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stageyrebecca · 9 months ago

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London's £150 theatre ticket problem

Recently, Andrew Scott spoke up about the £150 theatre tickets that are on sale across West End shows. I mean, apart from glaring inaccuracies in the article ("Tickets for Plaza Suite, which stars husband and wife Matthew Broderick and Sarah Jessica Parker, cost from £125 to £395." is just untrue - unless when I paid £35 for my ticket, I somehow spent £125...), statements like this are simply misleading. And in my opinion, actually do more harm to the public's perception of theatre than good.

This is not defending £150 theatre tickets - the pricing of which is a whole other discussion. It's that £150 is practically never the average price of a ticket, practically never the price that most tickets are for one performance of 600+ seats and according to The Stage's report, just slightly above the average MOST expensive ticket.

The average cheapest theatre cost in the West End is around the £25 mark, according to SOLT. I'm not one to decide whether £25 is affordable, accessible or whatever. But £25 for a West End show, one that is deemed by the public at large to be the best quality in the world on par with Broadway, seems reasonable to me.

Celebrities and other major names saying that tickets are £150 is harmful for many reasons. One being that reading hot statements like that, from the average non-theatregoing joe public member's point of view, may reinforce the idea that theatre is not for them. That theatre is too expensive.

But a gentle reminder that the West End is not the only theatre you can attend is rarely mentioned. Across the UK, there are 100s of theatres putting on full programmes of productions throughout the year. And most of their ticket prices don't even graze three figures.

It's the public's perception that the West End is high-quality (not always), the West End is the best theatre that can be produced (not always) and that anything that isn't in London, and specifically the 39 West End theatres, must be made by amateurs and wannabe theatremakers.

Under 30s, for example, at Chichester Festival Theatre can enjoy £5 tickets across all their productions throughout the year. Theatre Royal Bath's tickets range from £9 to £60. Bristol Old Vic's tickets rarely exceed £60. Here, I've listed you three producing (and receiving) houses who have shows that regularly, with high regard, transfer to the West End. That place where, once it hits those theatres, it is suddenly of high quality. It's suddenly recognised.

And even then, it's worth reminding ourselves, despite The Guardian's article, that £150 for a show in London is not normal. And that's not even mentioning places in London like the Royal Court who have cheap tickets, and develop high quality shows. Or the Lyric Hammersmith. Or the Bush Theatre. Or Southwark Playhouse. There's so many options to experience theatre at a fraction of the price, and receive high quality entertainment.

Even for shows with big celebs £150 is not the only option. There are times when it's often the only price band left, sure. But that's the unfortunate repercussions of shows with big celebs - they attract crowds who purchase the cheaper tickets faster.

Maybe we should start questioning actors and producers who select to do high profile shows in London, where rates and stakes are higher rather than grassroots theatres across the country. We know that X famous actor in Y show in Z London theatre will have extortionate tickets. That's less likely to happen in a producing house across the country.

Why don't we start questioning the intention of the production? Ultimately theatre is a business, and that's why. The rest of London relies on theatregoers - much like the towns & cities other theatres are located in - but remove Matt Smith, David Tennant, Tom Holland and everyone else in major West End shows and there's a knock-on effect elsewhere. But no one does ever seem to ask "why does this have to be produced in London?".

Anyway, there are cheaper tickets available in the West End. And that's just an unfortunate fact some clickbait-led folks will just have to accept.

Sure, saying "actually there are cheaper tickets available" (even in the West End) doesn't make the news, doesn't get clicks and certainly doesn't drum up engagement.

I also really can't be bothered to get into "it's only the shit seats that are cheap" because you and I both know you're only kidding yourselves at this point. It's been proven untrue so many times. I also don't want to nod to rush ticket and on the day lotteries because as someone based regionally, I know this just isn't an acceptable way to purchase tickets for most of the country.

But I think it's probably worth noting, for the future of theatregoers, the future of our 16-25 year olds that Andrew Scott mentions, and the future of theatre at large, that £150 is by no means the average ticket price, the expected ticket price or the only option.

#theatre #london theatre #musical theatre #andrew scott

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paveworld · 10 months ago

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aghotel · 1 year ago

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Hotel price for an overnight stay near Manchester Airport

When planning a trip, one crucial aspect to consider is finding suitable accommodation. Manchester Airport is one of the busiest airports in the UK and with such a high volume of travellers passing through, finding a comfortable and affordable place to stay near the airport is essential. The good news is that there are plenty of hotels in the area for an overnight stay near Manchester Airport. In this blog, we will look at some of the hotel options available, along with their pricing details.

4-star hotels near Manchester Airport and pricing

Radisson Blu: It is conveniently located directly opposite Terminal 2. It is a wonderful choice for travellers who want to be as close to the airport as possible. The price starts from £120 for a one-night stay. DoubleTree by Hilton: It offers a comfortable stay with easy access to all terminals. It’s a good option for travellers who want to be within the airport complex. The price starts from £100 for a one-night stay. Pinewood Hotel: A good option for travellers who want to be close to the airport but prefer a quieter location. Located in Handforth, the hotel is just a 5-minute drive from Manchester Airport with close connectivity to the M6, M56 and M60. The price starts from £80 for a one-night stay. Crowne Plaza: It offers a comfortable stay with a shuttle service to and from the airport terminals. The hotel is a good option for travellers who want to stay within easy reach of the airport. The pricing starts from £95 for a one-night stay. Hotels with free parking

Parking can often be a concern for travellers, especially those flying out of Manchester Airport. By choosing a hotel with free parking, you can save on additional expenses and have peace of mind knowing your vehicle is secure while you are away. Some hotels like Pinewood Hotel also offer a park & fly package that includes overnight accommodation, on-site parking, private transfer to and from Manchester airport, and free guest passes to local leisure facilities. To support guests with electric or hybrid vehicles, the hotel has installed Pay as You Charge car charging stations in the main car park.

In conclusion, the cost of a one-night stay near Manchester Airport varies depending on the location and the hotel’s star rating. Whether you are looking for a park & fly package, an excellent restaurant & bar, or a convenient location, there is something to suit everyone’s needs and budget. By staying closer to the airport, you can ensure to reach the airport terminal within minutes, even during peak travel times. This is particularly advantageous for early-morning or late-night flights when time is of the essence.

Pinewood Hotel

Pinewood Hotel is an excellent choice if you are looking to book an overnight stay near Manchester Airport. With its free parking, convenient location, comfortable rooms and leisure amenities, it provides a seamless and enjoyable experience for guests. Whether you are embarking on a business trip or planning a leisurely getaway, booking your stay at Pinewood ensures a restful stay before or after your journey, making it an ideal choice near Manchester Airport. Learn more: www.aghotels.co.uk/pinewood-hotel

#luxury hotel #accomodation #4 star hotel in manchester #hotels and resorts #hotellife #hotel

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c-40 · 2 years ago

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A-T-3 040 Public Image Limited - This Is Not A Love Song

It's not a love song. From satire to reality. John Lydon takes the persona of what he will become

"I'm crossing over into E-enter-prize"

PiL frontman and national treasure Lydon is now a conservative rent-a-gob, I'm A Celeb contestant, LA-based property developer (at least up to the time of the financial crash they caused) that publicly supports Trump, Brexit, and at the time of the queens death (the time better suited than any other time to have a conversation about living in a monarchy) becomes a royalist. He's not short of a few quid as well as his own enterprise Lydon married an heir to German publishing giant Der Spiegel in the late 1970s

In recent years Lydon aligning himself with with the "white disenfranchised" ill informed truth tellers opposed to the political establishment, working class people that are seeing social inequality rising for them and their neighbourhoods getting poorer, sounds like a good fit but Lydon is not singing a love song to these people

"And I have a new goal I'm changing my ways where money applies"

One of the problems with populism and the "white backlash" seen in Trump and Brexit is it enriches a minority of already rich people, Trump and his cronies, Jacob Rees-Mogg (who Lydon thinks would make a fine PM), Nigel Farage. Me and you don't get a whiff of it. I can't speak for you but unlike me John Lydon is very wealthy and likes the sound of low taxes Trump promises for him and Ice Cube! The theme of This Is Not A Love Song was popular in the Thatcher/Reagan era, where we see the rock hippies of the 60s and 70s get haircuts and putting on Armani suits. A few years later Peter Gabriel will make Big Time, Will Powers invokes LA new-age gurus, self help and pop psychology in Adventures In Success the same year as This Is Not A Love Song. Lydon's story is somebody at the record label asked or commented on him writing a nice commercial love song. Now anyone with any sense knows love songs aren't John Lydon's USP, songs like This Is Not A Love Song are and it was PiL's biggest commercial success, reaching number 5 on the UK singles chart and 3 in Ireland

The Video was shot in front of the Century City Plaza Towers in LA, USA

youtube

#1983 #public image limited #public image ltd #john lydon #new wave #london #england #uk #80s music #Youtube

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certifiedskywalker · 3 years ago

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London Bridge - Peter Parker

You’re far from home, yet you have never felt more safe, more loved.

London’s weather had been the main topic of conversation since you and the rest of the Midtown School of Science and Technology field trip group arrived in the city. Flash, who boasted about visiting the UK before, lamented about it’s chronically grey skies and puddled-packed sidewalks. He also complained about the staple London tourist traps while you and Peter whispered about sneaking out for a night to yourselves.

You planned on leaving your hotel rooms after curfew to buy whatever British snacks you found at the nearby convenience shop and have a picnic in the small plaza down the road. It would have been your first official date since you both returned from the ashes Thanos left behind. Of course you had seen each other, after Peter finished saving the world with the Avengers, but not like you did before. There was a new sadness about Peter, an anxiety that you hoped to ease with some sense of normalcy. A picnic was normal, and a good plan. However, it was a plan left unfulfilled, lost in the grey that surrounded you as you darted past abandoned cars. This dreary gloom had nothing to do with London’s weather or signature rain. It was ash and debris that fell around you now. It was ash and debris that coated your throat with every nervous breath.

Where was he? You lost sight of Peter when you ran with MJ, Ned, and Flash. He was a blur of red and black against the dulled blue sky. You would never get used to the sight of Peter in his suit, in action. Your best friend since preschool was Spiderman. If it weren’t for the smoke and danger you were pushing through, you would have smiled at the thought, but panic flooded over your shoulders. Crash after crash, waves that winded you as you bounded across Tower Bridge.

Some selfish part of you wished that you and Peter snuck out anyway. Wished that Peter ignored the threat, let the Avengers, those who were left, take care of whatever impending doom swarmed about the city. Then, you could have spent today tucked under his arm on a double-decker tour bus, listening to a guide detail the history of English architecture. Then, you and Peter could pretend the Blip never happened, that loss was far away, left behind in another country. But Peter’s heart was too good to leave a vile thing lie. That was why you searched for him, scanned the steel suspension chains and hangers for any sign of a web-slinging super.

You nearly called out to him, used his name. Even when he was Spiderman, he was still your Peter. You had to bite your tongue to keep from shouting, from exposing his identity. Though the silence of the dilapidated bridge was becoming too much to bear. Searing, fresh fear surged through your bones as you continued your trek across Flash’s despised tourist trap.

Desperation made your chest ache with some wild pain. You couldn’t lose him, not like this. Not so soon after coming back to each other. Tears slipped down your cheeks at the idea of Peter being gone. How would you tell May? How would you…

You couldn’t finish the thought, your heart wouldn’t let you. Instead, it spurred you forward. Carefully, you walked around a car that crashed into the upturned rumble. One of the pieces of scattered pavement tripped up your foot.

“Shit!” You hissed as you caught yourself.

When you freed your dust-covered shoe from the crumbling stone, you turned right back around, towards the opposite, smoke-shrouded end of the bridge. Your eyes studied the smog, stared straight done the darker center. Then, the darkness grew thinner and thinner and thinner until only trailing wisps surrounded the emerging figure. Limping, bloodied, and bruised, a boy stumbled out of the grey haze and knocked the air from your lungs. He looked like an ashen angel, hair all in matted curls as he stepped out into the rays of sunlight that splintered through the debris. It was then you saw the familiar stretches of red and black fabric clinging to muscled limbs. “Peter,” you whispered, soft enough so that, if there was anyone still stranded on the bridge, no one else could hear. Peter could though, with his enhanced senses reaching out towards you. You saw the boy nod and that was all the confirmation you needed.

In a burst of sudden speed, you rushed towards Peter. The gap closed as he tried his best to meet you in the middle. Though, whatever injury that caused his limp limited him. Not that it mattered to you as you pushed yourself to go faster, to wake yourself from the nightmare of grey.

As soon as he was within reach, you wrapped your arms over his shoulders. You heard a small gasp of pain and pulled away slightly, to look into his eyes, read for severity. “Sorry, what’s hurt-” “No, no, c’mere,” Peter murmured, pulling you right back into his embrace. You were too relieved and overwhelmed to fight back. So, instead, you buried your face in the crook of Peter’s neck and held onto him as tightly as you could. He smelled of sweat and blood and deodorant, that pine-scented, travel-sized Old Spice stick you campaigned against when you both went shopping for this trip.

Now, you loved the smell as it stuck out from the cement dust and copper tang of blood. It was normal, it was Peter.

“We should’ve snuck out,” you whimpered against the skin of his neck. “Gone on our picnic.” Peter nodded, pressing the side of his head to yours. “Y-Yeah,” he breathed, “yeah maybe we should’ve.”

Slowly, you pried yourself from Peter’s frame and looked into his eyes once more. Darkness was gathered under his eyes, though you weren’t sure if it was a bruise or tiredness. With trembling fingers, you gently brushed some of the gathered grime from his face. He winced only slightly, a sharp intake of breath before he leaned into your touch.

His skin was warm against your palm as you moved to cup his jaw. You stared into his eyes for a moment before you glanced along his features. Cuts and swelled bumps covered him. But he was there, alive and standing before you.

“You look terrible,” you teased through the small tears of relief. You felt Peter’s hands slip from your waist as he wiped the drops off your cheeks. The gloved pads of his thumbs rubbed gently against your skin and you held his gaze. There was a furrow in his brow that told you he had something he wanted to say. You waited for an equally teasing retort, a ‘well, I did save us so’ or a ‘you’re covered in dust’, but nothing of the sort fell from Peter’s lips. He merely pulled you close. Chests flush and wonderfully close, Peter ducked his head down and captured you in a kiss.

Since the Blip, you and Peter had been close but not like you had been before. That kiss on Tower Bridge, hidden in the grey of London, finally closed the gap. Even when you pulled away to catch your breath, it felt as if you had never parted from Peter at all.

“I love you,” he said, his eyes still closed as you both recovered from the kiss. A smile crept up on your lips at the three words. You traced your fingertips along Peter’s jaw, enticement enough to coax his eyes open. “I know...” Peter let out a soft, breathy chuckle before you could continue. “Just like in Star Wars.” “I-I,” you shook your head as the last of your tears slipped down your cheeks. “Why...why are you like this?”

“Gotta have a sense of humor if I look terrible,” he replied, wiping at your tears once more.

“You only look terrible right now,” you clarified with a soft smile. Peter returned the expression and his eyes flicked from your gaze to your lips then back again. “I love you too.” Peter’s smile widened at your words and, like the sunlight, cut through the grey of the battle-weary city. Before you could be blinded by his brightness, he leaned down and kissed you again.

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years ago

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Two Fathers

More writing stuff. Not sure how far I was going to take this since no one is really interested.

The Netherlands

The roar of the crowd thundered over into the bright blue sky over the soccer stadium. Dominic was so high up in the stands that the players looked like tiny puppets running about the green pitch, following the rolling white ball and sprinting after it in white and blue jerseys. The match was 0 and 0 for the entire game. The goalies on both sides were too good. Neither team could slip in and score no matter how they tried. The sun was beating down on the exhausted crowd who was ready for anyone to score at this point.

Dominic wiped his face on his shirt. Locally, he and his father were supposed to be rooting for the blue team. Not the white, but he really didn’t care. The important thing was being out having fun and sharing a beer with his dad on a summer day.

There wouldn’t be many more days like this. He’d gotten approved for a college in the UK and sitting in his room on the nightstand under a poster of a heavy metal band was a one way ticket to London. He had gotten a scholarship to study engineering and would spend the next eight years pursuing a doctorate. His hope was to become a civil engineer. His dream was to build and work on bridges. His father was an experienced crane operator. The idea of weight and balance and counterbalance fascinated him. And wouldn’t it be great if, after graduating, he and his father could work on the same project? The remotest possibility of that fantasy was a ways off. Even then, he would have to graduate early to make it out of college before his father retired.

The players charged towards the goal and the crowd roared encouragement, but again, the goalie caught the shot and the noise went down to a disappointed murmur.

Dominic’s father, a heavy set man in his early fifties, took him to games quite often. He was wearing a jersey for the team and a baseball cap that compressed his sweat soaked hair. He wiped his face with a cloth and stuffed it in his back pocket.

The weather was unseasonably hot. This wasn’t an area where most people were concerned about summer heat. In the past, if things got warm in the home, an open window and box fan would suffice. But now, the news was full of stories of the elderly suffering heat stroke in their homes and lying dead for days before they were found. In the city, venues like the soccer stadium were often the only relief from the heat. You could drive an hour out to get to the beach or thirty minutes in the other direction if you wanted to find a swimming pool. But in response to the heat wave, the soccer stadium enticed guests with free cups of ice and water and the soda fountains were a reduced price for season ticket holders.

However, the heat was starting to defeat even this strategy. Three times games were canceled because it was just too hot to be safe for the players. The result was a backlog of games, disappointed fans, and dodgy scheduling. If you didn’t have a ticket in advance, you would have a hard time getting one. People who had tickets for postponed games could redeem them for a future game. So now the empty seats were filled with fans who had missed games a week ago. When this game came up, his father was on the computer, spamming the refresh key until he managed to snag these seats. He kept them as a surprise.

The players filed out of the field for a brief time out. “All this trouble for a double-aught game.” Dominic said regretfully. “Did you want me to go get a refill?”.

He watched his father reach into his back pocket and pull out his cellphone and he saw his father’s eyes go wide. His face paled despite the summer heat. Dominic straightened in alarm. “What’s the matter?”

His father took one breath and then another. “There’s a problem.” He began and then stopped. “A big one. At work.”

“Are you serious? Ugh.” He rolled his eyes. “It really can’t wait?”

His father licked his lips and stared blankly at the empty field. His chest was rising and falling rapidly even though he wasn’t moving. A few more text messages came in but he didn’t look at them. He just put the phone into his back pocket, silent. It was like he had turned completely wooden.

“Are you alright…?” Dominic asked softly.

The man swallowed, his throat bobbing. He took a quick breath. “Yes. Well, then… I have to go.” He stood up, not looking his son in the eye.

“I’ll go with you!” Dominic rose but his father shook his head.

“No. I’ll order an Uber for you.” He wrote down quickly on the back of a white paper napkin. “Here is the license plate number. It will be a red car with tinted windows.”

His father gave his shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sorry.” He said, before he hurried out of the stands and up the stairs.

The crowd of people, exhausted from the heat and the long game, filed out of the stadium. Dominic lifted his phone and checked for any missed calls or messages, but there were none. His father didn’t call him back or return his texts. His mother didn’t either. The stadium opened into a large plaza between it and the parking lot and lines of ice cream trucks had already started to attract customers. Normally, Dominic never would have passed up ice cream, but worry about what was going on at his father’s job kept him from joining the line.

The Uber ride should be waiting to take him home.

The sun was sinking lower in the sky, blazing a dull red thanks to the wild fires that were burning thousands of miles away. The crowd thinned as he got closer to the curb where the rideshare vehicles were permitted to idle and wait for their clients. Dominic scanned the vehicles for a red car and found it.

He briefly paused and checked the license plate.

“Dominic?” The man asked from the window.

He nodded. The driver got out and opened the backseat and then got back behind the wheel. Inside smelled of clean leather. It was cool, a welcome respite. “You know where I’m going?”

The driver had very broad shoulders and a square jaw and a short buzzcut of blonde hair. Despite the heat, he was wearing a blazer over his thin shirt.

“You’re in military training?” Dominic asked.

“You’ve got a sharp eye. Or is it that obvious?” The driver said as he turned the wheel of the car, carefully watching the road as they pulled away and started to drive through the expansive parking area full of gleaming cars. “I’m in the military now. Just making a bit of money while I’m on leave.”

“Military stipend not enough? Or does Uber really pay that well?” Dominic asked with a smirk. “Maybe I should sign up once I’m in London. For Uber I mean. Not the military.”

He looked down at his phone again. There were no calls and texts but now that he was in the air conditioned space, he realized that he had no signal at all. He tried to text but the error popped up telling him his texts were not sent. He sighed. “What’s wrong with this phone?”

He tried restarting it. He spent the time waiting for it to reboot staring out the windows at the line of people walking to their vehicles. A family with two children, one sleeping in a stroller and the other limp on his father’s shoulder, were getting into a minivan. The mother was on her phone. But when he looked down, his phone had restarted but once again had no signal. Maybe his dad had tried to call him but he was sitting on a dead phone all this time.

“Hey, can I use your phone?” He asked the driver.

“I’m afraid I can’t close the app or it will end the ride.” The driver said without looking back.

“Okay, I’ll get out and ask someone if I can use theirs.” They were already stopped in line to pay the toll to leave the parking lot, so he didn’t think anything of getting out to use someone else’s phone. But when he pulled the handle on the door, the door was stuck. “I think you have the child-lock on.”

The driver looked straight ahead, not acknowledging his words.

“Hey. Can you let me out?” The mother was getting into the van. She shut the door and the brake lights came on.

The man who was driving continued to look ahead, like he was some sort of robot and not responding to his commands.

“Hey! Can you not hear me? I said-...”

The man suddenly reached into his jacket and pulled out a black metal pistol. He pointed it at him without even turning around to look. The sight of the weapon sent a visceral fear through Dominic. He slammed himself against the door. “No! No!”

The muzzle flashed and something hit him. It stung, like a wasp sting he got at summer camp.

“He shot me… He shot…” Dominic moaned.

The man put the gun away and turned around like nothing happened. Dominic felt dizzy and light headed. He turned to the window but no longer had the strength to call for help. His eyes slid shut and his world went from darkness to nothingness.

Dominic opened his eyes in a panic, immediately asking where he was. His mouth tasted like blood, his hands were tied to a post. He was lying on a bed. A piece of cloth between his teeth was so tight that it stretched the corner of his mouth. It hurt and bled. He jerked hard and the restraints around his hands tightened.

“He’s awake.” A deep feminine voice attracted his attention. A woman in a black tightly woven combat suit stood up from a wooden chair that was placed against a stone foundation wall next to his bed. Her hair was dark and tied up in a ponytail at the nape of her neck that swayed between her shoulder blades as she walked. A black belt around her waist carried copper colored long, fang-like bullets. A long knife was at her hip. She wore black combat boots with thick treads that left a trail of wet tracks as she made her way to a door. She opened the door and a light lit up her face. Her nose was painted and long, her eyes dark and framed with thick lashes.

Above where she had sat was a thin dingy window covered with high grass. It was dark in this room save for the single bare yellow light bulb on the ceiling. His shirt was gone. His phone was gone. He gasped, struggling to breathe through his nose and around the cloth. He remembered being shot in the chest but he wasn’t even bleeding and there was no sign of any other wounds.

The man who had driven him and shot him cast a shadow as he walked in, swinging arms as thick as oak trees. He hadn’t noticed his eyes before, steely grey almost white. He was still in his cotton shirt but the jacket was gone and the holster was displayed with that same pistol. He pulled away until the zip ties bit into his wrists and his hands immediately became numb. He pulled and pulled as that man reached for his face. His thick fingers and cracked fingernails untied the gag. “Keep quiet and we won’t gag you.”

“What do you want? What … What do you want from me? My dad. He’s just a construction worker. He doesn’t have any money!” Dominic sobbed in fear. “Please. We don’t have any money!”

“Listen!” The man’s voice was sharp and cut through his panic. His face was inches from his and he could see a slight blond stubble and the remnants of a scar that crossed over his upper lip. That lip twisted in disgust revealing yellow teeth. His breath smelled like tobacco smoke. “The man you think is your father is not your father. That man ran away with you when you were young. We’re taking you back.”

“What?”

“He was assigned to care for you as a toddler and escaped. I suppose he let his feelings get in the way of his duties.” The man reached up and adjusted the restraints to allow blood flow again. “Don’t struggle so much. You’ll cut your hands off.”

“No, you’ve got the wrong person.” Dominic blinked away the sweat rolling into his eyes. The returning blood gave him pins and needles as it pulsed through his wrists. The gag had soaked up all the moisture in his mouth. His throat was so dry he could barely swallow. He called out in a hoarse voice. “This is a mistake. My father can prove it. Just let me call him. Just give me my phone. Let me call him!”

The man and the woman looked at him with calm pity while he was gasping in panic. The woman crossed her arms over her chest. They looked at each other and Dominic held his breath.

“Let him talk to his father.” A low voice came from outside the door. The two people straightened up, their spines upright and stiff and they turned in attention. Immediately, the woman walked to the other side of the room where Dominic’s phone was on a charger.

“My phone isn’t working…” Dominic sniffed, suddenly aware he was crying.

“Your phone is fine.” She said. Her voice was soft and gentle as she approached him. “We jammed it to keep you from being tracked.”

“Why?” He asked.

“I already told you.” She pressed his finger against the sensor to unlock the phone and scrolled down to his contacts. Then she held the phone to his ear.

The electronic sound of ringing could be heard through the earpiece and his mind raced. All he had to do was talk to his dad and he would clear all this up. But the phone just rang. As it did, another phone began to ring in the other room. It rang with his father’s ringtone, the song ‘Margaritaville.”

“Dad?!” His father’s phone was here? But he was supposed to have gone to work! Did they capture him here too? “Dad! You have to explain! Tell them… show them my papers!” He shouted at the door, towards the sound of the phone ringing.

Dominic looked at the woman desperately as she held the phone to his ear.

The deep voice from before echoed from outside the room. “Pick up the phone and talk to him. Tell him the truth.”

The phone picked up. He could hear his father’s voice both through the phone and in the other room, echoing each other. “Dominic. Are you hurt?”

“What is going on? Who are these people?”

The other end of the line was silent and no sound came from the other side of the room. Why wasn’t his father talking? He should be telling them that this is a mistake. He should be threatening them with legal action. He should be calling the cops. Why was he here? Were they holding him at gunpoint?

“You’re going to get through this…” His father’s voice was soft and soothing. Even in this terrifying circumstance where he’d been shot, bound, and gagged, that voice slowed his breathing.

“Dad. Tell them. Tell them, they’ve got it wrong…” More silence greeted him and his eyes wildly scanned the room. “Where’s mom. Do they have mom?!”

“Your mother is fine. She’s at home. Listen to me. No matter what… you’re my boy. Even if we’re not related by blood.”

Dominic’s panic increased and his voice cracked. “No. No you… you have to tell them. Did they threaten you? Do they have a gun to your head?! Why are you lying?”

“I’m not lying.”

“But you… you… you took me to the passport office, we… showed them the birth certificate.” The memory of the birth certificate came to his mind as clear as day. “Your name and Mom’s name was on it. Dad, what are you saying!” His teeth clenched and chattered. Their names were on the birth certificate. That memory was what he clung to as his world was coming apart.

“The birth certificate was falsified. It was a fake document.” His father said.

Dominic refused to believe that. His father had to be bluffing. He had to be buying time. On crime shows, experts say you should cooperate with captors until the police could be called right? The police were on their way. So long as he cooperated, the situation would not get worse and he would be rescued. He had to stay calm. “Right… a fake document.” He said. “Of course.”

He glanced at the woman. Her lips lifted in a slight smile but her eyes were sad. She huffed.

Even the burly man chuckled to himself. “You’re pretending to accept it to cooperate right? Your father is serious. It is a fake document.”

Dominics heart slammed against his chest but he took a deep breath. He lowered his eyes.

“Say goodbye to him.” The woman said.

Dominic didn’t want to say that because this wasn’t real. If he said goodbye, they might shoot his dad. “Um… Dad. So… when I was a toddler, you stole me right?” He asked, glancing at the woman who was still smiling. She gave a little shake of her head.

His father answered. “I knew who these people were when I accepted the job. I had a job to do. Raise you until you are old enough and then let them take you. But… remember when you were at summer camp and we dropped you in the woods?”

Dominic did remember. “Yeah… the time I got attacked by the deer?”

He was only eleven then, but there was a tradition where young people at that age could be blindfolded, driven off into the woods and dropped off. They were given some supplies and told to walk their way back completely unsupervised. It was considered a right of passage. It was never good for a young child to be too dependent on their parents. Their parents weren’t powerful omnipotent all-knowing beings. Even at the age of eleven, a child had to know for themselves right and wrong, right from left. They needed to look at their parents and take their words with a grain of salt. Being without his father’s protection for the first time in those dark woods terrified him. When the deer burst from the underbrush, galloping straight at him, he screamed. The deer wasn’t attacking him. He’d just startled it.

Using the map and the GPS device, he’d found his way out of the woods. The feeling of seeing his father in the clearing, smiling proudly at him, his son, was a feeling he would never forget. After that, he realized that if he let go of his father’s hand, he could stand on his own and not die. He became a bold, independent youngster.

“Right. That was when they were supposed to take you.” His father said.

“But they didn’t take me.” He said.

“No. That’s because the GPS coordinates I gave you took you away from them. Remember, right after that? We moved across the country.”

A feeling, cold like ice, began to run through his veins. Dominic’s eyes shifted from the woman who held up the phone for him to the other man’s face, to the light coming through the door where his father was. “But… you got transferred. It was a work transfer.”

“I was running away. With you.”

Dominic sighed, remembering this was a script. This was made up. They had guns to his father’s head. He was surrounded. If his father didn’t say these things, they would shoot him. “Right. But you’re giving me up now so you’ll be okay, right? They’re not going to shoot you, right?”

The man and woman looking over him exchanged glances.

“Don’t shoot him. Please… Please!” Dominic begged.

The deep strange voice that commanded the two people in front of him came again. “If you agree to come peacefully with us, we will not shoot him. This man and his wife will live out the rest of their lives in peace so long as you cooperate.”

“Me?” Dominic asked. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave. But if his father was alive, then he could call for rescue. “Okay. I’ll go. Just let him go!”

The phone on his ear disconnected.

“Untie him.” The voice came again. “Let’s go.”

The man and woman undid his restraints and helped him off the bed. They kept their hands on his arms as they escorted him barefoot out of the room where he was held. When he stepped into the light, he was shocked to find that there were no gunmen. His father wasn’t tied to a chair. He was standing, still in the blue soccer outfit, with his baseball cap in his hands. He’d never seen his father look so shrunken.

The man with the deep voice was sitting there, with a gun on a small table, one leg crossed over the other. He looked to be about the same age as his father, but was strongly muscled like the man with the buzzcut hair. The tan suit was fitted to his muscular frame with a white shirt, khaki pants and brown shoes. He spun a silver wooden cane in one hand. He leaned on this cane as he stood up. A golden chain arced from his breast pocket. He reached in and looked at the time before leaning on the cane to stand up.

This man rested his hand on his father’s shoulder. “That wasn’t so hard. Was it?”

His father’s hand suddenly moved to the man’s side, gripping the hilt of a knife, buried in that man’s side. “Dominic! Run!”

Dominic sprinted toward the exit, a stairway leading to a door. The door was like the stairway to heaven, the stairway to freedom, leading him away from this nightmare. He was lucky! The people standing next to him hadn’t grabbed him! He just needed to be fast enough!

His vision suddenly burst white. His feet left the ground and his shoulder collided hard with it. Pain silenced his voice and he could only grip his shoulder in agony. A heavy shoe pushed him to his back. The man with the cane was standing over him. Dominic had never seen such a cruel gleeful smile. Even though blood was spreading throughout the tailored suit from the stab wound, it didn’t affect him.

He reached down and his hand closed like a vice over Dominic’s arm. He picked him up to his feet and shoved him staggering back. He now rested the cane on his shoulder. It was clear he didn’t need it to walk.

Dominic’s ears were ringing and he realized he must have hit him in the head with the cane. The two people who had been standing guard over him made no move to interfere. Dominic looked to where his father was and found him doubled over, clutching his hand in pain. The knife was on the ground, but Dominic didn’t remember seeing his father get hurt.

“I said, if you cooperate… I’ll let him live.” The man lightly tapped the cane against his shoulder and looked at him with eyes like burning twin coals. The sight of those golden eyes sent a shock through him but they quickly extinguished themselves from burning bright to cold black.

“What are you… you’re a vampire?” Dominic whispered. “An alien?”

“Yes… and no.” The man said patiently. “You’ll find out all these things once you come with me.”

“Dad?” He looked at his father, desperate for direction.

His father could only shiver in pain, holding his hand. “I am still… your father. Don’t forget that. Go with him.”

“He can’t protect you.” The man with the cane shifted his gaze to focus over Dominic’s shoulder. “But those two, they can. They will be your guard on your journey.”

Dominic looked over his shoulder at them. They stood, resolute, like soldiers at attention. “No this isn’t true!” Dominic didn’t care about what his father said now. He couldn’t go with them. If he left with them, he could never go back. “No. No!”

He didn’t know much hand to hand at all beyond what he’d learned briefly when a self-defense instructor came to the camp. The instructor said always go for the crotch or the shins or the neck. These were places where even the weakest person could inflict disabling blows.

His knee rushed up to the man’s crotch but never made it. That cane slammed on his knee. Pain crashed into his brain and he collapsed to the floor, howling, rolling, unable to think or breathe.

The cane cracked again against his ribs and he curled up to defend himself againt further blows. His father’s voice sounded. “Stop! Stop!”

“Shoot him.” The voice from the man with the cane was a cold command.

“No!” Dominic sat up only to be brought low again with a blow to his back, right above his kidneys. He fell again. It hurt so much he couldn’t move, he could only gape like a fish out of water, tears leaking from his wide open eyes.

His father covered his face with both hands, sobbing into them against the wall. The gun was still on the table. No one had reached for it.

“Are you ready to cooperate now?” The man with the cane said.

All resistance left Dominic. His father didn’t get up to defend him. He couldn’t run away or fight. The police weren’t coming. “It’s okay… we’ll get through this…” Dominic said quietly.

“Get him up. Let’s go.”

The two people described as his guard ignored his father and helped him up. He couldn’t take his eyes off his dad who leaned on the wall. His father’s hands lowered from his eyes and their eyes met for the last time. They were red rimmed and desperate, swimming with tears. They weren’t resolute. They had no hope. Looking into those eyes, Dominic understood that the truth didn’t matter. Maybe he was his father, maybe he wasn’t. In the end, there was nothing either of them could do.

#Dragon Raja

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