#NO JOKE THE YOUNGER TIM LOOKS LIKE ME WHEN I GOT MY FIRST HAIRCUT

[themintman]

ok I just started the new detective Pikachu and I can't fucking breathe cause my stupid little transgender brain has decided Tim is trans based on his goddamn HAIR EVOLUTION

YOUR TELLING ME THIS ISNT JUST THE REF PHOTO FOR MY FIEST MASC HAIRCUT I GAVE THE HAIRDRESSER WHN I CAME OUT VS WHAT SHE GAVE ME????

[unavenged-robin]

(Still based on DCeased&DCeased Unkillables. Spiritual sequel of this one because that's the mood, folks.)

Jason sees Damian in the Batman's costume for the first time.

-

“Don’t laugh”, Damian growls, and his voice is so much deeper than it used to be back when he was ten years old and he barely reached Jason’s chest, but it hasn't lost that particular brand of petulance that practically begs to be teased.

“I’m not laughing”, Jason lies, doing his best to keep a straight face.

Damian clicks his tongue and keeps studying the stack of paperwork in front of him in that elegantly indignant way of his.

“It’s just weird”, Jason continues after a moment, unsolicited. “You’ve got to give me that.”

“I don’t have to give you anything”, Damian answers. “My sympathy for your horrendous sense of humor least of all.”

“I didn’t say it was funny, I only said-”

“You were laughing”, Damian cuts him off, deadpan and matter-of-factly just like his dad used to be. That thought makes Jason bites the inside of his own cheek. He feels conflicted between the urge to laugh and this sadness that keeps eating at his insides.

“Maybe I was laughing a little bit”, he admits eventually. “But it’s just because it’s weird, you know, having a Batman who’s younger than me. Having a Superman who’s younger than me. I could’ve been the kindergarten teacher of half the Justice League right now. Let me laugh on it, otherwise my head will implode and you don’t want that.”

Another dismissive click of the tongue.

“That’s what you think.”

“That’s what I know, sweetheart.”

“I’m still an assassin”, Damian reminds him, almost affably. It used to be his favorite intimidation back in the days. Tim had probably heard that sentence too many times to count them.

“Nope, you’re not”, Jason laughs. “You’re the goddamn Batman now, kiddo. And that means no more assassin threats for you. You can’t afford it anymore.”

Damian stops reading Green Canary’s latest report and looks up for the first time since this whole little squabble started. The cowl is currently pulled back on his neck, his hair is so long it curls around his temples, and Jason makes a mental note to ask Alfred to arrange an impromptu haircutting session as soon as he can.

“Is that what’s bothering you?”, Damian asks, and maybe his intention was to sound aggressive, but Jason only hears the insecurity that almost breaks his voice.

“I didn-”

“Do you think that you should be the Batman?”, Damian continues in one quick breath, as if he believed that if he slowed his words down too much, they wouldn't come out of his mouth, and it’s obviously not a spur-of-the-moment thought that one, but something he’s probably mulled over since the very first moment he’s discovered Jason was alive.

And yet, he doesn't say it out of anger, he doesn't sound bitter, he doesn't even sound mad, but almost... hopeful? Yes, that’s what knocks the wind out of Jason: the idea of Damian actually asking him to take the cape and the cowl from his hands.

“No”, he refuses immediately, without even thinking. “My sweet lord, no. I can not be Batman.”

“Why not?”, Damian insists. “You wanted it, once.”

“I was crazy once. I was also dead once. And an Outlaw. And a killer. And a lot of awful things we don’t need to list right now”, Jason retorts. “Point is, I’m not good Batman material. But kid, if you don’t want to be Batman either, no one can force the responsibility on you, not even Bruce or - god forbid such thing from existing - his ghost.”

Damian shakes his head and leans back on his chair, looking exhausted.

“It’s not that.”

“Then what?”

“You are… older.”

Jason snorts.

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“You were Robin before me”, Damian adds.

Jason feels conflicted again. Once upon a time, he would’ve snapped, insulted Damian, and left the room slamming the door behind him. He would’ve disappeared for at least a couple of weeks, just to show up some time later and act like nothing had happened. Once upon a time, he could’ve afforded all of that. Now he can’t.

“Not all Robins want to be Batman, Damian”, he answers after a moment, because that’s all he can offer to the kid: white lies, and a shoulder to cry on. That’s all he’s good for, now.

Damian looks away from him and doesn’t comment. For a moment Jason wonders if maybe even Damian - the little assassin specifically bred for the job, the proud heir of the Wayne’s bloodline, Bruce’s one and only biological son - had dreamt of something different. It’s weird to even think about it, but.

“Good”, Damian announces.

“Good?”

“You would make an awful Batman.”

Jason laughs, and briefly considers the idea of walking over to the desk to give the kid a hug. In the end he decides against it. Damian may be the new Batman, but Jason’s not so sure he's given up his habit of carrying knives everywhere.

“On that we agree”, he answers simply.

He allows a few minutes to pass, then he clears his throat. He could leave it at that, with a shared laugh and a silent confirmation of support. But this is a brave new world, and they both deserve a little more than that, at this point.

“You will not”, he adds then, and Damian, who was just getting back to his papers, looks up at him again.

“You will be a great Batman. You already are”, Jason clarifies. “Bruce would be proud of you. And Dick too. Tim would probably have some smart remark about gnome-sized costumes, but he would be also very proud of what you’ve become.”

In spite of his lame humor attempt, he spots a watery gleam in the kid's eyes, so he hurries on before his courage fails him.

“And I am too. Just so you know it”, he concludes, looking at his own hands.

He pretends not to hear Damian swallowing back a few times. It’s not his business. Beside, if they start crying Cassandra and Alfred will hear them, and that wouldn’t be good.

“Okay”, Damian manages to say, and he almost succeeds in keeping his voice even. “Thanks.”

“Hey, what are estranged older brother for, right?”, Jason jokes.

Damian nods stiffly, then pulls the cowl back on his face.

Jason can’t say he blames him.

“You do look funny, though”, he says instead, and when Damian throws a knife at him he feels almost relieved.

[fishfingersandjellybabies]

Abandoned - fic

Characters: Jason Todd, Ric Grayson, bits of Tim, Cass and Damian Summary: Ric was an only child. A man named Jay decided to remind him that, in another life, he wasn’t. A/N: Reminder Ric Grayson is one of the worst things to ever exist and the fact that they completely ignored what would happen with those really close relationships he had with his siblings is a bunch of bullshit. So here’s Jason word-vomiting for me. I wrote this in one go in the middle of the night. Sorry it’s garbage. The batkids were driving back to Gotham from some top secret mission and shit probably.

~~

Ric frowned as he stepped out of the bar. There was a car blocking his cab in the alleyway.

And that in itself wasn’t a problem, not really. Had happened before. What made it worse was that there was a man in a leather jacket standing nearby, leaning on a light pole, puffing away at a cigarette. Ric didn’t know why, but he had an intense feeling the man was the car’s owner, and that this little blockade was on purpose.

Ric huffed, shoving his hands in his pocket as he began to stomp closer. He didn’t really want to fight one of the fine folks of Bludhaven today, but would if he had to. He had fares to find and bills to pay, and this guy looked like one of those smarmy assholes who would drag out a stupid argument just out of spite.

As he got closer, the man glanced over, a sharp grin flashing onto his face in recognition. He popped the cigarette into his mouth and pushed off the streetlamp, fixing in his jacket. While he did so, Ric caught a glimpse of scars, violent looking ones, and even a few wounds still in the process of healing.

Ric blinked, and his stomach dropped in frustration.

One of them.

“Bruce Wayne sent another one of you, huh?” He snapped before thinking too much about it. The man snorted a laugh, running his fingers through his hair. Ric took note of the white streak near his bangs.

“Nah. If he knew I was here, he’d kill me actually.” A drag of the cigarette. “Again.”

Ric stopped in front of him, waiting.

“Ah, yeah. Sorry. Amnesia.” The man exhaled smoke right into Ric’s face. “You wouldn’t get the joke.”

“Doesn’t sound like it’d be funny even if I did.” Ric countered easily. “Mind telling me why you blocked my cab?”

The man shrugged. “Wanted to talk.”

Ric groaned, glancing to the skies. “Look, I’ll tell you the same thing I told that Barbara woman. I’m sorry I don’t remember whatever relationships we had before, but I don’t want to come back to Goth-”

“I don’t give a shit about all that. Don’t come back, I don’t care. It’s your life.” The man cut off. “That’s not what I wanted to talk about.”

“…Oh.” Ric pursed his lips, looking around. “Then what do you want?”

“I want to talk about…” The man seemed to think over his words. “What you else left behind.” Suddenly he gestured his arm towards his own car, directing Ric to look for himself. “I want to talk about them.”

Ric glanced over and realized that the man’s car wasn’t empty. There were three people inside, three kids by the look of it. Two in the back and one in the front.

The teenagers in the back could have been twins from where he was standing. Both with black hair and pale skin. Petite. The girl’s hair was longer, almost to her shoulders, but the boy could have used a haircut himself too. The girl smiled and pointed to something on the phone the boy was holding between them. The boy laughed too.

In the front passenger seat was a younger boy. He was also consumed by the phone in his hands, headphones shoved into his ears and sweatshirt hood over his head. His knees were curled up to his chest, and he looked like he was hugging himself.

He looked…sad.

Not that the two in the back looked any better. They looked tired. More tired than a couple of teenagers should. Concerningly tired.

Ric looked back to the man. “Who are they?” And almost an after thought: “Who are you?”

“…You used to call me Jay sometimes. So let’s go with that.” Jay said absently. “And they…are your siblings.”

Ric was already shaking his head as he looked back. The three in the car didn’t seem to notice them. “I don’t have any brothers and sisters. I’m an only child.”

“By blood, yeah. By found family…you’re the oldest of five. Legally too, technically.”

Ric looked back. “Five? There’s only three kids in that car.”

Jay pointed to himself. “You were also kiddo’s legal guardian for a few years, too. But that’s less important in the long run I guess. Kind of.”

Ric’s stomach was churning now. “Okay, so Bruce Wayne had a bunch of kids besides me. So what?”

“So…that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Jay took another sharp inhale of his cigarette, seemingly steeling himself. Thinking. “Because Bruce is one thing. The secret cave and what we did down there is one thing. Don’t want to come back to that? Fine. Be as big an asshole as you want about it. I don’t care. No one does. Nightwing was a beloved hero around the world, but if it came down to the world having Nightwing or having Dick…Richard Grayson safe, not a single person would pick the former. Besides, heroes retire. Heroes quit. Heroes become bad guys. No big thing. It was wrong of Bruce and Barbara and whoever else to try to force you back into a role you didn’t remember.”

Ric waited.

“That’s one thing.” Jay repeated, and suddenly his voice was angry behind the cigarette. “But abandoning those kids is another.”

A moment to let that sink in.

“And sure, at first I thought I’d come here and say abandoning the people who love you was really shitty, but you know? A lot of people fucking love you and I don’t care about a single one of them.”

He pointed towards the car.

“But them? They adored you. Still do frankly. Especially kiddo.” Jay emphasized his point by jabbing his finger forward again. “You saved his life. You saved all their lives in one way or another. And even more than that – you loved them when it kinda seemed like no one else would. You gave a shit when not even Bruce did.”

Jay dropped his cigarette back between his fingers. Exhaled, and it was shaky. Upset.

“And I get it, I do. Leaving Batman? Easy. Leaving Bruce? Honestly, even easier. It’s not a life any of us should have or want and…you got out. Yeah, it was through getting shot in the head and forgetting everything, but. You got out.” Jay waved it off. “But what I have a problem with is that you left them and you don’t even care.”

“Because I don’t know them.” Ric countered, feeling his own emotions bubbling up. “How can I care about someone I don’t know?”

“Literally, you did all the fucking time!” Jay hissed. It seemed like he wanted to shout, but instantly turned it to a whisper. He glanced nervously at the car, and Ric realized – the kids didn’t notice them because Jason didn’t want them to. He didn’t want them to see Ric, or hear this conversation. “It was what made you…you. What made you special. Because it didn’t matter who it was or what they’d done. Even if you didn’t know someone’s name, you cared.”

Ric just stared. “I’m not that person anymore.”

“And I’m suspicious about that, because I’m pretty sure amnesia doesn’t change who you are as a core person, and Dick Grayson was no fake when it came to his heart, but that’s not what’s important here.” Jason snapped. The cigarette was close to burning his hand and he dropped his, squishing it under his heel. Immediately he pulled another pack from his pocket, along with a lighter. He shoved the stick into his mouth and lit it. “Because, okay, I can even forgive you not caring about some of the people around you when you woke up. Bruce, Barbara, even Alfred, maybe. Me.”

He paused, to inhale. Then exhaled the smoke, but into the sky this time.

“But they’re just kids.” Jay whispered, looking at Dick with some of the most pained eyes he’d ever seen. “What happened wasn’t their fault, wasn’t their choice. Trust me, if it was, that asshole in the front seat would have taken that bullet for you in a heartbeat, a goddamn thirteen year old.”

Ric let his hands in his pocket roll into fists.

“But this wasn’t their fault, and they’re the ones suffering the most here. Because, yeah, you’re not Dick Grayson, and you’ve made that clear. You’ve made it very clear you want no association with how the old you was, or anything he did. But they’re a bunch of fucking kids who have to convince themselves that their older brother is dead and gone and never coming back, but watch you be alive and well down here in fucking Bludhaven anyway.”

Ric found his gaze slowly drifting back to the car. The girl in the backseat had taken the phone now, the boy next to her leaning on her shoulder with his eyes closed. The little boy in the front hadn’t moved.

“And I take back what I said earlier. You being his legal guardian is important. Because you were like his dad, then. His motherfucking dad. You remember losing your dad. Imagine how it is for him to be forgotten and abandoned by his, while he’s still around out there enjoying his life?” Jay spit. “And Tim – you were there when his dad was murdered. When his best friend was. His girlfriend. One of the only ones there for him. You were there for Cass when she didn’t even know how to fucking speak. When she had no one but some parents who wanted to kill her. It was years ago, but how do you think they both feel now? How do you think they’re coping?”

“So what, are you saying this whole mess is my fault?” Ric snapped back. “It’s my fault I got shot and lost my whole life?”

“No. It’s not your fault what happened to you. But it is your fault how you reacted to it.” Jay answered coldly. “Avoid your old job. Avoid the people harassing you and trying to force you to remember something you can’t. But those three did nothing to you. They’re children. And you abandoned them without even giving them a damn chance. Without even attempting to start over with them or let them try.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Ric demanded. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Nothing. I don’t want you to do a damn thing.” Jay shrugged. “I just wanted you to know.”

“Why?”

“So you know what you’re missing out on, being a stubborn piece of garbage who refuses to even acknowledge the people of his past, let alone interact with them.” Jay took a long inhale, and Ric watched the cigarette slowly turn to ash. “They’re good kids, Ric. Good kids you helped make. And now you’re mocking them with your mere existence and man. It just sucks.”

“And what am I supposed to do about it?”

“Like I said �� nothing. Just wanted you to know. Barbara came down here and said her peace, so I figured I should be allowed to say mine.” He dropped the remainder of his cigarette and snuffed it out. “You mind going to your car first? I’m sure you’ve picked up on it right now, but I don’t want the babies to see you if I can help it. You’re still a bit of a raw wound for them, if you didn’t catch that.”

Ric stared at him for a moment. “…Tell the kids I’m sorry, if the conversation ever comes up.”

Jay shrugged. “I would if I thought you meant it, Ric. After all, Dick made it a point to not lie to them, if he could help it.”

Ric grit his teeth and turned towards his car without another word, making sure to keep his face in the shadows as he passed the windows of Jay’s car. None of the occupants even glanced up.

“Good luck with those memories and shit.” Jay called after him. Ric didn’t respond, and slammed his door a little harder than he meant to after he dropped into the car. He started his engine and rolled down his window, listening.

Jay was whistling as he walked back to the car, and jerked open his own driver side door.

“What took so long?” A young voice whined. Ric glanced into his rearview mirror to see it was the boy in the front seat. He hadn’t looked up from his phone. “I didn’t think destroying your lungs with cigarettes was an extended affair.”

“Was watching some old men down the street fight over a chess match.” Jay seemed to say nonchalantly. “Also had more than one cig. Excuse me if I don’t want to waste my supply, and enjoy the moment.”

The boy’s answer was cut off as Jay got into the car and shut the door. Ric listened as his engine started, and watched as they pulled away, freeing him from his temporary prison.

He threw his cab in reverse, dropping out of the alley and onto the road. He shifted to drive, and took off, ironically, the same way Jay and his crew went. In fact, they were at a light just down the block, waiting for it to turn green.

And Ric found himself frozen, blocking both lanes with his car, because the girl – Cass, he’d called her – was staring out her back window, directly at him.

When she’d caught his eye, she simply smiled, though it was clearly sad, and gave him a single wave.

Then the light turned, and Dick Grayson’s siblings disappeared around the corner.

[theliterateape]

Cleaning Toilets on Grave Yard Shift is a Trip, Man

by Don Hall

As a freshman in college (way back in 1980), I knew living at home was not going to work for me. Part of it was that my stepfather (at the time) flat out told me he would pay for my way if I majored in criminal law and I wanted to major in music. I had a scholarship for the tuition but needed to make some bread to pay for a place to squat when not practicing my trumpet and studying music theory.

A friend of a friend recommended a gig working nights (midnight to 9:00a.m.) on a cleaning crew for a few of Wichita’s more prominent restaurant/bars. It paid well and it fit my schedule, so I bit.

I met the Boss at midnight at the local Chi-Chi’s. Having worked as a waiter there for exactly three hours, I knew the location. I walked in and he sized me up. Can’t remember his name but I recall that he looked hard. You know the guy — pot belly as hard as a rock, a permanent five o’clock shadow, a shock of wirey hair poking out of a weathered ball cap.

He handed me a pair of enormous hard rubber gloves and we walked back to the kitchen. “Turn it on and power wash the place.” He growled as he passed over a thick black hose with a nozzle.

“Power wash?”

“The water is frigging hot as hell so don’t get it on you if you can help it. Spray everything. There are drains on the floor so don’t worry about that. They’re supposed to put away the pans and cooking stuff but if they didn’t...” and he grabbed the hose back, took aim at a metal bowl half-filled with dried up refried beans and cockroaches, and blasted it across the room. “...target practice.” And he cackled like he’d told a dirty joke about a whore and a priest.

There was a checklist beyond target practice. The floors of the entire place. Carpets. Bathrooms. We didn’t do the windows but we did disinfect the surfaces and table tops.

He and I cleaned four bars that night. I was handed a weekly schedule. I never saw the Boss again.

On my next scheduled shift, after a day of classes, rehearsals, and four hours of sleep, I met the crew. This time we started at Joe Kelly’s Oyster Dock. It was a fish place (duh) with a huge circular bar in the middle and a hard wood floor made with huge planks of aged wood. The crew were two other guys, both about a decade my senior. 

Duffy wore lots of black leather. He had a dark blue Mohawk and had a fifteen inch knife strapped to his left leg. He rode a motorcycle and wore mirrored sunglasses even in the dim recesses of the restaurant. He also was a frothing Born Again Pentecostal Christian.

Tim was a classic burnout. Think Jeff Bridges in The Big Lewbowski but without the charm. He’d done a lot of drugs in his younger years and it showed in his perpetually stoned demeanor and vacant stares. That night, he told me his favorite job he’d ever had was as the manager of The Circle Cinema, Wichita’s since closed down porn theater. He loved that gig but got fired for being caught getting a hand job by a sixteen year old girl.

Now, being eighteen years young, I can’t say I was the brightest bulb in the lamp but my wattage outshone these two retards like a lighthouse lamp eclipses a Christmas Tree strand.

Within a week, Tim handed me a note from the Boss. Scrawled in black pen and in all caps, it read: YOU ARE NOW THE CREW SUPERVISOR. EXTRA $3.00 HOUR. YOUR (sic) IN CHARGE. Neither Duffy nor Tim cared much. They weren’t big thinkers so having the college kid tell them what to clean and in what order wasn’t a problem.

Of the two, Duffy was the more focused. All I had to do was give him the order (“Do the floors, disinfect the bar, hit the kitchen.”) and aside from him jawing on and on about Jesus and Christian Rock all night, I never worried about him.

Tim, on the other hand, was like working with a child. Almost every night, I had to talk him through the order of cleaning the floors (“First sweep. Then vacuum. Then wet mop. Then dry mop. Then buff.”) The guy was just barely there on most nights and spent long smoke breaks at the bar in between each step. “Which one now?” he’d ask in between drags on his Winston Lights.

Neither of them would clean the bathrooms. Ever. That was the only area that my Supervisor authority ran dry. Any time I’d even suggest that Duffy do the bathrooms he’d go into a full-on rant/whine about it. Tim just ignored me when I’d task it to him. So, the bathrooms were almost always my domain.

Here’s a bit of knowledge to dole out. Drunk men are juvenile. They piss on stuff. They piss on the floor around the urinals. They piss on the toilet. They piss on full rolls of toilet paper. Like Storm Troopers in Star Wars, their aim is for shit.

Drunk women on the other side are monsters. Filthy and almost angry in the bathroom. Shit smeared on the walls. Used tampons stuck to the floor. Half-empty glasses left in the corners covered in lipstick. Half-eaten food on the sinks. 

I don’t know if when half-cocked on Long Island Ice Teas the longstanding rage at being paid less and treated like a pair of tits on legs seeps out like a poisonous sweat, but going into any women’s restroom after a Friday or Saturday night of business was like entering the threshold to hell.

I found my rhythm, working the grave yard shift and going to classes during the day. I didn’t sleep much but I was eighteen and had more energy than a weasel on crack so that never seemed a problem. Duffy and Tim were both odd founts of random knowledge and they’d tell me stories of women they’d been with, of other jobs they had, and conspiracy theories about Iran and Russia and mind control via the television.

There was the time Duffy spent an entire shift on target practice and grabbing crock ware bowls filled with roaches and microwaving them. There was the night Tim forgot about his cigarette and caught a vintage Coke sign on fire in Willy C’s Cafe.

And then there was Walter.

Walter was a skinny-as-a-matchstick kid (actually he was five years older than me) with a pompadour haircut and out of his tiny body came the voice of James Earl Jones. It was a dissonance to hear him talk with this booming gravitas and then see the pipsqueak dude uttering the sound. He was also a fantastic actor. I knew Walter from my regular casting in Wichita’s Shakespeare in the Parks and, when he was looking for work, I hooked him up.

Now there were four of us and we could hit two bars at the same time. I always paired up Duffy and Tim because regardless of the work, Walter and I had grand, sweeping conversations about theater, art, movies, and music. We also both really like to prank each other.

Walter’s pranks came in the form of phone calls and plastic vomit. It was as if he spent a lot of time at a Spencer’s Gifts and just couldn’t get enough. My pranks were mean. I was gifted my sense of humor from my grandfather who was known for tricking his son into believing he was deaf by talking to him for hours without making a sound and taught his grandson to try to catch rocks with his head.

One night as I’m buffing the floor in one of the restaurants and Walter is on bathrooms, Walter comes out from the women’s. His face is as pale as a sheet of paper and he looks mortified. I shut down the buffer.

“D-Don. I can’t. I mean, I just can’t...”

“What is it, dude? What’s going on?”

“There’s a...it’s in the toilet...there’s a fetus in the toilet...”

“A fetus? Like an aborted fetus?”

“Yeah...”

“Oh, fuck. OK. Why don’t you buff and I’ll go check it out.”

The relief on his face was visceral.

Sure enough, when I take a look in the third stall, there is what appears to be a curled up, pink fetus floating in the bowl. I’m a bit horrified until I notice the tail. A long thin tail one might see on a...oh. Apparently, this rat has been in the sewer system and the water has gradually peeled off every strand of fur, leaving nothing less than a curled up, pink dead rat in the toilet.

And, yes. I’m a a horrible asshole.

I’m a bastard because I put on my rubber gloves, picked the rat up by it’s tail, put it behind my back, and walk out to Walter. I feign horror. I make my lower lip tremble. He shuts off the buffer.

“Was it...?”

“Yeah. A fetus. A dead baby in the toilet.”

“Oh my god. Oh my god.”

“I think it’s a boy fetus. How about you CHECK!” and I hurl the rat at Walter. It hits him square on his skinny chest and he lets out a high-pitched scream so alien to his deep vocal stylings that it creates another sort of disconnect. He squeals a second time, like a tea kettle or an actress in a Jason Voorhees movie. His eyes roll back into his skull and he drops like a sack of flour onto the floor.

I laugh so hard I feel like I might go blind or have a stroke.

Walter quit that night. I cleaned the rest of the place myself. A week or so later, I caught up with him at Shakespeare rehearsal. I offer my apologies but a few others want to know why. And, in his booming voice, he tells the tale of the fetus with epic flair and manages to recreate his screech to boot. When he was finished, we all applauded him and he took a bow.

I worked this crew for a full year before transferring schools to another state (better scholarship with a good high school friend in the marching band). It’s funny how my memories of this graveyard shift gig eclipses my memories of my first two years of college but isn’t that the fun thing about the narrative of our lives?