up. are you going to write that one down? [ i shake my head ] god dammit. you win some, you lose some.”

“margaritas and fort mchenry, yay its friday!”

“‘fill in the blank’ country”

“there he is much more romantic [ andrew jackson ]”

update from today’s ( 4/25 ) class

“me, jesus, and michael jackson”

“it was like jaws man”

“let’s go defeat nature! hopefully you come back”

“the american story: you are in this shit hole”

“its the peakaboo the government is playing with us”

“you know how many indians i killed? hella. i can’t even count”

“*messes up powerpoint* shit”

“i don’t wanna take it for work,  i wanna go for fun [ steamboats ]”

“it’s like titanic only 100 years earlier”

“don’t fucking wave at me, i’m grumpy”

“maybe i’m not hard enough”

“what happens there you don’t remember. i think i have a good time there”

“they got to start paying me more”

“that’s not turning me on unless its amazon prime shipping”

“[in a spanish accent] i want to say spain...no”

“looks like you got in a fight with a couple alley cats”

“really nice pieces of wood”

“fuck it, look at my nightstand”

“journalling with my buddy and indian friend”

“burn down the capital”

“good? no”

“who wants a woman that works?”

“why would you want kids? they ruin everything”

“[snickers] he is a mormon?”

“gonna act a little funny if a guy is staring at you all day every day with a gun”

“fibbers and phonies”

“[singing] ain’t got no time for me”

“[singing] thoreau is just singing for you”

“we broke up, i can make fun of her”

“aw i love key racks!”

“here’s the back staircase for your servants so no one has to see them”

“i’m not liking small pox”

“[kid says “i hate school”] i want that on a shirt”

“oh i quit”

“[after giving an inspiration speech about how we are adults] maybe i was wrong?”

“that’s janky”

“make a deal with me”

“i feel like bob barker”

“that’s how homeless people in new orleans get you”

“suddenly there’s 5 of them with guns and you’re like take the 20″

“none of this could be real, i’m just making shit up as i go”

last update 5/9/18

“happy friday guys, happy fucking friday”

“that’s not true [ mouthing “it’s true”]”

“poe is like make sure my fucking name is on this”

“not romance as in love and kissy kissy”

“student government, what the fuck are they doing?”

“this all leads to old uncle walt whitman”

“i’m not a farmer boy”

“poles are friends”

“who were the tories? i dated her in highschool”

“i’m not giving up on you. [points at me] write that shit down”

“but i am your cheerleader”

“i hate south carolina that’s gonna be in there [ the final ]”

“i’m throwing dots on the wall and if you step back you’ll see the picture”

so my professor didn’t want his name shared, but i truly loved his class and look forward to every time i went! my class was rather rude to him and he said that this list is a bit horrifying to him because at some times you can see him give up on students or in the class. i just wanted to say that he deserves to never have a class like mine again and that he knows that at one person benefited from this list. so please remember to be nice to your professors/tutors/teachers because it almost made me cry hearing him speak about how defeated he felt with the majority of my class! 

[billnoncipher]

Bound . . . and Determined

Written for Wendip Week 2017. Prompt: “Handcuffed together.” Lightly crosses with the Harry Potter universe.

By William Easley

1

"Allow me to be quite clear," the Minister for Magical Law Enforcement told Dr. Mason Pines and his wife Dr. Wendy Pines. "If it were solely up to me, I wouldn't have called you in at all. However, the homeowner in question is an American—as well as a highly-qualified witch—and has requested your aid specifically."

"We understand that, Mrs.—uh, I'm sorry, how should we address you?" Dipper asked.

"Minister is the preferred term. However, as we are in the same line of work, 'HG' will do.""

"Thanks, HG," Wendy said. "I'm Wendy, and you can call my husband Dipper."

"I beg your pardon?"

"It's a code name," Dipper said smoothly. "Now—this client—"

"Mrs. Abigail Merriwether," the Minister said, picking up her glasses to read from a memo. "Formerly of Salem, Massachusetts, has lived in the UK for, let's see, ten years, suspects there is an unfriendly ghost in her home." She put the memo down. "Please understand, Mrs. Merriwether's husband Hugh is a mu—a non-magical person. For reasons of her own, she prefers that he not know of her special talents."

"If she's a witch," Wendy said, "couldn't she handle a ghost?"

"Ah, but this is not an ordinary ghost," the Minister said with a smile. "Here is a card with the address for you. However, I shall have a car take you there. Exorcize the phantom, and the Ministry will pay your expenses. Now, as to fee—"

"No fee," Dipper said. "Consider it a case of international cooperation."

"Well," the Minister said. "Isn't that nice." Before they left her office, she seemed to thaw a bit. "Do you know," she said, glancing at Wendy, "I just realized you remind me a bit of my sister-in-law. She's a ginger, too."

"Really."

"Yes, and quite a nice woman. Well, is there anything else you require."

"If it's not too much trouble," Wendy said, "since we had to fly on a commercial airline, I would like to request something that I wasn't allowed to carry aboard."

"And that would be?"

"An axe," Wendy said. "I've looked at British axes, and I would prefer an Eversteel 3000 felling axe, 85 centimeter handle, 1.75 kilogram head."

The Minister frowned a little as she wrote that down. "Why do you need this to take care of a ghost?"

"I believe," Wendy explained, "that every woman should carry an axe. Oh, and I'll need a Handleman leather scabbard, too, with bandolier harness. I won't be taking them back to America, so I'll return them to you when this job is over."

"I'm sure we'll find some use for them," the Minister said. "The Armory will send out for your, ah, implement. They're quite efficient. Be ready to leave in an hour."

2

"How is it?" Dipper asked as the self-driving car let them out at the curb—kerb, whatever—in a reasonably suburban stretch outside of Metropolitan London. The houses here were miniature estates, most of them brick, standing in spacious grounds—say half an acre or more each.

Wendy moved her shoulders. "It's OK. It'll do. But it's like British food. Not quite the same."

He told the car, "We'll call when we've finished." The car did not respond verbally, but purred away.

"Quite a house," Wendy said.

"More like quite a tower with a little house built onto it," Dipper replied. The brick cottage looked cozy, but adjoining it on the right was a massive three-storied tower with a round observatory-like dome, looking completely out of place, as if it had wandered there from one of the castles dotting the English landscape and had settled down for a snooze. Surrounding the spacious yard was an eight-foot-tall fence of black wrought-iron.

"Let's see if our client is in," Dipper said. He pressed the call button on the left pillar of the wrought-iron gate.

A moment later, a hologram of a thin, gray-haired man in a pale blue blazer and a dark bow tie appeared. "Yes?" He had a British accent, even with just that one word.

Dipper smiled. "Hello, sir. Are you Mr. Merriwether?"

"I am."

"I'm Mason Pines, and this is my wife Wendy, sir. We're former students of Dr. Merriwether's, and when we let her know we'd be vacationing in London, she asked us to visit. May we speak to her?"

"Ah—sorry, she's not home yet. But yes, I recall her saying something about visitors. Just a moment, I'll buzz you in."

The gate clacked, they went inside and up to the door, where the man stood, having just opened it. "Please come in, young people. Would you care for tea?"

Dipper glanced at Wendy. "No, thank you, sir. When will your wife be home?"

"Oh, any time, any time. Would you care to wait for her in her little workshop? She most often takes her guests there."

"That will be fine," Dipper said.

"This way, then." He pottered around, opened a door, said, "No, pantry, lose my own head next," and then found the right one, a stairway leading down. "She says it's cool in the cellar," he said. Go along, go along, I'll follow. Not so spry on the steps as I used to be, you know."

They descended and the first thing Dipper thought was It's like the Shack—more cellar than house!

The second was It's a trap! Against the wall near the stair was a workbench with carpentry tools on a pegboard—but the rest of the cellar was a cellar, stacked with tidy piles of odds and ends, with wiring and pipes hanging from the overhead joists. No workshop.

He spun, Wendy caught his flash of thought, and she reached for her axe.

"Ah-ah!" The man stood on the stairway, holding a wand. "Now, I cannot kill you—yet. But I can't have you inconveniencing me as I question Mrs. Merriwether, so pleasant dreams!" He waved the wand and things turned black.

3

Well, when you think it's a ghost, you don't go into the fight prepared to battle an evil wizard. "We should've brought Mabel, dude," Wendy said, rattling the chain that held them together.

"Even if she weren't pregnant, I'm not sure that would have helped," Dipper told her.

Here they were, in the basement, stripped to their underwear and handcuffed together.

With magical handcuffs, the chain behind a floor-to-ceiling pipe. The space between the pipe and the wall was maybe eight inches—too narrow to squeeze through.

"What did he do with our clothes?" Dipper asked. "Did you see?"

"Nope," Wendy said. "Last thing I remember, he flicked that stick at us, and boosh! Here we were, stripped down and chained up. Any ideas?"

Dipper looked up. "Well, these may be magical handcuffs, but the pipe's an ordinary three-inch water pipe. Think we can climb it?"

"Dude, this is Lumberjack Girl you're talkin' to. I can climb it. What about you?"

"I'll do my best."

They were not ordinary handcuffs—the chain was about a foot long. On one hand, that gave them a little freedom of movement. On the other, it didn't give them all that much. They had to climb practically wrapped around each other, facing each other, with the pipe between them. "Yes!" Dipper said after they had nearly reached the top, eight feet from the floor. "Look! The pipe makes an L-bend! If we can loop the chain over the horizontal run—"

"We can get to the wall over there—"

"And maybe you can reach down to the tool bench with your toes—"

"And snag the hacksaw hanging there! And then we can saw through the chain!"

"Maybe!"

A few things stood in their way, though. Or, more accurately, hung in their way: three equally-spaced hanger straps, about four feet apart, that supported the horizontal run of the old pipe, perforated metal bands that hammocked the pipe and then were screwed to the joists overhead.

The pipe sagged with their weight, though, and because the house was an old house and the plumbing was aged and the straps had been manufactured in Birmingham, UK, in 1919, when there was a steel shortage, the first one snapped.

And that rendered the question of the hacksaw moot, because without its support the pipe gave way, too, and broke free from the upright. And water gushed from the upright in a soaking shower.

"Dude, it's cold!" Wendy complained as they staggered through falling water.

"At least it wasn't a sewage drain," Dipper yelled. They sloshed over to the tool bench, where Wendy grabbed the hacksaw and, after a moment's hesitation, Dipper picked up a hand sledge, a five-pound hammer. They hurried to the stairs, where Wendy sawed at the chain.

"Any progress?" Dipper yelled. "The basement's flooding pretty fast!"

"Yeah!" Wendy said. "I've worn all the teeth off the saw! What's wrong with you?"

"Your bra's so wet," Dipper said, "that's it's pretty, uh, translucent."

"Right now, we got other worries. Let's see if he locked the door."

The evil magician had not. "Come on, dude," Wendy said. "We have to find him."

"I know where he'll be," Dipper told her. "The tower room. Under the dome. Way up at the top. He locked us up as low as he could because he was going high."

"Figures," Wendy said. "Wish I knew what the son of a witch did with my axe!"

"I got it figured out," Dipper said. "The lady who thought it was a ghost was really being harassed by this guy—bet you he's not Mr. Merriwether at all. Somehow, he got past her defenses and got in, and now he may be torturing her."

"Let's go, dude!"

They found the tower and the spiral staircase leading up. They crept up on still-damp bare feet. They heard angry voices from the top. They paused outside the door. Dipper held up the hand sledge and whispered his intent.

"Could work," Wendy whispered. "But we gotta get all the way inside!"

"See if the door's locked."

It wasn't. From the room, they heard a woman's angry voice: "You can kill me, but you'll still never learn where it is!"

"There are worse things than killing!"

"Now," Dipper said, and they stepped through the door.

The wizard jerked around. He had tied a woman to a chair and had been menacing her with his wand. Now, his face furious, he raised the wand and began to yell, "Avada—"

"Go!" Wendy yelled. She stepped away from Dipper. They jerked their arms forward. They had hooked the sledge hammer over the chain by the head. They hurled it forward, as if they were a human slingshot.

The wizard was unable to finish whatever spell he'd started because a heavy hand sledge-hammer hurtling at the speed of 75 miles per hour tends to make enunciation difficult the moment it knocks out all your front teeth and renders you unconscious.

"The wand!" the woman shouted. "Get the wand!"

Dipper and Wendy ran forward, she scooped it up, and she asked, "Now what?"

"Give it to me and I'll unbind these ropes," she said. It was difficult, because her hands were behind her, but she twitched the wand and said, "Solvite!" The ropes dropped away.

Then she tied up the still-unconscious man. "Thank you," she said. "You are the young Americans my friend Dr. Pines recommended?"

"Wendy and Mason Pines," Dipper said.

"Why are you naked? That's a nice little navel ring you're wearing, Mrs. Pines."

"Thanks," Wendy said. "It was sort of my first wedding ring!"

"He stripped our clothes off," Dipper said. "Hit us with a spell that left us in our underwear and put these cuffs on us. Down in the basement."

"This is Makoto," Mrs. Merriwether said. "British, of course. Good thing, I suppose. If he were American, like us, he probably would have vanished your underclothing, too. He is seeking—well, never mind, a magical object, and if he found it, he could kill anyone, anywhere, without fear of retribution. Now the wizard court will deal with him."

"Um—your basement is filling up with water," Wendy said. "We had to break a pipe to get free."

"Hm." The woman went to a table and picked up a slimmer wand. "This is my own," she said. "It obeys me much better than Makoto's does. Speaking of which—" she snapped his wand in half. "That will take care of him!"

She waved the wand and spoke a rapid-fire series of spells: Restituo! Harefacio! Operiemur! Nothing visible happened, but she smiled and said, "There, all repaired, all dried, and we should find your clothes downstairs. Just a second now." Then she materialized a phone, made a quick call, and asked, "What's the time, Mr. Pines?"

"I suppose it's about noon," he said. "My watch is gone, too."

"Oh, of course. Well, we have to wait just a few moments—ah, no we don't, they are here."

With little flashes of air, three men in robes appeared. "Hello, Abbie!" one of them said. "What's the row—bloody hell! Hello, Miss!"

"Ronald," Mrs. Merriwether said firmly, "I told the Ministry Makoto would try! Here he is. Take him away and remember—you are married!"

"She's beautiful, though," the man said with a grin. "All right boys, let's take this scrote in custody!" The other two grabbed the still-unconscious Makoto and they all four vanished.

"Come," Mrs. Merriwether said, tucking her wand away somewhere in her dress. "My husband will be home in a matter of minutes, and he doesn't know about any of this. And he mustn't."

Their clothing lay in a heap in front of the cellar door. "But we can't get dressed until you take off these handcuffs," Wendy said.

"There is a problem," she confessed. "This is a dark spell, and only the man who cast it can take it off. However, I've broken his wand, and he will not be permitted to use magic again anytime soon."

"Then we're stuck like this?" Dipper asked. "Me in shorts, and my wife in—what she has on?"

"No, no," Mrs. Merriwether sighed. "There are ways, but they take time. The fastest—well, no, it costs too much."

"What?" Wendy asked.

"Well—there is a payment. You see, each person has a defined lifespan, and except for magic, it cannot be extended. We can't predict what our time is or foresee the future, but let's say one of you will live for another, oh, fifty years, and the other for sixty. A demonstration of commitment will vanish the handcuffs. If you agreed to blend your lifespans—then one of you will gain five years of life, but the other will lose the same amount of time, and you would both pass on in fifty-five years, at the same moment. But as I say, we never know. Suppose one of you has only two years, the other eighty! That's a terrible price."

Dipper took Wendy's hand and looked her in the eyes. Their chain jangled. They both smiled.

"Do it," they said together.

4

Later that week, Dipper said, "Well, it's five years late, but we finally got our honeymoon!" They were standing in front of Hexcombe Priory, a ruin that once had been the most haunted spot in England. It had a lot more history than the Mystery Shack, and the tour had been interesting, but Grunkle Stan could have made it more fun.

"And I got my axe back," Wendy said. "Shame I couldn't keep it. It had a really nice balance!"

"Well, now I know what to get you for our next anniversary," Dipper said. They kissed. He stroked her lovely, long red hair. "Do you regret what we did?"

She grinned, wrinkling her nose. "Nope. You?"

"Actually," he said, "I'd never thought about it before—but to live our lives together and leave them together—that might have been something I would have wished for."

"So love still binds us together," Wendy said, squeezing his hand. "For life and afterward."

They kissed, and Dipper whispered, "Always and forever."

The End

[dave-meowstaine]

All of them!!!! Muahahaha

Oh god hahahaha

200: My crush’s name is - Elizabeth Nicole Nieves

199: I was born in - London 1998

198: I am really - Happy! :D

197: My cellphone company is - Vodaphone

196: My eye color is - Blue (interchangeable) 

195: My shoe size is - 6

194: My ring size is - No idea

193: My height is - 6ft exactly!

192: I am allergic to - Nothing that I know of

191: My 1st car was - Never had a car

190: My 1st job was - Working at my local food store 

189: Last book you read - Genuinely can’t remember. I really need to read more

188: My bed is - Too small :(

187: My pet - 2 cats and a doggy

186: My best friend(s) - Are amazing! 

185: My favorite shampoo is - Don’t have one

184: Xbox or ps3 - Definitely PS3

183: Piggy banks are - Cute but I never have spare change on me and if I do it just goes in my wallet

182: In my pockets - Nothing

181: On my calendar - Induction day on the 17th of August

180: Marriage is - Amaziiiing if it’s the right person

179: Spongebob can - make me laugh a lot I fucking love spongebob

178: My mom - Is an amazing, strong woman

177: The last three songs I bought were - Green Day’s American Idiot album because it wouldn’t important onto my iTunes from the CD I had so I just rebought the album on iTunes

176: Last YouTube video watched - A stupid Twitch highlights compilation 

175: How many cousins do you have? - None. I have 2 step cousins but my uncle isn’t married to there mum, they’re just in a long term relationship so…

174: Do you have any siblings? - I have a sister who is 23

173: Are your parents divorced? - Nope

172: Are you taller than your mom? - Yeah by nearly a foot haha

171: Do you play an instrument? - I play guitar and bass, a little bit on the drums, and I used to play the trumpet

170: What did you do yesterday? - Talked to Lizzie all day (as usual)

[ I Believe In ]

169: Love at first sight - Kindaaa? I mean, I think you have to get to know someone properly in order to love them, but I think you can have a pretty good idea when you first meet

168: Luck - Not really. 

167: Fate - To an extent. I think somethings are just meant to be, but we make a lot of our own decisions

166: Yourself - Yes, definitely

165: Aliens - Yes. Our universe is waaaaay too big for us to be the only ones in it

164: Heaven - Nope

163: Hell - Nope

162: God - Nope

161: Horoscopes - Yep!

160: Soul mates - Already found mine

159: Ghosts - I’m not really sure. I would like to

158: Gay Marriage - Of course. Love is love, no matter what the gender

157: War - I believe that conflict is a natural part of the human race no matter how much we wished it wasn’t

156: Orbs - Just light exposure 

155: Magic - Would be cool but no

[ This or That ]

154: Hugs or Kisses - Depends on the person. Definitely kisses with my baby girl, though

153: Drunk or High - Probably high because I throw up when I get drunk (I mean properly drunk)

152: Phone or Online - Online definitely

151: Red heads or Black haired - Black haired

150: Blondes or Brunettes - Brunettes 

149: Hot or cold - Cold because you can snuggle up and get all cozy

148: Summer or winter - Winter

147: Autumn or Spring - Autumn

146: Chocolate or vanilla - Chocolate

145: Night or Day - Night

144: Oranges or Apples - Apples

143: Curly or Straight hair - Wavey 

142: McDonalds or Burger King - McDonalds but I haven’t been since I became a vegetarian 

141: White Chocolate or Milk Chocolate - Milk chocolate

140: Mac or PC - PC obviously

139: Flip flops or high heels - High heels

138: Ugly and rich OR sweet and poor - Sweet and poor obviously

137: Coke or Pepsi - Pepsi

136: Hillary or Obama - Obama

135: Burried or cremated - Cremated

134: Singing or Dancing - Both

133: Coach or Chanel - No idea

132: Kat McPhee or Taylor Hicks - Who?

131: Small town or Big city - Small town

130: Wal-Mart or Target - British

129: Ben Stiller or Adam Sandler - Ben Stiller

128: Manicure or Pedicure - No idea

127: East Coast or West Coast - No idea

126: Your Birthday or Christmas - I don’t like either…

125: Chocolate or Flowers - Chocolate but flowers are adorable af

124: Disney or Six Flags - Haven’t been to either so idk

123: Yankees or Red Sox - idk[ Here’s What I Think About ]

122: War - Didn’t I answer this earlier?

121: George Bush - Better to not get into politics

120: Gay Marriage - Love is love

119: The presidential election - No thank you

118: Abortion - I feel that if it is safe and appropriate that the father of the child should be involved, but at the end of the day it’s the woman’s body and therefore her choice.

117: MySpace - That was my shit back in the day

116: Reality TV - Don’t care

115: Parents - I love my parents. My parents have always been there for me and supported me and I am very grateful for that. I know how lucky I am in that regards

114: Back stabbers - Fuck off

113: Ebay - Good shit, cheap prices, probably get ripped off

112: Facebook - I mean, I use it to communicate with friends but that’s it

111: Work - I would rather not, but wouldn’t we all?

110: My Neighbors - The house is rented out but at the moment it’s a single mum and her two kids and she seems nices

109: Gas Prices - Too damn high

108: Designer Clothes - Ehhh

107: College - I’m currently in college 

106: Sports - Effort

105: My family - I love my family

104: The future - EXCITING

[ Last time I ]

103: Hugged someone - I hugged my mum earlier today

102: Last time you ate - 4 hours ago

101: Saw someone I haven’t seen in awhile - I’m seeing my friends tomorrow

100: Cried in front of someone - Last night in front of Lizzie

99: Went to a movie theater - Over a year ago with my best friend, Ed

98: Took a vacation - Last month we went to the Isle of Wight

97: Swam in a pool - School Swimming, like, 4 years ago. I threw up everywhere lol

96: Changed a diaper - Never

95: Got my nails done - Years ago

94: Went to a wedding - Never been to one

93: Broke a bone - Never broken a bone

92: Got a piercing - 2 years ago

91: Broke the law - Don’t know

90: Texted - 12:15am

[ MISC ]

89: Who makes you laugh the most - Definitely Lizzie

88: Something I will really miss when I leave home is - My PC ngl

87: The last movie I saw - Inglorious Basterds

86: The thing that I’m looking forward to the most - Being with Lizzie

85: The thing im not looking forward to - No idea

84: People call me - Tyler

83: The most difficult thing to do is - Be so far away from my baby girl

82: I have gotten a speeding ticket - Nope

81: My zodiac sign is - Libra

80: The first person i talked to today was - Lizzie. We always fall asleep on the phone together so we wake up on the phone too

79: First time you had a crush - When I was, like, 8?

78: The one person who i can’t hide things from - Lizzie

77: Last time someone said something you were thinking - Lizzie and I always say things at exactly the same time soooo

76: Right now I am talking to - Lizzie

75: What are you going to do when you grow up - I wanna be an IT technician 

74: I have/will get a job - I will get a job after I graduate college

73: Tomorrow - I’m gonna go meet up with friends

72: Today - I answered so many asks I have hand cramp :)

71: Next Summer - Don’t know yet

70: Next Weekend - Probably nothing

69: I have these pets - 2 cats and a dog

68: The worst sound in the world - My baby girl crying or the sound of her voice when I know something is wrong

67: The person that makes me cry the most is - Lizzie because of how fucking perfect she is

66: People that make you happy - Lizzie and my friends

65: Last time I cried - Last night

64: My friends are - There’s a lot of them haha

63: My computer is:

Operating System: Windows 7 Home Premium 64-bitProcessor: Intel® Core™ i5-4670K CPU @ 3.40GHzMotherboard: Gigabyte GA-Z87-HD3Sound: NVIDIA High Definition AudioGraphics Card: msi GeForce GTX 970 GAMING 4GBPSU: Cooler Master 600WCooling System: Cooler Master HYPER 212XMain Storage: 1TB HDDAdditional Storage: 500GB Samsung 850 EVO SSDRAM: 8GB Mouse: UtechSmart Venus 50Keyboard: Gigabyte Force K3Headset: Beexcellent Gaming Headset with MicMousepad: Diablo III Reaper of Souls Collector’s Edition Mousepad

62: My School - Is a college in Cirencester. It’s pretty chill, don’t have to be there a lot

61: My Car - Don’t have one

60: I lose all respect for people who - Are assholes or fuckboys (but I respect people who are assholes to fuckboys lol)

59: The movie I cried at was - No idea

58: Your hair color is - Dirty blonde

57: TV shows you watch - Just The Walking Dead

56: Favorite web site - Youtube

55: Your dream vacation - I don’t know. I want to travel the world with my baby girl

54: The worst pain I was ever in was - No idea

53: How do you like your steak cooked - Vegetarian 

52: My room is - Messy as shit

51: My favorite celebrity is - Don’t have one

50: Where would you like to be - With Lizzie :((((((((((((

49: Do you want children - I do

48: Ever been in love - I am right now

47: Who’s your best friend - Lizzie and Ed

46: More guy friends or girl friends - Guy friends

45: One thing that makes you feel great is - Lizzie

44: One person that you wish you could see right now - Lizzie

43: Do you have a 5 year plan - No, but I have general ideas about what I want to happen

42: Have you made a list of things to do before you die - Nope

41: Have you pre-named your children - Kinda

40: Last person I got mad at - My mum

39: I would like to move to - Nowhere, to be honest

38: I wish I was a professional - Skateboarder would be awesome

[ My Favorites ]

37: Candy - I used to love Wine Gums and Haribo but I’m a vegetarian now so…

36: Vehicle - Don’t have one

35: President - Don’t have one

34: State visited - Never been to America :(

33: Cellphone provider - Don’t have one

32: Athlete - Don’t have one

31: Actor - Don’t have one

30: Actress - Don’t have one

29: Singer - Don’t have one

28: Band - Slipknot

27: Clothing store - Don’t have one

26: Grocery store - Don’t have one

25: TV show - Breaking Bad

24: Movie - John Carpenter’s The Thing

23: Website - Youtube

22: Animal - Chimps

21: Theme park - Don’t have one

20: Holiday - Scotland

19: Sport to watch - Don’t have one

18: Sport to play - I like Basketball

17: Magazine - I love tattoo mags

16: Book - I Am Legend by Richard Matheson

15: Day of the week - Saturday

14: Beach - St Helens on the Isle of Wight

13: Concert attended - Slayer with Anthrax supporting

12: Thing to cook - Don’t know

11: Food - PIZZA

10: Restaurant - Don’t have one

9: Radio station - Don’t have one

8: Yankee candle scent - Don’t have one

7: Perfume - Don’t have one

6: Flower - Don’t have one

5: Color - Red

4: Talk show host - Don’t have one

3: Comedian - Don’t have one

2: Dog breed - Don’t have one

1: Did you answer all these truthfully? - Of course. What’s the point of answering them if I wasn’t honest?

Sorry I answered so many of these with I don’t know, but I really don’t know haha. Thank you! :)

[whatdoyouthinkmyjobis]

Hunters on the Hellmouth

masterlist

first chapter

previous chapter

AN: I’d originally planned to post GND 11 and HotH 30 at the same time since their time frames overlap, but time got away from me. Links to character sheets at the bottom of the story.

Chapter 30: Mending

By the next day, the doctors were looking at Buffy, who seemed unreasonably spry for someone who should have been scheduling spinal surgery, with great suspicion. Fortunately, Giles managed to convince them to discharge rather than study her. Despite her fear of hospitals, it was more difficult task for him to negotiate Buffy away from her boyfriend's bedside. She was quiet in the car, her mind back in intensive care with the Winchesters.

“The girls will be happy to see you,” Giles said, hoping to distract her.

“I bet,” she said with the same level of excitement most people reserve for describing mailboxes.

“It’s not as bad as that. They look up to you.”

“They’re waiting for me to die, Giles. They’re probably telling each other stories about how each one of them knew I’d been hurt because they just felt a light calling to them.”

“You know as well as anyone that’s not how--” He paused, chagrined. “You were joking.”

“It’s a thing not-dead people do.”

“Speaking of not-dead, I wish you had told me the Winchesters had died before.”

“Like I said, it’s personal.”

“Buffy, I respect your privacy and theirs; but if one of those personal matters effects our current situation, it needs to become a public matter. For instance, I am concerned about this business of angels.”

“Why? For once, something went our way! If it hadn’t been for Castiel…” She pulled her coat tighter, as if it could shield her from the idea of losing the man she loved.

“I am pleased that Dean will live, but we cannot act as if these so-called ‘angels’ are, in fact, our guardians. We know nothing about them, their motives.”

“Dean’s always told me they’re terrible. Like, they just don’t get humans and our little ant problems, so they can be cruel. Except for Cas. Dean said he’s odd, but helpful.”

“That brings us to my second concern: why are angels interested in Dean Winchester? He and Sam presented themselves as foot soldiers in the war against evil. I doubt angels concern themselves with foot soldiers.”

“They were being modest.”

“How so?”

“They’re the best hunters in their world. Maybe it’s like a video game? You level up, get an angel.”

“Perhaps,” he sounded doubtful. “Whatever their origins, something carved unknown symbols into Dean’s ribs. That tells me he is marked for some purpose beyond hunter and handyman. “At this point, all we know for certain is that angels have now made their presence known on the Hellmouth because the survival of Dean Winchester is important to Heaven. And that worries me.”

As soon as Buffy opened her front door, Molly ambushed her with a hug. “I’m so ‘appy you’re back!”

“Thanks,” Buffy winced. “But still super broken!”

“God, so sorry!” The girl’s hands fluttered around her face as she bounced on the balls of her feet.

“You should have taken some of us with you,” said Dani as she took the bag of medications from Giles.

“So more people could be in the hospital? Or morgue? I think I’m already at my guilt limit for the week.” Buffy eased herself onto the couch with Cloé and her omnipresent Winnie-the-Pooh. The other girls gathered around, peppering her with questions.

“What did you find?”

“Are Dean and Sam okay?”

“How many of them were there?”

“Is it coming for us?”

“Did Dean get knocked out saving you?”

“Girls, please!” shouted Giles above the din. “Give her some space. Now, as for what attacked Buffy and the Winchesters, going off of her description, it sounds like a Turok-Han, a powerful monster that until yesterday I was convinced was just a story vampires shared to scare each other. I am leaving this evening to pick up more Potentials, and hopefully I can scrounge up some information on these creatures in the meantime.”

“British to American translation: No one is leaving the house after dark,” Buffy added.

“But you know how to kill them, right?” Naomi asked.

“I’m not killing anything until I’ve healed. The doctor said it will take about six weeks, which means I should be fine in a week. I’m a Christmas miracle.”

“What about Sam and Dean? When will they be better?”

Buffy tried to keep her eye roll inside. “Well, since they aren’t Slayers, it’s going to take them a little longer. Sam’s girlfriend is going to take them home tomorrow. “

“Girlfriend?” A couple groans rose from the group.

“Dear God! Take a cold shower, or get a Tiger Beat!” Tired of the conversation, Buffy slowly rose and headed for the stairs. “Keep the fan club squealing on low, okay? I need to rest. Grace, Dani, follow me.”

Both in their twenties, Grace and Dani were the oldest Potentials. Naturally, the younger girls looked up to them in a way they did not look up to her. They were wizened peers; she was the dark future they may become. Buffy preferred Grace, who seemed unphased by either bloodshed or cramped quarters, but the group seemed to have elected Dani, eager and bratty, to be their voice. At least she never had to listen to either of them drooling over the Winchesters.

Buffy led them to her bedroom, where she hoped she’d be able to stay awake for the few minutes needed to get a feel for the mood of the group.

Dani stood with arms crossed in the middle of the room while Buffy searched her closet for her heatpad. Grace moved around the room with her hands tucked under her elbows examining things the way one does in a museum. “You have a lovely home, Buffy.”

“Thank you.” She hadn’t settled on the idea of it being her home and not her mother’s. If Tara hadn’t died in the spot Dani was slouching in, Buffy never would have left her teenage bedroom. The brown floral wallpaper, the wicker furniture -- it all belonged to someone else from the past.

“Do you live in a house where you’re from?” Buffy wanted to kick herself as soon as the words were out.

Grace raised her eyebrows. “You know, Cloé asked me if I had ever seen a car before coming to America.”

“I didn't mean--”

“Dormitory. Very exotic. Before that, an apartment in Nairobi, a city with many cars, with my parents and sisters.” No wonder she wasn’t bothered by the close quarters.

“Can we move on from Better Homes & Gardens to figuring out what the hell we’re going to do about these übervamps?” asked Dani.

“We are not doing anything at the moment. All of our fighters are on painkillers and bed rest,” Buffy said, shaking her bottle of pills.

“But I’ve been training since I was a teenager! Give me a crossbow and I could--”

“No, dammit! You wouldn’t last five seconds!”

Dani clenched her jaw. “You have no idea what I can do.”

“No, but I know what I can do. I know what Sam and Dean can do. I know we’re all more powerful and better trained than you.” Buffy softened her tone, hoping to diminish the uneven competition Dani was itching for. “Look, it’s not that I don’t think you have skills or can’t help, but this… I’m not insulting you by saying the Turok-Han would kill you; it’s just fact. We’ll wait, heal, and rethink the problem.”

Buffy sighed. “Now, the girls elected you class president. What do they want to do?”

“Go home,” said Dani bitterly.

Grace stepped between them. “The girls are all very frightened and homesick.”

“Look, I’d love to send everyone home, really I would, but you both know what will happen.”

They fell silent for a moment, remembering the chaos, the screaming, the blood.

“It is hardest, I think, for the uninitiated,” said Grace. “Those that came willingly are no longer feeling adventurous, and those that came against their will--”

“What do you mean ‘against their will?’”

Grace paused and scrunched her face. “How did you respond when someone told you about vampires? I laughed in my Watcher’s face and avoided him for months. A few of the girls did not want to come with Giles, so he apparently cast a spell on their families. They cannot even call home because no one there knows who they are.”

Buffy’s stomach flipped. She shouldn’t have been surprised Giles had to use less than savory means to keep the girls safe, but the reality of knowing was wartier than the distant theory. “I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

“Now you do. They’re scared and miserable, which makes them useless in this fight,” Dani complained.

This time, Grace nodded. “Most of them have never traveled this far from home.”

“So they’re homesick. I get that.” And she did. Buffy was not much of a traveler. Disneyland when she was a kid, and her move from LA to Sunnydale, was the extent of it.. That and her trip to San Francisco with Dean. Dean, who had spent his entire life wandering from temporary home to temporary home. What made him feel at home when he was homeless? “I have an idea.”

“And plenty left for me!” said Xander, quickly unwrapping two mini Snickers and shoving them in his mouth.

Willow examined the dozen treat-filled gift bags. “We have more stuff. I think we should keep making bags. Who knows how many girls will be here by Christmas.”

“My calculations say too many,” Xander said around his mouthful.

Buffy, laying on a heat pad on her bed, held out a hand. “Lemme help with the chocolate overstock, Xander.” He gave her a Twix. “Thanks for doing this, guys.”

She’d called them both and asked in a half-drugged voice if they could pick up movies and treats for a proper slumber party. Buffy had expected them to arrive with a couple romantic comedies and pizza, but they went above and beyond with putting together goodie bags for the girls to open on Christmas.

“By the way, I talked to Professor Yardy today--”

“Oh no!” Buffy covered her face. The final for the one class she’d managed to retain had been the day she was in the hospital.

“It’s okay!” Willow said. “She was sorry to hear about your accident and said you can take the final after break.”

“Insert a dramatic sigh here, because breathing hurts.” Buffy mentally added study for final to her list of things to do after killing the Turok-Han, rescuing Spike, and keeping the Potentials alive.

At least the weekend was planned. She’d only left the hospital under the agreement she could take care of Dean after his discharge, which left a gaping hole of what to do with the Potentials. Dani had eagerly offered to give them all a primer on weapons basics. Willow was going to teach them a brief history of Slayers. Anya and Andrew (and the comparatively calm presence of Xander) volunteered to introduce them to the world of demons; or as Anya called it, “Why vampires are disgusting, and demons can be pretty great.”

The Summers’ house was Hogwarts.

Dawn came in with a plate full of pizza, which Xander quickly relieved her of. Her hair had been dyed cotton-candy pink. “Buffy! You should come down. We’re having the best time!”

“Anya can change that back, right? You can’t go to school with pink hair.” In an effort to both cheer the girls up and show the newbies that magic wasn’t only for parental brain-wipes, newly blonde Anya was using her new favorite spell to color the Potentials’ hair.    

“Sure I can. There’s nothing in the rules about hair color.”

Buffy started to sit up, her angry-mom face in place.

“Compromise!” Willow piped in. “Dawn keeps the hair for the weekend, and I change it back Sunday night. Okay?”   

“Fine,” said Buffy, lying back down as the room started to spin. “I’m glad everyone is enjoying themselves.”

“Why don’t you come down?” Dawn lightly pleaded. “I’m sure they’d like you more if they saw you have fun.”

“Because moving hurts. Laughing super hurts, and it’s impossible to watch Clueless without laughing,” Buffy groaned.

“True. We’re all trying to convince Wook it’s a one hundred percent accurate picture of American high school, but I don’t think she’s falling for it.”

Everything had gone pear-shaped this week, but the biggest surprise had been Dawn rising above it. She had kept her head above the water, and guided the new girls to safety -- or at least, to the house tour.

Buffy may have been their distant mentor, but she realized that her little sister had become their friend. She smiled proudly at Dawn, despite the pink hair.

“Keep it up, Dawnie, and you’ll be an ambassador one day,” said Xander.

“Thanks!” she said brightly before returning to the party.

“Are you planning to share that pizza?” Willow asked as Xander took a bite of the last piece on the plate.

“Mmm? ‘Orry.”

Buffy’s growling stomach told her she would have to make an appearance downstairs after all.

The chatter in the living room-turned-trainee-bunk had long since subsided. Buffy shivered in her blankets, the gaping absence beside her keeping her awake.

Finally, she slipped out of bed. Dean’s drawer in her dresser was mostly full, she noticed with satisfaction. She rummaged around until she found a pair of his plaid pajama pants and his army green button-down -- a favorite since it matched his eyes perfectly -- which still smelled faintly of engine grease and leather.

Wrapping herself in cool cotton and the scent of Dean, she pulled her blankets to the bench by the window. The stars of Orion the Hunter shone like beacons in the winter sky. Buffy hoped Dean was able to sleep. The painkillers would help. She groaned then, realizing she was going to have to hide all the alcohol in their apartment lest they mix the two. Boys.

But he was alive and well. That was the important thing. The angels wanted him that way.

She didn’t find the idea of angels as upsetting as Giles did, but she was curious as to what they wanted with Dean. While she thought he was a hero and all-around wonderful, Dean wasn’t religious, pure, or any other thing she’d ever associated with saintly people. She smiled, imagining devout children being taught about Saint Dean, whose miracles included being amazing in bed and remaining on his feet after drinking a an obscene amount of whiskey.

Maybe Dean was chosen for something, but so was she. According to lore, the first Slayer was made by combining the essence of a demon with the soul of a girl. Being chosen by angels sounded cuddly by comparison.

But why wonder when she could ask?

Her voice barely above a whisper, she prayed, “Castiel, this is Buffy Summers again. Thanks for saving Dean. The doctors said he can go home tomorrow. I’m planning on taking care of him all weekend.”

It suddenly occurred to her that maybe she shouldn't tell an angel she was sleeping with her boyfriend. Didn’t they frown on that? Or was Castiel all-seeing? Oh God, does he watch us have sex?!

“Uh, yeah, so I was wondering why you saved Dean. I mean, he’s amazing, so I’m definitely not complaining, but you’re an angel. Aren’t there, like, floods and famines for you to stop? Why are you interested in him?”

Buffy held her breath and listened. She heard nothing in the still night, not a squirrel racing down a branch, not anyone’s soft snoring, and certainly not the booming voice of an angel. Could he even hear her if she wasn’t in crisis? Was there some sort of priority line, like a soul emergency room? She imagined Castiel in a white robe with long flowing hair seeing broken person after broken person, and she had no idea what her number was.

“I wish you looked out for me the way you look out for Dean. Sometimes I feel like everything is stacked against me, and I just want to be a college student with a part-time job and a great boyfriend. I want to have a life beyond killing evil things, you know?

“I’m sorry. I’m complaining, but if you’re not too busy looking after Dean, could you look after me  sometimes, too? We’re usually together anyway. And Giles and Will and Xander and Dawn? And Spike, who is probably not doing so hot right now.” Was is sacrilegious to pray for a vampire? Did it matter if she wasn’t religious anyway?

“So, yeah, thanks for saving Dean, and I hope to hear from you soon.”

Easily the worst prayer in the history of praying. Castiel would probably share it with his angel friends and laugh at her. Even so, she felt calm enough to maybe, finally, get some sleep.

By the morning, Buffy’s cuts had fully healed, and Willow helped her remove the unnecessary stitches. Breathing came easier as well, though she doubted her bones were fully mended. Xander was kind enough to drive her to the Winchester’s apartment.

“You tell them I’ll be by on Monday to kick their asses in poker,” he called after her as she crossed the street to their building.

She smiled. “I don’t know if they’ll be up for poker by then.”

“Exactly! This is my one chance.”

She let herself in and found Dottie Johnson, their senile neighbor, sitting on the couch flipping through an old book that Buffy hoped was about something benign, not pointy.

The old woman lowered her book and scowled at Buffy before her eyes settled on her silver cross. “Good girl,” she said, her voice as rickety as an old rocking chair. “Do I know you?”

“Hi, Mrs. Johnson. I’m Dean’s girlfriend, Buffy. Remember?”

“Who names a child Buffy?”

Wanting to avoid a conversation she’d had several times, Buffy shrugged and set down a pan of Dawn’s get-better brownies in the kitchen. She was still searching for all the Winchesters’ booze when Jada emerged from Sam’s bedroom. She smiled more than anyone Buffy had ever met, but today the smile couldn’t get to her eyes. Usually dressed pristine and professional, she was casual in jeans and glittery cat t-shirt, with a pink headband holding back her hair.

“Buffy! I didn’t know you were here.” Jada eyed the stockpile of beer and whiskey.

“Sorry, I thought I should hide the alcohol while the guys are on painkillers.”

“That’s probably a good idea. We can take it to my place.”

Jada examined Buffy’s bruise-free skin. “You must have been buckled in. I’m glad someone walked away okay.”

“Wasn’t an accident,” said Dottie. “It was the vampires.” She held up the book she’d been flipping through and pointed with her gnarled finger to a bumpy-faced, fanged block print.

The bit of a smile Jada had been able to muster gave way. “Of course.”

“Books say Heaven’s gonna send a saviour. A girl. She’s gonna kill all the vampires,” Dottie continued.

Not usually given the opportunity to hear civilians talk about her, Buffy pounced. “What else do the books say about her?”

Jada glanced at Buffy with mild annoyance -- probably the dirtiest look she’d ever given anyone -- and ignored the supernatural conversation. “Auntie, would you like some music? How about I bring over some of your records?” With that plan, her smile was back in place as she took the booze away.

Buffy scooted around the old woman. “I’m going to check on the guys.”

“You tell them not to worry. The Slayer’s gonna save us from Hell,” Dottie said.

She peeked into Sam’s room and found him reading in bed. Planting a kiss on his forehead, she said, “Thank you.”

He smiled sleepily, a small blush blooming on his cheeks. “For what?”

“Teaching me how to pray.”

She sneaked into Dean’s room. Sleeping with his headphones on, he reclined against a pile of pillows, with blankets bunched up under his cast foot. His face peaceful, lips slightly parted. Wearing nothing but his boxers, the bruises on his arms and ribs were dark reminders of the violence he’d endured.

Strains of piano and brushed snare floated in from the other room. Dean took off his headphones, and, noticing her for the first time, broke into a room-lighting smile. “Hey, beautiful. What’s up with the music?”

A gravelly voice sang, “Give me a kiss to build a dream on / And my imagination will thrive upon that kiss.”

“Jada is trying to distract her aunt from vampire stories.”

Dean chuckled.

She sat on the edge of his bed, and he started to rub her thigh. “Dottie wants me to tell you the Slayer is going to save us all.”

“I heard a rumor about that. Cas is listening to you. That feathery s.o.b. has been ignoring me for months.” He played with her fingers before tugging her close. His kiss was slow and firm, an ocean of gratitude wrapped in the press of lips.  

Foreheads pressed together, enjoying the closeness of him, she asked, “Now that you know he’s listening, are you going to trying praying again?”

“Yeah, I need to make sure Bobby’s okay.”

“But do you still want to go home?”

Running his fingers through her hair, he said, “I ain’t leaving you, darlin’.”

She heard his words, but thought -- hoped -- that he was saying something else. The same thing she hoped he was saying every time he drove her to work when she was running late. Every night he made her dinner. Every time he patched her up after a fight. When he stayed in town, though they were only planning to be a fling. When he didn’t run after learning about Spike, after -- everything else.

“I love you, too,” she said.

“Please don’t freak out. I don’t need you to say it back or anything. I just--” She choked back tears. “I almost lost you, and I needed to say it to make sure you heard the words. It’s not like my loving you could make us any more marked than we already are.”

Dean stared at the ceiling and chewed his lip, a habit amplified when he was hunting for honesty. Uncertain, Buffy laid beside him. He squeezed her hand, letting her know that whatever his response was, it wouldn’t be leave.

Of course, he’d heard the words before. When his mom used to sing him to sleep at night, then tuck him in and whisper, “Goodnight, angel. I love you.” And he believed her. She was the one who took care of him when he was sick, who bandaged his knees when he’d fall down.

But that was only one of a handful of times he’d heard it. Usually, it was cold comfort in a bad situation. His dad would say it after an extra week away, pretending it wiped away the things Dean had to do for food. A few one-night-stands had shouted it as they fucked, the flailing of someone drowning in loneliness. It was always on the lips of the dying, a hopeless goodbye with a pretty bow.

This brush-with-death declaration felt like the latter. He whispered, “You don’t think we’re going to make it, do you?”

“What? Why would you say that?”

He continued looking at the ceiling as he spoke. “Because I already know how you feel about me. Not gonna lie, for a while I held my breath and thought you’d wake up at any moment and run away screaming, but you didn’t, Buffy. You dug in, and damn it hurt sometimes, but you helped me be a better man, healed some things in me that had been broken for a long time. And a person doesn’t do that if they don’t care.”

“Then what’s so wrong about saying it?” she whispered.

He smiled at her, hoping to ease her. “Nothing’s wrong, Girly. It just sounds so final, you know? We’re fighting this dickbag from beyond that doesn’t even have a body but somehow has an army, and it just kicked our asses. I’d be dead if it wasn’t for Cas.”

Hearing the words, Buffy couldn’t hold back her tears any longer.

“Hey, come on. Don’t -- Ow! God!” Dean tried to reach out, but gabbed his ribs before rolling onto his back again. “Look,” he said between pained breaths. “I’ve seen a lotta people in their last moments. You know what they always say?”

She didn’t have to answer.

They lay quietly listening to the man on the record player sing, “When you kiss me heaven sighs / And though I close my eyes / I see la vie en rose.”

“I promise you this,” Dean said. “I wake up every day and think about ways I can show you how crazy I am about you, and I’m gonna keep doing it until the world is ashes. Okay?”

She smiled hopefully. “You’re crazy about me?”

“Tom-Cruise-jumping-on-a-couch crazy.”

“That doesn’t make any sense,” Buffy laughed.

Dean grinned. “It will in a few years.”

The man kept warbling, “And when you speak / Angels sing from above / Everyday words seems / To turn into love song.”

“How long are you staying?” he asked.

“As long as you need me to.”

“Forever then?”

“Forever.”

Read Giles’ dossiers on: Dani    Cloé    Naomi      Molly    Grace    Wook    Keisha    Leticia    Lys

  next chapter

[nahstyart]

animal assignment

I was never so aware of my racial identity as I was when I studied abroad in Denmark. It’s usually America that gets the bad rep about backwards attitudes towards race, but make no mistake—Europeans are hella racist. The constant string of “ni hao’s” from strangers became my daily soundtrack as I walked through the streets of Copenhagen and beyond. I’m not even Chinese.

I was born and raised in Dallas, and only ventured so far as Houston for college. I’ve only ever lived in safe, suburban communities, all with healthy levels of ethnic diversity. Despite all assurances that Copenhagen would be a safe, welcoming city, I found myself frequently intimidated by the pace of a city lifestyle. Without the protective shell of a car over me, I trekked the city both on foot and via public transportation, and found my sense of security in urban anonymity.

I wanted to be invisible. I wanted to shroud myself in the empty air around me; cocoon myself in my personal bubble. Unfortunately, as one of the few non-white, non-tourist people around, I was often denied the dignity of inconspicuousness. Shopkeepers, perhaps confusing me for a displaced member of some neon-clad Chinese tourist group, shadowed my steps, rattling off sales pitches in multiple Asian languages until I was able to shake them off. Strangers reproached me in public for the most minor of offenses. Men in bars extolled the supposed virtues of my race, claiming that Asian women would never say no, that they all acted shy and virtuous in public, but would do anything in bed.

These are all relatively small things, but it began to really anger me. Really, sometimes the highest courtesy you can pay a stranger in public is to ignore them. What did I have to do to get people to just respectfully disregard me? What if I were taller? If I wore stronger makeup? If I had a resting bitch face? Or if I were male, or white? Then would people let me live for Christ’s sake?

I was so frustrated that I actually wanted to write a comic. I felt like the men around me looked at me like I was a piece of meat. I drew out a few sketches: I was a mouse, and the men were cats. Of course, now I have read Maus, and it seems that the metaphor has been quite exhausted.

If I were to write this comic now, this would be my character design:

A rabbit is still on the prey side of the animal world. It is is as skittish and scared as I often felt. Additionally, you never really hear a rabbit’s voice. Many people talked down to me on the basis of my race because they knew that they could get away with it—I wouldn’t ever say anything back. The style follows the form of the immediately recognizable brand Hello Kitty to strengthen the ties to Asian culture. Hello Kitty is actually a very interesting character, because according to her official biography (which exists), she is actually a British girl. There is similar conflict behind my character concept, because although I am Asian, I have always identified more as an American. Of course, many people don’t think much about Hello Kitty outside of viewing her as the Avatar of East Asia in general.

[wendyimmiller]

Garden regionally. Get inspired globally.

Guest Rant by Marianne Willburn  

Somewhere near the bottom of every writer’s artistic license, a clever wordsmith will find the following recommendation:

Monty Don

“Comically exaggerating the position of one’s opponent is encouraged in the defense of one’s argument.”[i]

Thus, after verbally sparring with Scott Beuerlein over the curiously inflammatory subject of whether to openly read British garden writers, or to do so under the covers by flashlight – all the while pledging fidelity to the American values of Weed & Feed; a tortured Scott is wrestling with the inadequacies of a Midwestern accent late into a Cincinnati evening, and I am apparently one step away from a sexting relationship with Monty Don.

Yet, beyond the slings and the arrows and the thoroughly base attempt to play cards as sneaky as cancer and a dead, beloved dog (I see you one dog and raise you a dad, Scott), the rebuttal beautifully illustrates the constant niggling suspicion American gardeners have that the British are looking down their noses at us, feeding us advice to help us fail, sniggering with intent, and securing all the fat Timber contracts in order to render our garden gurus speechless upon their own soil.[ii]

Rubbish.

Or if you prefer, horseshit.

And when social media gets involved, the comments reveal our innate prejudices and (I believe) underlying insecurities as Americans.

For the record:

I am not a self-righteous Brit who ignores and disparages American garden writers because I am so enchanted with the idea of tea at four and ha-has across the south lawn that I can’t remember my USDA zone. I AM an American garden writer with dual citizenship who has lived most of her life in America, reads authors on both sides of the Atlantic and writes for American publications on American soil. I married a Marine. And not as a war bride.

And neither is Scott a Trumpian angry ethnocentrist (as one commenter lamented) because he has a beef with the relevance of British garden writing to American gardeners. He was clearly just having a bad day.

Perhaps it was a work-related trauma. Spring is a cold and busy season at the Cincinnati Zoo. The last thing the Manager of Botanical Garden Outreach needs to have shoved down his throat is a picture of Fergus Garrett standing under a fruiting Musa basjoo.

Perhaps someone left a copy of George Plumptre’s The English Country House Garden in the men’s toilets. We can only speculate.

Nevertheless, something primal snapped in the man. I get it. But to throw out the cherubic baby with the bath water? That’s when I objected.

It’s just so damned predictable.

Though a strong stance, Scott took a safe one. An American audience is not going to object to giving the Brits a tongue-lashing for what we immediately assume to be their propensity towards snobbery, condescension and arrogance. And, any written defense of such a reprehensible population will be met with equal certainty that the author [obviously bewitched] eats her eggs soft-boiled.

An autumn tapestry at the newly opened Delaware Botanic Gardens, designed by Dutch Wave guru Piet Oudouf, and providing 25 acres of forage, habitat and outstanding beauty for wildlife & visitors.

Except.

Americans are not innocent in this game. Far from it. From my American pine cradle, I’ve grown up in both worlds. My mother is a California rancher’s daughter, my father, a public-schooled Brit. After a lifetime of lively conversations around their dining room table with friends from far and wide, I can attest to the fact that the two cultures take great delight in a strong sense of superiority over one other. I’ve seen my share of sparring. Subtle and not so.

All these decades after the American Revolution, there is still the spirit of rebellion in your average American heart and we’re deeply (and rightly) proud of it. We object to being told what to do – whether it’s what to do for a living, what to wear to a funeral, or what to plant in our gardens. We expect the luxury of space, and claim it when we can – from 4200 square foot homes for two people to insisting on a wide berth when standing at an ATM.

We’re pioneers, explorers and dreamers. But we’re also pragmatists. A great many of us feel strongly that we don’t need a two thousand year-old language to refer to a plant our daddies always called Ramps. And if we want to spell it with a capital R, that’s our business. We sure as hell don’t need people with a perfect climate telling us how to grow it.

Even though they probably weren’t.

In their less generous moments, the Brits look upon us as spoilt children who think the world revolves around us. (Scott, your original essay didn’t help with this.) They write for their own as surely as we write for ours; and if it’s American money that’s buying a gardening book, they credit that money with the good sense to recognize that it doesn’t live in Cornwall – and to adapt accordingly.

They’ve got their own issues and insecurities certainly.  In a country with an average population density of 720 people per square mile (the USA is 87)[iii], space is a luxury many never dream of attaining, no matter how quickly they get on the property ladder or how upwardly mobile their lifestyle.

This means that they can be a little prickly about American ideas of personal space. But they are an exceptionally self-reliant people – particularly those who live rurally – making do with very little to create lives that most Americans would find inconvenient.

Sparked by the blight that is decimating boxwood, RHS Wisley has created a knot garden composed of alternate shrubs to inspire depressed gardeners. I can’t grow several of these species, but it doesn’t stop me taking what I can from this fantastic, educational display. (Though not perhaps cuttings.)

When it comes to gardening, they know what they’ve got: the Gulf Stream and hundreds of years of exploiting it to create some of the best gardens in the world; and a culture that gardens more than it doesn’t. But they also know what they don’t have. Besides the obvious (colonies in the Americas & room to swing a cat), they don’t have the guarantee of a decent summer every year.

So, here we are. They, envious of our wide open spaces and [mostly] abundant sunshine. Us, fascinated by their walled kitchen gardens and high streets clothed in annuals. We may admit to a little jealousy – joke about it perhaps – right up until the moment we start feeling the slightest bit insecure.

Then, Americans tend to lash out in righteous fury….

“I don’t need to know the [insert expletive] “proper” [voice dripping with sarcasm] name for this [long pause] blue poppy, to grow it!”

…while the Brits rely on cold condescension.

“But you’re not growing it particularly well, are you?” 

And the resentments build.

Now, no one with an ounce (or a gram) of sense thinks that we shouldn’t garden regionally in America, or for that matter, anywhere else in this world. That we shouldn’t find garden writers who live where we live and garden where we garden in order to help us to gain knowledge and experience relevant to our climate.

Influences from all over the world come together in the wildly beautiful gravel garden at Chanticleer Garden, PA.

But to dream, and perhaps more importantly, to innovate, we should inspire ourselves globally: Paradise gardens of Andalusia, potagers in Normandy, xeriscapes in San Diego, shambas in East Africa. People working with their specific environments to create life-giving works of art that other gardeners can observe, absorb and adapt to their own climates and their own environments. Thus:

Half of Europe is embracing naturalistic pollinator and wildlife-friendly designs inspired in part by the prairies and open spaces of the Americas, and led by top designers. Hell, even Hyde Park is letting the grass grow. Do they loathe their own traditions?

A nearby grower friend is showcasing & selling Mediterranean look-alike plants (in a cruel and chilly Mid-Atlantic 6b) as Cali-faux-nian. The customers love it. Did she throw out her summer stock of petunias & calibrachoa?

Monty Don is inspiring his slavering audience to create restful Moorish gardens within the limitations of urban garden flats and boring, but respectable suburban neighborhoods. Does he thus despise boring, but respectable suburban neighborhoods? Well, probably, but we can all agree upon that.

Therefore, I plead with gardeners, garden educators, and Scott on a chilly spring day, who wish to make a full retreat into the safe space of regional gardening advice delivered by regional gardening experts:

Garden regionally. Inspire yourself globally.

Cutting ourselves off from other influences is short-sighted, possibly pig-headed, and will not lead to innovative, exciting design movements of the future. And for those now racing to the captcha to virtuously proclaim how few damns they give for “exciting design movements of the future” (I’m talking to you mom): it’s the Dutch Wave/New Perennial Movement you can thank for inspiring a new generation of gardeners – and non-gardeners – to create pollinator-friendly landscapes in an increasingly urbanized world.

Tom Stuart-Smith’s innovative design within the walled garden at Broughton Grange encourages gardeners all over the world to move beyond traditional borders and contrast formal architectural elements on a relaxed, perennial canvas.

This isn’t a zero sum game. The rest of the world does some things better than we do, and vice versa. Know what you know about where you garden, and know it well. Take time to know more.  Look for alternative opinions. Read footnotes. Whether British or American, pens deftly wielded as daggers can be a great deal more effective than those used to spoon-feed.

Doing all this doesn’t make you a snob – it makes you smart. And it just might put you at the top of your regional game.

Marianne Willburn is an American garden columnist and author of the book Big Dreams, Small Garden. Read more at www.smalltowngardener.com

Photo credit for Monty Don. All other photos by the author.

[i]Neither the license nor the sentence actually exist, although they should.

[ii] C’mon Timber, seriously. What if Bloomsbury snaps us up?

[iii] Countries By Density Population. (2019-10-01). Retrieved 2019-10-09, from http://worldpopulationreview.com/countries/countries-by-density/

Garden regionally. Get inspired globally. originally appeared on GardenRant on October 16, 2019.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/10/garden-regionally-get-inspired-globally.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

[turfandlawncare]

Garden regionally. Get inspired globally.

Guest Rant by Marianne Willburn  

Somewhere near the bottom of every writer’s artistic license, a clever wordsmith will find the following recommendation:

Monty Don

“Comically exaggerating the position of one’s opponent is encouraged in the defense of one’s argument.”[i]

Thus, after verbally sparring with Scott Beuerlein over the curiously inflammatory subject of whether to openly read British garden writers, or to do so under the covers by flashlight – all the while pledging fidelity to the American values of Weed & Feed; a tortured Scott is wrestling with the inadequacies of a Midwestern accent late into a Cincinnati evening, and I am apparently one step away from a sexting relationship with Monty Don.

Yet, beyond the slings and the arrows and the thoroughly base attempt to play cards as sneaky as cancer and a dead, beloved dog (I see you one dog and raise you a dad, Scott), the rebuttal beautifully illustrates the constant niggling suspicion American gardeners have that the British are looking down their noses at us, feeding us advice to help us fail, sniggering with intent, and securing all the fat Timber contracts in order to render our garden gurus speechless upon their own soil.[ii]

Rubbish.

Or if you prefer, horseshit.

And when social media gets involved, the comments reveal our innate prejudices and (I believe) underlying insecurities as Americans.

For the record:

I am not a self-righteous Brit who ignores and disparages American garden writers because I am so enchanted with the idea of tea at four and ha-has across the south lawn that I can’t remember my USDA zone. I AM an American garden writer with dual citizenship who has lived most of her life in America, reads authors on both sides of the Atlantic and writes for American publications on American soil. I married a Marine. And not as a war bride.

And neither is Scott a Trumpian angry ethnocentrist (as one commenter lamented) because he has a beef with the relevance of British garden writing to American gardeners. He was clearly just having a bad day.

Perhaps it was a work-related trauma. Spring is a cold and busy season at the Cincinnati Zoo. The last thing the Manager of Botanical Garden Outreach needs to have shoved down his throat is a picture of Fergus Garrett standing under a fruiting Musa basjoo.

Perhaps someone left a copy of George Plumptre’s The English Country House Garden in the men’s toilets. We can only speculate.

Nevertheless, something primal snapped in the man. I get it. But to throw out the cherubic baby with the bath water? That’s when I objected.

It’s just so damned predictable.

Though a strong stance, Scott took a safe one. An American audience is not going to object to giving the Brits a tongue-lashing for what we immediately assume to be their propensity towards snobbery, condescension and arrogance. And, any written defense of such a reprehensible population will be met with equal certainty that the author [obviously bewitched] eats her eggs soft-boiled.

An autumn tapestry at the newly opened Delaware Botanic Gardens, designed by Dutch Wave guru Piet Oudouf, and providing 25 acres of forage, habitat and outstanding beauty for wildlife & visitors.

Except.

Americans are not innocent in this game. Far from it. From my American pine cradle, I’ve grown up in both worlds. My mother is a California rancher’s daughter, my father, a public-schooled Brit. After a lifetime of lively conversations around their dining room table with friends from far and wide, I can attest to the fact that the two cultures take great delight in a strong sense of superiority over one other. I’ve seen my share of sparring. Subtle and not so.

All these decades after the American Revolution, there is still the spirit of rebellion in your average American heart and we’re deeply (and rightly) proud of it. We object to being told what to do – whether it’s what to do for a living, what to wear to a funeral, or what to plant in our gardens. We expect the luxury of space, and claim it when we can – from 4200 square foot homes for two people to insisting on a wide berth when standing at an ATM.

We’re pioneers, explorers and dreamers. But we’re also pragmatists. A great many of us feel strongly that we don’t need a two thousand year-old language to refer to a plant our daddies always called Ramps. And if we want to spell it with a capital R, that’s our business. We sure as hell don’t need people with a perfect climate telling us how to grow it.

Even though they probably weren’t.

In their less generous moments, the Brits look upon us as spoilt children who think the world revolves around us. (Scott, your original essay didn’t help with this.) They write for their own as surely as we write for ours; and if it’s American money that’s buying a gardening book, they credit that money with the good sense to recognize that it doesn’t live in Cornwall – and to adapt accordingly.

They’ve got their own issues and insecurities certainly.  In a country with an average population density of 720 people per square mile (the USA is 87)[iii], space is a luxury many never dream of attaining, no matter how quickly they get on the property ladder or how upwardly mobile their lifestyle.

This means that they can be a little prickly about American ideas of personal space. But they are an exceptionally self-reliant people – particularly those who live rurally – making do with very little to create lives that most Americans would find inconvenient.

Sparked by the blight that is decimating boxwood, RHS Wisley has created a knot garden composed of alternate shrubs to inspire depressed gardeners. I can’t grow several of these species, but it doesn’t stop me taking what I can from this fantastic, educational display. (Though not perhaps cuttings.)

When it comes to gardening, they know what they’ve got: the Gulf Stream and hundreds of years of exploiting it to create some of the best gardens in the world; and a culture that gardens more than it doesn’t. But they also know what they don’t have. Besides the obvious (colonies in the Americas & room to swing a cat), they don’t have the guarantee of a decent summer every year.

So, here we are. They, envious of our wide open spaces and [mostly] abundant sunshine. Us, fascinated by their walled kitchen gardens and high streets clothed in annuals. We may admit to a little jealousy – joke about it perhaps – right up until the moment we start feeling the slightest bit insecure.

Then, Americans tend to lash out in righteous fury….

“I don’t need to know the [insert expletive] “proper” [voice dripping with sarcasm] name for this [long pause] blue poppy, to grow it!”

…while the Brits rely on cold condescension.

“But you’re not growing it particularly well, are you?” 

And the resentments build.

Now, no one with an ounce (or a gram) of sense thinks that we shouldn’t garden regionally in America, or for that matter, anywhere else in this world. That we shouldn’t find garden writers who live where we live and garden where we garden in order to help us to gain knowledge and experience relevant to our climate.

Influences from all over the world come together in the wildly beautiful gravel garden at Chanticleer Garden, PA.

But to dream, and perhaps more importantly, to innovate, we should inspire ourselves globally: Paradise gardens of Andalusia, potagers in Normandy, xeriscapes in San Diego, shambas in East Africa. People working with their specific environments to create life-giving works of art that other gardeners can observe, absorb and adapt to their own climates and their own environments. Thus:

Half of Europe is embracing naturalistic pollinator and wildlife-friendly designs inspired in part by the prairies and open spaces of the Americas, and led by top designers. Hell, even Hyde Park is letting the grass grow. Do they loathe their own traditions?

A nearby grower friend is showcasing & selling Mediterranean look-alike plants (in a cruel and chilly Mid-Atlantic 6b) as Cali-faux-nian. The customers love it. Did she throw out her summer stock of petunias & calibrachoa?

Monty Don is inspiring his slavering audience to create restful Moorish gardens within the limitations of urban garden flats and boring, but respectable suburban neighborhoods. Does he thus despise boring, but respectable suburban neighborhoods? Well, probably, but we can all agree upon that.

Therefore, I plead with gardeners, garden educators, and Scott on a chilly spring day, who wish to make a full retreat into the safe space of regional gardening advice delivered by regional gardening experts:

Garden regionally. Inspire yourself globally.

Cutting ourselves off from other influences is short-sighted, possibly pig-headed, and will not lead to innovative, exciting design movements of the future. And for those now racing to the captcha to virtuously proclaim how few damns they give for “exciting design movements of the future” (I’m talking to you mom): it’s the Dutch Wave/New Perennial Movement you can thank for inspiring a new generation of gardeners – and non-gardeners – to create pollinator-friendly landscapes in an increasingly urbanized world.

Tom Stuart-Smith’s innovative design within the walled garden at Broughton Grange encourages gardeners all over the world to move beyond traditional borders and contrast formal architectural elements on a relaxed, perennial canvas.

This isn’t a zero sum game. The rest of the world does some things better than we do, and vice versa. Know what you know about where you garden, and know it well. Take time to know more.  Look for alternative opinions. Read footnotes. Whether British or American, pens deftly wielded as daggers can be a great deal more effective than those used to spoon-feed.

Doing all this doesn’t make you a snob – it makes you smart. And it just might put you at the top of your regional game.

Marianne Willburn is an American garden columnist and author of the book Big Dreams, Small Garden. Read more at www.smalltowngardener.com

Photo credit for Monty Don. All other photos by the author.

[i]Neither the license nor the sentence actually exist, although they should.

[ii] C’mon Timber, seriously. What if Bloomsbury snaps us up?

[iii] Countries By Density Population. (2019-10-01). Retrieved 2019-10-09, from https://ift.tt/2BoQmQI

Garden regionally. Get inspired globally. originally appeared on GardenRant on October 16, 2019.

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[wayneooverton]

South Georgia is the most beautiful place on earth

I know, I know, I know. Bold statement or what.

Once I had a boyfriend who used to make fun of me when were traveling because everywhere we went, apparently I always exclaimed “wow, this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been!”

In my defense, I meant it every single time.

Surely this was, in fact, the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen with my two eyes, that is, until, I went somewhere else equally or more beautiful. But I digress.

Photo by Jarrad Seng

Now seriously, you’ve got to trust me when I now say, I have truly found the most beautiful place on planet earth. Or at least the most beautiful place I’ve ever laid eyes on.

No, no. Don’t argue.

And it’s not Antarctica. It’s South Georgia.

*throws down the gauntlet*

No, not the south of the American state of Georgia, that would just be silly. No offense to southern Georgians, of course, which I’m sure is a delightful and beautiful too.

This time I am referring to the very cold and remote subantarctic island of South Georgia in the South Atlantic Ocean. A British overseas territory. Human population: 20. Penguin population: several million.

Also known as the most beautiful place on the entire planet Earth.

If you still find yourself skeptical after the whole “millions of penguins” comment, read on, dear ones.

Now I know what you’re thinking, how can South Georgia be the most beautiful place on earth if it isn’t plastered all over Instagram or I can’t even find it on a map?

Solid question. Respect.

There are still many stunning pockets of this world that few make the journey to or venture out in search of, and South Georgia is definitely one of them.

As an avid fan and collector of unusual and remote destinations, South Georgia has been at the top of my list for a very long time; it’s one of those rare places that when you meet someone who has been there, they can’t stop talking about it.

I’ve joined the club.

Perhaps one of the most remote islands on earth, South Georgia is approximately 2,100 kilometers off the coast of South America. Pretty much the only way to access South Georgia is by expedition ship from Argentina going down to Antarctica.

You have to want to go badly.

Quark Expeditions voyages to South Georgia every year and I was lucky enough to join them last summer on an adventure that also included visiting the Falkland Islands.

The curious story of the Falkland Islands

For many Antarctica is the bucketlist spot, and I can see why since it was also mind for a long time. But reflecting back on a month down under, I can safely say that I would do anything to go back to South Georgia instead.

So, what makes South Georgia the most beautiful place on earth?

Five simple reasons.

It has the best landscapes, the best wildlife, the most crazy weather, the most fascinating history and of course, by default, it’s sheer inaccessibility.

Now come with me on a visual story, a photographic journey with words (is that a thing?) as I try to convince you that South Georgia is, in fact, the most beautiful place on earth. Enjoy!

Falklands (Malvinas) and South Georgia: Islands of the Southern Ocean

1. South Georgia has the most incredible, wild landscapes

One of my first impression of South Georgia was how awestruck I was by the jagged mountains that seemingly jut out straight from the sea, towering above you. Stark and wild, seemingly barren except for birds and glaciers galore, the views are imposing and magnificent.

As a serious lover of mountains, South Georgia was next level beautiful. Everything about the views around South Georgia screamed power and wilderness. A long and narrow island almost 200 kilometers long, the mountain run like a spine the length of South Georgia with many dropping down into the sea with many fjords and bays along the coastline.

South Georgia really felt like polar tundra meets the Alps. With penguins.

Photo by Jarrad Seng

But perhaps what surprised me the most was how lush parts of it can be. While it doesn’t have trees, it’s still quite green, tussock covered mountains and beaches everywhere, not the white void that is Antarctica.

The landscapes are some of the best I’ve ever seen in the world, no exaggeration. It’s like New Zealand or Iceland times a million. And it’s everywhere. There are no bad views. Oh hey, another incredible glacier. Oh, another one. And another one, and wow, look at those mountains.

Honestly my face hurt from smiling so much. And from the wind too. But I’ll get to that in a minute.

Photo by Jarrad Seng

2. The sheer abundance of wildlife

If you love animals and wildlife, well South Georgia is the place for you! I have never been anywhere with such a stunning array of wild animals packed in close proximity with each other and in such huge quantities.

Most of our birdlife here in New Zealand is threatened and endangered from introduced predators and if you see a few penguins, wow, that’s pretty special and you’re quite lucky.

On South Georgia you have to be careful where you walk to make sure you don’t step one; penguins, seals, and all manner of birds are everywhere. With its rich beaches for wildlife breeding grounds, on an expedition to South Georgia with a level of wildlife encounters not possible anywhere else, especially now since rats were eradicated this year.

Seabirds galore, albatross rub shoulders with skua and other rare seabirds while the beaches are covered with fur seals, noisy elephant and several types of penguins numbering in the thousands.

Photo by Jarrad Seng

Photo by Jarrad Seng

The wildlife in South Georgia is out of this world, and much more dynamic and bigger than in Antarctica. It’s noisy, loud and colorful, not exactly what you might imagine when you picture a remote and rugged island in the middle of the South Atlantic. It’s here on South Georgia where you have the possibility of intimate encounters with wildlife.

The Quark expedition team who guides you there give incredible talks about the animals and you’re briefed about keeping your distance and how to behave with them.

Falklands (Malvinas) and South Georgia: Islands of the Southern Ocean

But the penguins and seals don’t follow the rules. I found if I say down for a while and just observed them, someone would come up to me to have a look at this strange creature in a yellow jacket.

And let me just say, being surrounded by curious king penguins on a beach with glaciers behind you and seals in front of you is not something you will ever forget.

3. Crazy weather unlike anything you’ve seen before

We arrived near Prion Island before sunrise on South Georgia; frothing with excitement,I was up while it was still dark and before the expedition team made any announcements on board. Curious, I opened the door to the outer deck.

Well, better said I TRIED to open the door to the outer deck, but got it open about a foot before it slammed back and I was nearly blown over with a wild howling wind unlike I’ve heard before.

Welcome to South Georgia!

Photo by Jarrad Seng

If it were sunny and tropical, everyone would be there, right?

Hmm now I know what you’re thinking, how does crazy weather make a place beautiful? Hear me out.

For me, there is real beauty in wild and unpredictable weather. From stunning rays of sunlight beaming between rain clouds to katabatic winds whipping up the seas across the bay and unusual cloud formations, to even warm still sunny days that make you want to take your coat off, the polar climate of South Georgia really reminds you of where you are, humbles and intrigues.

4. Wow, what a history!

It’s generally assumed that South Georgia was discovered around 1675 during a sailing exploration and was named by Captain Cook (oh hey) a century later, whose descriptions of the enormous fur seal colonies brought sealers over in droves who almost decimated the seal population within a century.

A completely inhospitable land, few have every tried to settle on South Georgia, except for the hardy sealers and whalers of yesteryear.

Request a quote to adventure to the Falklands and South Georgia with Quark Expeditions today!

At the turn of the century, South Georgia sadly became the whaling hub of the Antarctic by Norwegians, decimating the world’s whale population. Six stations were built along the coast and almost 200,000 whales were estimated to be killed here in about 60 years before they were protected.

The scars of the whaling industry still remain on South Georgia, with bones still bleached white on the beaches and the rusted abandoned stations sitting dull red on the horizon.

South Georgia is also the place where Ernest Shackleton ended up after the most incredible open sea rescue journey in history, and you can visit his grave at Grytviken, the only old whaling station that’s been cleaned up and is visitable, complete with a post office and very cool museum.

South Georgia’s history is brutal and fascinating, and easily visible today.

Photo by Jarrad Seng

5. Its utter remoteness

The real beauty of South Georgia for me lies in its sheer remoteness.

Thousands of miles away for any real civilization, every moment here you’re reminded that you have made the journey to the ends of the earth. Unlike Antarctica, very few expedition ships sail this way, leaving its wildlife and landscapes relatively unknown.

In South Georgia you’re guaranteed experiences that will shake you to your very core, that will inspire you and bring you to tears with its beauty. It’s by far the most incredible place I’ve ever been and I’m itching to go back already.

Is it time yet?

Book the Falklands and South Georgia today and use promo code LIZ150 for $150 onboard credit that can be used for purchases on board at the polar gift shop, or, cough cough, the bar

Have you heard of South Georgia? Do you dream of seeing the penguin colonies there too? Are you a fan of voyaging to remote places? Share!

Photo by Jarrad Seng

Photo by Jarrad Seng

Many thanks to Quark Expeditions for helping get me to South Georgia. Like always, I’m keeping it real, all opinions are my own, like you could expect less from me!

The post South Georgia is the most beautiful place on earth appeared first on Young Adventuress.

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[maewestside]

DIPSOS AND THE GIMMIES: PRESIDENT TROLL’S CLASS OF 2017…WHERE ARE THEY NOW? by heidi siegmund cuda, aka @maewestside

I remember when I had my first beer.

I also remember when I had my last. With nearly two decades sans alcohol, maybe that’s why I have clarity to recognize the maladies of the dipsomaniacs, zapoys and gimmies surrounding President Troll. Upon closer scrutiny, there’s no shortage of DWIs, drug allegations, assault charges, money-love and drinking games linked to affiliates of this current White House. Clearly, being loaded probably helps lackeys justify their lackings. Truth, being the most lacking. Me, I’m just lactose intolerant. Truly, I love everyone. 

But with the avalanche of lies spewed forth this weekend by President Troll and on Vichy MSM (which just can’t seem to get over its addiction of giving facetime to stooge$), I feel it’s helpful to stay rooted in reality and offer up sobering facts to calm one’s noives. Thus, reducing the need for the general public to imbibe, toke, sniff or pop to battle the sour ennui of witnessing a president* battle PDS (Putin Derangement Syndrome, an ailment first diagnosed by Simon Tisdall of the Guardian).

To counter the ever relentless and mutating phony narratives, here’s a roundup of the goings of some of President Troll’s erstwhile staffers and advisors. Whether they suffer from spiritual or physical maladies, may they get well soon.

SCOTT PRUITT: The former head of the Environmental Protection Agency spent the better part of the year defending the GOP’s “freedom to pollute,” (catchphrase, courtesy Paul Krugman), justifying his first class travels and cheap digs rented from a top energy lobbyist. Embroiled in myriad lawsuits, Pruitt submitted his resignation in July after multiple corruption investigations. EPA staff now have to figure out what to do with his $43k private phone booth. Washington Post reports Pruitt allegedly made only one outgoing call to the White House on his fancy phone. Score one for the “fiscal conservatives.” Alas, Pruitt will likely go down in history as the worst choice for one of the most important offices in America. 

REX TILLERSON: It seemed a good fit: an oil industry captain as Secretary of State (lol), until Tillerson went rogue by backing the British government’s findings that Russia was guilty in the nerve agent attack in the U.K. That’s when Putin’s Apprentice went full nutter and fired Tillerson…on Twitter, which is where the former Exxon CEO learned of his dismissal. Those who would like to congratulate Tillerson for calling the president* a “moron,” can find him hosting a charity ball next month, with events taking place at Billy Bob’s Texas in Fort Worth and the Fairmont Dallas.

MICHAEL FLYNN: President Obama warned Trump not to hire Flynn. The rest is tragic history. Flynn, who forever will be haunted for leading a chorus of “Lock Her Ups,” is awaiting sentencing after pleading guilty to the FBI. The shortest serving National Security Advisor, Flynn admitted he had discussed Russian sanctions with the country’s Ambassador during the transition, after it had been disclosed. Currently, the three-star lieutenant general is cooperating with Special Counsel Robert Mueller in his ongoing probe of Russia’s interference in the 2016 election.

MICHAEL COHEN: Trump’s former personal lawyer just surrendered to the FBI today and no matter how President Troll tries to spin it, it’s bleak news for Trump Inc. Cohen reached a plea agreement with prosecutors investigating payments he made to women on behalf of Trump: pleaded guilty to eight counts and said he made illegal campaign contributions "in coordination and at the direction of a candidate for federal office." Cohen's lawyer, Lanny Davis, said Cohen had "testified under oath that Donald Trump directed him to commit a crime." Wow. And a disturbing tweet from Cohen a few days before Christmas in 2015 did not age particularly well. He Tweeted: “@HillaryClinton when you go to prison for perjury, your room and board will be free!” 12/19/2015. And so, here we are. Another carny en route to the Big House.

PAUL MANAFORT: Trump’s former campaign manager is in jail for witness tampering, while awaiting a jury verdict in the first of two trials for conspiracy against the United States, making false statements, money laundering, failing to disclose lobbying efforts on behalf of foreign entities and tax fraud. To truly understand the tragedy that is the rise and fall of Paul Manafort, check out “Russia, Are You Listening” with Matt Bevan on ABC Australia: http://www.abc.net.au/radio/programs/russia-if-youre-listening/paul-manafort-the-dictators-fixer/9924894. Working with dictators of questionable integrity appears to be his sweet spot, and clearly, the money was never enough. THIS JUST IN: Jury found Manafort guilty on eight counts. Whispers of a pardon already fluttering in the air.

GARY COHN: In an effort to drain the swamp, Trump hired the president of Goldman Sachs to be his top economic advisor. Cohn, who stepped down after a year and is credited with helping to steer the massive tax cuts, reportedly resigned over Trump’s steel and aluminum tariffs, which Cohn opposed. Cohn, the former chief operating officer and president of Goldman Sachs, is currently unemployed. He was replaced by Larry Kudlow, whose well documented past with substance abuse resulted in his firing from Bear Stearns but didn’t get in the way of obtaining security clearance in the Trump administration.

STEVE BANNON: Referred to as a “parasite” in search of a host by a former Breitbart colleague in USA Today, Bannon has been on a global populist tour, acquiring facetime anywhere he can get it. The former Chief Strategist for the White House, the former executive chairman of Breitbart, the co-founder of the former Cambridge Analytica and the former husband of a third wife accused of smuggling drugs into a prison, Bannon is not exactly winning. You wouldn’t know that, however, if you tuned into MSNBC or ABC News or the New York Times or the Hill or NPR or CNBC or Newsweek etcetera over the last couple of days. Vichy MSM is falling all over itself to give the gasbag coverage. A petition is trying to ban him from stepping foot into the U.K., and billionaire Robert Mercer, who aided and abetted Bannon’s wingding aphorisms by funding the hacks of Cambridge Analytica and the spreading of hate rhetoric along the disinformation highway, is no longer bankrolling him. Although he’s been trying to find a new sponsor and continues his Leni Riefenstahl film career, he’s been publicly rejected by rightwing Euro-fascists.

ROGER STONE: The longtime friend and former advisor to the president* has indicated he is the unnamed source in Mueller’s latest indictment, and eight of his associates have now been interviewed by Robert Mueller’s team of prosecutors. Although he’s backpedaled on comments that he met with Julian Assange and had insider knowledge of the DNC hack, Stone acknowledged trading messages with Guccifer 2.0, which according to the Mueller indictment, is a front for Russian intelligence officers.

GEORGE PAPADOPOULOS: This sordid tale starts in a bar with Papadopoulos, a former foreign policy advisor to the Trump campaign. Whilst drinking in London, Papadopoulos told Alexander Downer, Australia's top diplomat to the UK, that Russia had dirt on Hillary Clinton. Papadopoulos soon thereafter struck a plea deal with Mueller's office, admitting to one count of lying to the FBI. He is now awaiting sentencing, with Mueller recommending six months.

OMAROSA MANIGAULT NEWMAN: As Sean Spicer, Anthony Scaramucci and Hope Hicks have learned, being a member of the Trump Admin isn’t exactly an enhancement on one’s resume. Manigault Newman one upped her former colleagues by going bigly. She didn’t just write a book and do the circuit, she kept receipts and is dropping them daily. I knew how much trouble America was in when moments after the 2016 Electoral College Victory Heist was announced, the Hollywood Reporter printed an “exclusive” feature on Manigault Newman’s elevator ride with Trump to accept the real fake presidency*. In the article, she threatened those who would not submit to Herr Trump, and I knew we were in for a long, ugly haul to regain the dignity of our country. Since no one who seeks redemption is beyond salvation, score one for reformed trolls everywhere.

HONORABLE MENTION:

ANDY PUZDER: I used to tell Andy I was his only friend in the media, so of course, he blocked me. Truly, I begged him not to hitch his star to the pageant guy, because I knew there was no way it would end well. He ultimately withdrew his nomination for Labor Secretary after allegations of abuse serviced, allegations he denies. A vocal supporter of Trump on the campaign trail, Puzder is now the former CEO of Carl’s Jr. and is currently promoting his latest book, “The Capitalist Comeback.” As someone who once produced and hosted a business series, the bottom line in the long run: it’s integrity that’s bankable.

***

There’s a theory that everything Trump touches turns to poo, unless Russia is picking up the tab (see Zembla docs on “The Dubious Friends of Donald Trump” for clarification). It’s understandable why a six-time bankrupt mob patsy would have allegiance to his providers de rubles, so calling former staffers ugly names and slandering our top intelligence agents is simply part of his job requirements as Putin’s Apprentice.

Yet as ugly as this divide in our country is, I am a firm believer that this too shall pass. We’ve weathered ugly before as a country, when that lame duck Buchanan was our president. Buchanan did nothing to prevent a country divided and handed over the keys to the White House to Abraham Lincoln with a shrug, leaving Lincoln to clean up his mess. It’s been awhile since the American people were tested and we were broadsided by Russia’s long game. It’s up to us now to save the republic, and I’m staying close to the truth and those who provide it.

To quote that great philosopher Winnie the Pooh from “Christopher Robin,” it appears I’ve come to the end of my thoughts.

Bottom’s up.

****

Author Heidi Siegmund Cuda is a veteran investigative reporter, screenwriter, activist and mother.