#William Clowes

[uwmspeccoll]

Typography Tuesday

This week we present some more non-Roman type from the 1908 type specimen book Some Specimens of the Roman, Oriental, and Foreign Types Now in Use in the Offices of William Clowes & Sons, Limited, published at the Clowes head office in London. Clowes was founded as a printing company in 1803 by William Clowes in London. By the early 1820s, Clowes became a pioneer in the use of steam-powered printing in England, and by mid-century William Clowes & Sons was one of the largest printing companies in the world, and is still in operation today. This specimen book presents all the fonts in use by the company at the turn of the 20th century.

View another post of non-Roman type from William Clowes & Sons.

View our other Typography Tuesday posts.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Things Happen After Dark...

(Disclaimer: one of the characters in this story do not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by my amazing friend, @insane4fandoms.)

(Now, as for the fanegos who do belong to me: for more information on Caliban, go here. For more information on Azalea, go here. Murdock belongs to the Markiplier Cinematic Universe, and if you’d like to see my personal headcanons on him, go here.)

HAPPY NEW YEAR! (Only twelve minutes late...oh well 😅 🍾)

(Trigger Warnings: murder/death, blood/gore, violence, descriptions of illegal business, poisoning, strangling/suffocation, cannibalism, broken bones, beating/blunt force trauma, knives/blades/weapons, eating/drinking, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

Sections of the old concrete floor were slick, shining against the dim, flickering lights up above.

An unmistakable metallic stench hung in the air like heavy fog. 

Casey hated the fact that it lined up so well with how he could hear his own blood rushing through the veins in his ears.

The shivers were so violent, racing up and down throughout Casey’s ribcage. He ground his jaw; he couldn’t let his teeth start chattering. 

He’d already shown more fear than he’d care to admit—now, he couldn’t afford to show too much more. 

That would only make it easier for them…

To be clear, it wasn’t that Casey was unfamiliar with these sorts of places.

Old buildings that loomed on the sides of roads, basically out in the middle of nowhere, adorned by sun-bleached brick or faded paint and broken windows. 

The peculiar spots that had been left to rot for whatever reason a long time ago, that anyone could pass on their way to something better.

It was a bit ironic, really; he’d been hired to gather evidence against stalkers so many times before. And yet, sneaking around certain places at odd hours was exactly how he went about earning his keep and paying his bills.  

Sure, he wasn’t immune to cold sweat, or shivers up the spine, or having to duck and cover and just hold his breath until his lungs set themselves on fire and brace for some kind of horrific impact until he could finally, finally manage to peek out and move to safer ground…

But you just couldn’t be a private investigator if you couldn’t handle that kind of stuff.

It was just a fact of life: the more condemned a place was, the more likely people were to slip in through its cracks and do God-knows-what because they knew that pretty much everyone else wouldn’t venture inside.

He’d already snooped around two abandoned factories much like this one earlier in the year. 

Hell, those cases had even started off in a somewhat similar way to tonight’s shenaniganry: with a stroll through the Cove Port Inlets, just to review the facts—there never seemed to be enough—and get the juices flowing.

Granted, those other cases hadn’t involved him getting pulled into an alleyway so a few scumbags could practice for a chiropractic degree. 

Those other cases hadn’t involved him blacking out and eventually coming to with way more rope tightly coiled wrapped around his chest and arms than he remembered.

Those other cases hadn’t involved him being on the receiving end of an amateur stakeout.

Those other cases hadn’t involved near as much of a cacophony—screams that eventually bled into unintelligible whimpers and gurgles. 

Bones snapping under pressure, flesh practically sighing as metal was dragged through it.

Red either oozing down in ribbons to create viscous puddles, or droplets soaring through the air to splatter against the walls or, or, or…

It was almost made worse by the fact that he recognized the figures who were now pacing around the room, just a few feet from the corner he’d been bound to.

Well, the recognizing was sort of technical. 

This wasn’t the first close encounter he’d had with them (and his instincts demanded that he believe it wouldn’t be the last, either), but all the tricks, all the chases, all the near-misses just made things…strange. 

“Oh my God,” Azalea Crawford announced, stepping away from the mess to kneel down beside him, her big chestnut eyes glinting. “Is—is that a half-respirator?”

She reached out to carefully turn the small gas mask that rested on Casey’s collar from a strap stretched across the back of his neck. 

Casey took a subtle deep breath. The shivers cranked themselves up to eleven, so he had to try even harder than before to keep them trapped in his chest. 

She may have been petite—truly, she was one of the shortest adults he’d seen in his life—especially compared to him, but he knew better than to underestimate her. He’d heard of her reputation.

He’d watched her smile so casually when one of his kidnappers fell to the floor as though all his bones had just melted, wailing in agony and clawing at the same dart that had been shot from a small gun she’d pulled from her carob-colored vest 

“Hey, you left quite an impression that one time,” Casey finally answered, raising a sarcastic eyebrow. 

“That’s nice of you to say,” Azalea replied, fidgeting with the cherry-red headband that decorated her gently-curling locks. The venom-laced sugar in her voice made it clear that she remembered just as well as he did. 

“Ooh,” another voice called out from a bit further away, set in a Midwestern accent, a bit jagged around the edges yet somehow still managing to be silvery. “Trauma-incuded mementos are a classic!”

Caliban Crawford wandered closer, his mouth—well, pretty much everything below his eyes, to be honest—still dripping with gore. As he bared his red-drenched teeth in a shiny grin, his silver canine-cap almost seemed to be letting off sparks thanks to the flickering lights.  

“Guess that means I’ve gotta up my own ante, huh?” He asked as he stood beside his sister, appraising toward her and sinister toward the captive audience.

Casey grimaced, quickly shaking his head. “Please don’t.”

“I just feel like I’ve been challenged!” Caliban held up his hands, his shoulders popping up in a snide shrug. “Y’know, to see if I can make you get another protective trinket.”

“The human body’s already horrifying enough on its own!” Casey protested. He would’ve made a furious weeping gesture toward the fresh carnage across the room, but his hands were literally tied, so the most he could do was nod at it. “Look at that! How did you even do that?!”

Caliban paused, glancing over his shoulder to fix the viscera another hungry look.

“I mean, you were kinda watching all of us when it happened,” Azalea mentioned.

“Yeah, well I was TRYING not to!” Casey retorted. 

“A dollop of fairy dust,” Caliban finally proclaimed, folding his arms across his chest as his focus returned to the investigator.

Casey blinked, and if it weren’t for his restrained position, he would’ve felt his jaw hitting the floor. “...That’s nOT FUNNY!” 

“Yeah? Then why was I laughing so much?” Caliban’s eyes grew wider, his grin even sharper than before. 

“BECAUSE YOU’RE SICK!” 

“Oh, c’mon. He’s just having some fun with his job,” Azalea reached up to pat her brother on the shoulder. “What’s wrong with that?”

Casey was about to go on a whole tirade about how a-frickin-LOT of things were wrong with being so damn happy about a career in contract-killing and the Black Market, but he didn’t get the chance. 

“Hey, listen,” yet another voice piped up from just around the corner, steeped in velvetine oil. “I deserve some credit for all this too.”

Murdock Mallory came strolling into the room, a few tiny red spots still clinging to his black-tinted lenses. Really, it was a miracle how no blood seemed to have gotten in the raven hair that just about tickled his shoulders.

“I ripped the tag off a mattress this morning,” he continued, idly twisting the thin chain around his neck between his forefinger and thumb, causing its brass pendant to spin. “Pretty sure that set off some kind of Butterfly Effect.”

Casey wanted to shout, to sputter, to do something more to showcase how angry he was because that just felt like the only thing he had left right now…but he couldn’t. 

Instead, he just heaved a long-suffering sigh. “Oh, wow. And here I thought anatomy was the only science you guys were interested in.” 

“Uh, excuse you. I’m all about chaos theory,” Caliban huffed before turning away and beginning to scrape up the horrific remains that he was insane enough to deem as leftovers into what looked like a body bag. 

“You don’t need to have such an attitude about this,” Murdock chided, taking a few steps closer and tilting his head to the side. “Think: some sleazeball competitors of ours took you hostage to try and bait us. We could’ve just let them get rid of you, but no! We got rid of them instead! So, when you think about it, we’ve actually done you a pretty nice favor here.”

“Yeah,” Azalea agreed. Her voice was suddenly much closer, and Casey realized too late that he couldn’t see her anymore. “We could just leave you here for the cleanup crew to deal with, but we’re not doing that, either! Just think about that when you wake up, huh?” 

The question was punctuated by the distinct pinching sensation of a needle sinking into the small of Casey’s neck…

___

Of course, Casey wasn’t in the rightest mind to think about some things immediately after that. 

When he woke up on a park bench just as the sun began climbing its way into the sky, however, he had to admit: he had plenty to think about. 

…Mainly the fact that he had to have some begrudging gratitude about no chloroform being used. That stuff was way nastier than the movies ever let on.

@sammys-magical-au @the-matpat-ever @lampsforsocks @b-is-in-the-closet

[youngertheelder]

Human nature VS. nature and the nature of reality.

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

@sammys-magical-au @insane4fandoms @the-matpat-ever

(Sorry in advance if this is too random/obnoxious 😅 The following meme-idea just came to me out of nowhere)

I can sorta see this as, respectively:

Murdock, who's impatient but also being sarcastic because the car is already going way too fast.

Casey, who's a proud road-menace and almost never turns down dares in situations like this.

And Caliban, who's cackling and having an adrenaline rush because he's excited for an upcoming hit-job and his cravings are starting to kick in.

impatient man: bus driver can you go faster im late for work

worlds most obedient bus driver: whatever you say boss

guy on the bus who turns in to a hungry pack of wild hyenas whenever hes traveling faster than 30mph:

[waywordsstudio]

TBR Pile: April Reads -

Some highlights of what I'll be reading this month!

[francicide]

stuff i found from my very early 2023/late 2022 pronouny. uhh.

tags: @id-pack-archive

NAMES

pt: Names end pt

Howard, whistler, vincent, edward, bruce, samuel, joesph, prophet, neo, norman, romeo, kingston, henry, jerome, jeremiah, carnival, jack, artie, amnesia, vegas, harvey, julie, jim, jason, louis, max, winston, lucky, pluto, allison, clarice, lora, hector, apollo, valentino, alastar, laurence, veronica, rosemary, victor, rouge, addison, francisco, wilson, oswald, william, sparky, frankie, rocket, fang, cat, lyric, scarlet, benny, junk, hyde, sadie, eight, domino, chance, roulette, asrael, mustang, molly, cameron, anubis, clark, kent, jake, steven, wasp, chrome, fred, spring, haywire, sunny, bonnie, ashton, renard, voss, nathaniel, oscar, peter, junebug, wombat, indiana, mortie, noir, vannie, cabbie, newton, lloyd, cherry, goldie, miguel, dave, bill, horror, confetti, muse

PRONOUNS

pt: Pronouns end pt

he/him, it/its, ink/inks, sh?/h?r, h?/h?m, th☆y/th☆m, fle/flesh, rit/ritual, haha/haha, invest/investigate, cri/crime, myst/mystery, ax/axe, bit/bite, bon/bone, brai/brain, bug/bug, bu/burn, carni/carnivore, ch/chaos, chor/chord, clow/clown, clu/clue, core/cores, co/coin, dia/dial, foe/foes, fun/funs, goo/goop, gui/tar, gut/guts, hope/hopes, joke/jokes, lie/lies, lo/loop, lord/lords, mask/masks, mob/mobs, mon/ster, note/notes, officer/officers, or/organ, rabi/rabid, ret/ro, ring/rings, save/savior, shee/sheep, sheri/sheriff, skull/skulls, song/songs, ma/smart, star/fish, sta/static, tru/truth, wor/ship, i/me, h*/h*m, [redacted]/[redacted], @/@s, #/#s, ☆/☆s, 🦇/🦇s, 🥩/🥩s, 🔪/🔪s, 🕊️/🕊️s/, 🐧/🐧s, dis/disease, abyss/abyssal, ae/aer, ang/angel, anim/animal, anti/antis, arcade/arcades, bari/baritones, a/aro, ay/am, bun/buns, bun/bunny, byte/bytes, cat/cats, choke/chokes, ci/cipher, cor/corpse, cor/corv, crea/create, creep/creeps, cry/cries, dae/dem, dead/deads, dea/death, doll/dolls, drop/drip, elec/tric, eu/euro, eye/strain, fa/faun, fla/flare, fi/fire, fix/fixs, fi/fizzy, fool/fools, four/fourth, fox/foxs, fluff/fluffs, fur/furs, gala/galas, gho/ghost, giggle/giggles, gli/glitch, gli/glitter, gi/grr, gore/gores, grime/grimes, hab/habit, heir/heirs, honk/honks, hy/hyena, hy/hym, hymn/hymns, hx/hxm, hum/hums, hu/hush, hyp/hyper, idol/idols, kin/kins, kni/knight, lol/lols, lost/sheep, lo/love, mad/mads, medi/medical, meow/meows, mim/mimicks, mir/miracle, moo/moos, moon/moons, mo/mourn, musi/music, ni/night, no/non, nov/nova, of/ofs, op/oprea, other/others, pain/pains, paw/paws, pos/sum, poison/poisons, polyb/polybius, rabbi/rabbit, racc/raccoon, rai/rains, ram/rams, rat/rats, rawr/rawrz, rep/tile, ribb/ribbit, rule/ruler, scene/scenes, sea/seas, se/ser, sly/slim, spark/sparks, star/stars, stim/stims, survivor/survivors, syn/synth, the/then, thou/thee, vamp/vamps, voi/voids, vi/rus, were/wolf, whisp/whisps, wing/wings, woo/wools, wol/wolf, wy/wire, wyv/wyvern, xe/xeno, xyz/xyz, you/your, ze/zer, kit/kits, thon/thons, eel/eels, pey/pen, pocket/pockets, chemic/chemical, moss/mosses, dem/demo, lin/linen, unknown/unknowns, hi/hiss, ith/iths, mal/ware, crow/crows, nor/mal, code/codes, cy/cyber, shark/sharks, woof/woofs, silly/sillys, .doc/.docs, .exe/.exes, k9/k9s, h3/h1m, sh3/h3r, 3rr0r/3rr0rs, 0/0s, 3/3s, 6/6/s, 7/7s, 9/9s, 𖤐/𖤐s, ███/███, 💤/💤s, 🐁/🐁s, 🎶/🎶s, 🐚/🐚s, 🕹️/🕹️s, 🪱/🪱s, 🩹/🩹s, 🐍/🐍s, 💉/💉s, 🧿/🧿s, ✒️/✒️s, ⛓️/⛓️s, 🃏/🃏s, 🦴/🦴s, 🎭/🎭s, ☎️/☎️s, 🎲/🎲s, 🌕/🌖s, 🦈/🦈s

and ̴̡͈̜̙̜̫͉͈̲̺̦͕̦̳̒͌͐̓̉̆̀͆̓͘/̴̼̹͑ ̸̛̝̩̫̫̲̱̎͌̇̑̇̑̀̕̕/̵̤̺̣̝͙̱̙͋̋̍̈́̓̽ ̶̛͇̙̺͔̬͓̼̭̭̞̗͖̙͗́̎̆͛͌͝ ̶̨̬̙̤͍̮̗̙̟͉̊͑ͅ/̴̧̧̲̟̏̎͒̍̕

TITLES

pt: Titles end pt

The creature, prn who loves glitchcore, prn who embodies retrocore, prn who loves aesthetics, the creature, prn who is an angel, prn who loves obscure media/things, the loud one, the roleplayer, prn before who prn is now, prn who loves 2010 (games).

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

Yeah, another long wait 😅 But hey, at least it's here now!

How the plot thickens, and how the shenanigans, on a 1-10 scale, go from a 9 to an instant 30...

___

Abel Impulse [Part 2]

(Disclaimer: two of the characters in this story do not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by my amazing friend, @insane4fandoms.)

(Now, as for the fanegos who do belong to me: for more information on Azalea, go here. For more information on Phoenix, go here. For more information on Caliban, go here. For more information on K.O., go here.) 

(Trigger Warnings: implied kidnapping, implied murder/death, mentions of gunshots, medical attention, knives/blades, violence, blood/gore, mentions of poisoning, mentions of cannibalism, mentions of fire/smoke, mentions of arson/burning/melting, descriptions of illegal business, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

___

At first, Casey couldn’t tell if he was awake. 

He’d experienced similar stuff in the past—drifting in and out of consciousness at odd hours of the night, dreams blurring and mumbling because apparently his brain just couldn’t make up its damn mind. 

Everything was shrouded in darkness. It was like his eyes had sunken all the way to the back of his skull. Like the end of each lid had gotten caught underneath, forcing the sockets to wrap themselves shut far too tight.

But as the seconds ticked by, he felt his brow furrowing, felt the sore muscles in his neck protest as he tried to shift. 

And the pain wasn’t far behind at all.

Some kind of drumbeat that wracked his abdomen. It started out with pinches, like a hand topped with sharp, ragged, dirty nails groping around at his guts. And then those nails melted and started seeping deeper and deeper into his flesh.

Burning and stinging with a shaky flare, like mosquitos drunk on the ashes that flew off of a crackling firepit.

If noises could be captured and distilled into physical feelings, then this would qualify as the reincarnation of a scream.

A deranged, hopeless scream that went on far longer than it should’ve been able to, perhaps until it forced vocal cords to snap like guitar strings.

“You there, Casey?”

The voice called from what had to be just a few feet away. It was low but not deep, thoughtful but not quite focused, and almost a bit raspy around the edges. Not pointing to cigarettes, though smoke was definitely responsible in some other way.

Worst of all, it was familiar. 

Familiar enough to send a chill down Casey’s spine, which mixed with the burning in an awful way. 

It really shouldn’t have been familiar. 

It’d been years upon years since he’d heard that voice…then again, that was just a technicality. He’d heard it a few times after that one branch of his life. 

Those few times had been set in fear and hate, filtered with the stench of metal and oil, full of verbal arsenic (as in, insults and threats and the hollow horror that came along when ear-splitting, sadistic laughter mixed itself into enraged shrieks…)

Spots danced in Casey’s vision, bright little sparks that faded away in a millisecond. He had to blink a couple times with a bit more force than strictly necessary. At least the new light around him was dim.

The pain in his stomach didn’t stop—if anything, it ate up his awareness like fire to dry newspapers—but a different type of ache thrummed on one side of his head. Dull, lukewarm, almost sweaty. 

The left half of his view remained stubbornly blurred, as though he was peering through a glass fishbowl full of cloudy water, while he took in the walls. 

Each one was covered in a fine layer of dust (which was just ridiculous. Walls were vertical! Why couldn’t they act like it?!) that didn’t do much to hide a dull yellow tint. 

He tried to sit up, only to hiss through gritted teeth as another flare raced through his guts and up to his ribs.

His elbow brushed against brown leather that had taken on that weird scratchy-yet-velvety feel that could only come from years of less-than-gentle use.

The couch it covered looked like it’d once belonged to an animal shelter, having been set up for playful kittens (read: the ones that you’d think somehow got a few drops of Red Bull in their kibble) to tire themselves out.

A coffee table stood before the sofa. It was low to the matted carpet and coated in white paint, though as Casey’s aching eyes wandered over it, he discovered awkward little cracks and bumps, making the material uneven. Like the table had been flipped or thrown on at least three separate occasio—

A shape lay discarded on top; the dim light flickered, coaxing out a familiar, metallic glint that practically slapped Casey across the face.

His half-respirator!

Alertness crashed over him like a wave.

It’d taken so long for him to find that thing, for him to find one that could give extra protection without slowing him down. He couldn’t afford to just lose it!

The pain seemed to blink, not quite fading but still being pushed aside as he reached out. 

The floor creaked, fabric shuffled, and then another hand was there, wrapping around his wrist in a firm, cold grasp.  

“Hey!” The cry was guttural, instinctive. Casey tugged his arm back, but his hand wasn’t released. He craned his neck to glance over, only for a shuddering flare to drag its way down his heart heart before moving on to his lungs. 

“Oh, finally!” That same voice announced, with a joking edge that did not belong here.  “For a second there, I was worried I’d have to get an ice bucket.”

The man looming beside him had clearly been put through the ringer. (More than one, if Casey was honest.) 

His face was horribly scarred—almost the entire left side was splotched with an angry shade of pinkish-red. The texture might’ve looked wrinkled from a distance, but this close, it nearly gave the impression that he’d taken one of those loop tools used in sculpting and just raked it along his forehead, his cheek, his chin over and over again.

Maybe that analogy wasn’t so far off, considering how some of his fair skin had been spared. The burns stretched over, but only a bit, leaving patches on his face’s right side that were big enough to not render him completely disfigured. The wound almost seemed like it’d been placed by an artist. Granted, there’d have to be some sick, macabre thoughts involved to make it work, but still.

Especially for his eyes. 

One of them really should’ve been fused shut and hidden under the blistered tissue, but nope. The socket was crooked, like it’d been ever-so-slightly pinched. But as Casey watched, it blinked, which meant that it could still move and…he couldn’t be certain that seeing was an option, since it was dull gray and boasted a texture that reminded him of a withered grape. 

But its counterpart…well, it didn’t look healthy, what with the way a bag had long-since formed underneath it, or just how bloodshot it was. But it was still functioning, still alert, still alive. 

Alive enough for its pupil to shrink down to a pinprick.

Alive enough to showcase how the brown iris had a peculiar orange sheen about it.

Alive enough to drill an invisible hole into Casey’s head.

Casey shuffled, grinding his jaw as he leaned back. 

Mad took that as an invitation to move himself, now leaning over his captive, still holding onto his wrist. “Here, let me get a look at you.” 

He then tilted his head, his free hand moving to nudge a navy-blue blanket aside.

Casey made to snap again, to keep struggling. As his eyes followed along, however, he stopped short.

His jaw dropped at the sight of bandages wrapped around the lower-half of his bare chest in a tight layer.

The white gauze was stark against his brown skin, but a dull, dark red stain just underneath one section was the thing to really set it off.

And as he tried to regain focus, he saw how his right forearm had been dressed in a similar way. The burning and stinging felt muffled, but not by much. 

“Hmm…” A few long seconds ago, Mad’s mouth had stretched into a grim, uncertain smile with a corner of his mouth twitching. But now, he was pursing his lips in a frown. “Well, patching things up never was my forte, but—”

“Stop! Get away! Let go!” Casey interjected, nearly screaming with another attempt to free his wrist. “What did you do to me?!”

An interesting mixture of anger and confusion (as well as…wait, was that actual, genuine concern?) stirred around in Mad’s eyes. “I didn’t do this!”

His grip tightened as he jostled by the couch, trying to shift his weight against his captive. “Hey, hold still! You’re gonna mess up the wraps! It took me forever to stop the bleeding; we can’t give it a chance to start again!”

“Don’t give me that BS!” Casey spat, trying to twist his arm and having to wrench his eyes shut as another bolt of pain flared under the gauze. “You don’t clean up messes! You just cause ‘em! That’s all you EVER do!”

“Not this time! It wasn’t me!” Mad protested. “Come on, Casey! These are bullet-wounds, and since when have I ever used guns?”

Casey froze in place, the upcoming retort dying on his tongue. Loathe as he was to admit it, that defense was an accurate one. 

It was common for serial killers to develop signatures—personal quirks, things to make their grisly work unique to them and them alone. Sure, a lot of them knew the merits of keeping a varied inventory, but sometimes they still wound up getting attached to a particular tool or weapon or process.

Sentimentality could be a strange, horrifying thing. 

Mad was a prime example of that, even when improvisation ended up not working out so well for him. But at the end of the day, he had his own handmade Ol’ Reliable. Casey had only seen it in action once or twice, but there was no doubt that it was devastating…

Watching the realization cross Casey’s features, Mad offered a smug nod. 

“I didn’t see the whole thing,” he proclaimed, his gaze wandering about the room. “I was out and about, working on some of my own stuff—” Mad pointedly pretended not to see the way Casey snarled at that phrasing, “—but then I heard shots from just around the corner. I got curious, and when I snuck over to see what was going on…”

Slowly, his eyes went back to boring into Casey’s again.

For the first time in recent years, there was no rage, no ulterior motive, no sadism to be seen. In all honesty, Casey didn’t know what he was looking at, but he couldn’t take any chances in guessing. 

Mad heaved a disappointed sigh. “I couldn’t make out what the guy looked like. He was halfway down the street by the the time I realized it was you lying on the ground.”

“An extortion racket,” Casey murmured without quite meaning to, putting the pieces together as the memories finally started filtering back through his head. “My latest client works at one of the stores around here…said that someone was threatening their boss in order to get free goods…using a mask and everything…”

Mad continued on, either because he hadn’t heard him or didn’t care for details right now. “You were out like a light. And you were just bleeding so much. Too much for me to waste time on a chase and then come back to you—”

He didn't trail off, but his words grew blurry, as if echoing from somewhere far away, while Casey racked his brain.

Getting shot out in the open was bad enough. Even if he’d made relative peace with all the danger he exposed himself to for his cases, it was still a nightmare scenario. 

Part of his mind flashed to all the powerpoints and books he’d had to study for training. Some examples had been much more shocking than others, of course. If there was one part of that he knew for certain he would never, NEVER forget, it was the Bystander Effect.

Such a simple yet awful phenomenon.

He’d read so many reports about the targets of mugging (or something even worse) being left to bleed in a ditch or alleyway, wailing for help so loud and for so long that it’d be a miracle for their poor throats to not go raw. 

And yet, no matter how loud those victims were, any other people who happened to be near were likely to just. Not. Answer. 

Casey couldn’t wrap his head around something like that.

The most common excuse was that most bystanders believed plenty of other people were around to help. (Funny how that logic apparently applied to those other people too, hmm?)

Perhaps those bystanders had a reason to think it was some kind of elaborate trap. Maybe they had a reason to fear that if they helped, then unfair blame for what happened would be cast onto them. 

But why was something like that so universal? 

Why was it just accepted that people would go out of their way to avoid taking responsibility for bad things out in public?  

It truly felt like some kind of Yin to the Milgram Experiment’s Yang…

Mad was the absolute last person Casey would expect to help him. 

If anything, Mad was the type of person to take advantage of the Bystander Effect, whether he was hiding his victim or aiming to snatch one up and drag them into the night, sealing their fate himself just because he was in a bad mood.

“—Aaaaaaannd that’s how we got here!” Mad concluded with an awkward, sweeping gesture of the room. With his free hand, mind you. Since he still hadn’t let go of Casey. 

The staring contest resumed (then again, had it ever really paused?) for another long, uncomfortable moment.

Casey took a quiet deep breath. “...What’s your game, then?” 

“What do you mean by that?” Mad asked, his brow furrowing. 

“You know what I mean. I’m not playing around with this,” Casey replied in a terse tone. “You’ve obviously brought me here because you want something. So, you might as well just tell me and get it over with already.”

Mad scoffed and pouted at the same time, which would’ve looked kind of funny if it weren’t for all his burn-scars. “I wanted to make sure you were alright. You took one bullet to your stomach and another to your arm! You’re pretty damn lucky that I managed to get them both out and dress the wounds.”

He paused, a small chuckle crawling up from his lungs. “Besides, that was only half the struggle. You’re not exactly a pocket-watch anymore.” He glanced over Casey again, and even lying down, it was obvious to anyone how he was much taller than his captor. “Makes me glad I got all that teasing out back when I was still able. Because I just knew the tables would turn someday.”

“Don’t.” Casey growled, deep in his throat. “Don’t you dare talk about old kid stuff.” He chewed his lip, then heaved a sigh. “Like it even matters anymore.”

“What?” Mad’s lips peeled back in a sneer, his much more typical anger flaring back to life in his narrowed eyes. His grip tightened around Casey’s wrist as he leaned a couple inches closer.

“Give me one good reason why I can’t,” he demanded through clenched teeth. 

The challenge hit Casey like a .44 slug. He stared at his captor for a long few seconds, blinking as his own anger set his mind to a rolling boil.

“...One?” He asked, spitting the word out like it was a rancid piece of meat. “ONE reason?! You really think there’s just ONE?” 

The pain didn’t even give him much trouble as he propped himself up against the couch’s armrest, returning the favor via almost getting in Mad’s face. 

“Susie, Gabriel, Jeremy, Fritz,” he listed off, his heart aching at the memories of each Missing Child report. “Not to mention how many came AFTER them! Or the ones that came BEFORE them! I can only think of one time when the person you went after was an adult!”

He let out a mirthless, infuriated chuckle that came dangerously close to a sob. “But hey, I’m sure you’ve already updated that part of the list. The bodies just haven’t been found yet, huh?”

Invisible needles dragged along his brain as older memories played.

Glass shards slathered in red, glistening in the darkness.

The stench of iron swallowing up the typical smell of wood-polish. 

A huge grandfather clock laying on the floor, broken beyond repair.

The horrific, pulpy mess crushed beneath all that weight.

Bits of brain and skull sticking to the once-glossy finish on the sides. 

Red, red, so much RED…

Mad’s eyes flickered; Casey could see those exact images reflected—only from a much different angle of things. Almost as if his memories had been spinning through a film projector. 

But that was just it.

Vague recollection was the only thing Mad’s eyes had to offer right now. 

No guilt.

No sadness.

No shame.

No remorse—one of the most important ingredients to a person. 

Mad wasn’t feeling sorry about the fact that he’d done any of those things. 

Only sorry that he’d ever gotten caught.

“Oh, wait, did I catch you off-guard with that?” Casey wondered, his voice dripping with false apology. “Did you forget all those times; those names?”

Mad’s mouth opened and closed with no words coming out.

Part of the emotions on his face looked proud, looked disgustingly nostalgic.

Another part was seething, in a way so dark and rotten that it could've been infested with maggots. 

“I guess that makes sense,” Casey continued, rolling his eyes quite pointedly. “Because you don’t care to remember. You just can’t be bothered to! That’s why you think you can just make a hobby out of hurting others! YOU DON’T CARE ABOUT ANYONE OR ANYTHING BUT YOURSELF.”

Without warning, Casey felt the pressure ease around his wrist; Mad’s grip had finally slackened. It was obviously a subconscious, accidental gesture, but it was better than nothing. 

Not intending to waste any chance he could get here, he tugged his arm back once again. 

Mad noticed, of course, but he was too slow to retain his hold. 

Casey peeled the offending had away, then shoved it toward the lunatic in front of him…only to freeze in place. 

Way back when, Mad’s palms were rough and bumpy, pretty much always boasting a few callouses. One time Casey had caught him tearing the little clumps of dead skin off with his fingernails. He remembered his worry taking on a gross, itchy feeling that churned around in his stomach at the sight. 

He didn’t feel any callouses now. Didn’t feel any nails, didn’t feel any skin. 

All he felt was something hard, smooth, and cold. 

Time seemed to slow down as his eyes wandered over the prosthetic.

A clutch of five digits sculpted from some kind of plastic.

A tangle of thin, tiny wires wove out from the base of each “knuckle,” simulating the tendons that were supposed to reach all the way up to the elbow and give fine motor-control. 

They all connected to a metal band, which encircled Mad’s wrist, just barely jutting out from whatever scarred skin remained. 

Casey’s focus darted over, confirming that the hand’s counterpart was in the exact same condition. 

It seemed the shock on Casey’s face was the key to finally convince Mad on the importance of personal space. He snatched his hardware away and stumbled back, blindly groping at the armchair positioned by the couch.

After a painfully awkward moment passed by, he produced a pair of thick black gloves. He shoved them on, one after the other, as if that would somehow magically turn his hands back to flesh and blood and bone. The way they should’ve been.

Casey had to hold onto his anger—his needed to. 

He couldn’t let himself get caught up in anything. He couldn’t let himself get distracted. That was exactly what Mad wanted. 

But even as all those horrible, monstrous things kept echoing through his head, he couldn’t help it when his voice tapered down to a whisper: “Did…did you do that?” 

Mad stared at him, his expression now unreadable. The seconds felt like hours as he offered a hesitant nod. 

Casey’s eyes bulged from their sockets. A tidal wave of screaming questions crashed over his head, but he could only drag one out into the air. “Why?”

Mad’s features twisted in a scowl that was made even worse by how it stretched the scarred, burned tissue around his lips. 

“Because I had to,” Mad replied, his tone dripping with ice. “Business had taken more than enough hits. People were asking too many questions. I needed to get away. To start over.”

And just like that, Casey’s fury resumed its festering path around both his brain and his heart. 

The statement rang through his skull like a rusty, broken church bell. 

“The disaster at that one Freddy’s…They said two bodies were found. The owner and an employee,” Casey murmured, remembering the news story he just so happened to find while flicking through TV channels one morning. “That was you. You’d left some evidence around the place that couldn’t be covered up or cleaned off. So you decided to just send it to high-heaven.” 

Mad folded his arms across his chest, sighing through his nose and rolling his eyes like a stereotypical teenager. Despite this, you could still catch his eyes twinkling with sick, arrogant pride. 

“Afton,” Casey continued, putting piece after piece together. “That was the guy’s name. That was the latest fake identity you were using!”

Mad looked like he’d been about to say something, but a small, hitching gasp seeped through his teeth instead. His eyes grew to the size of dinner plates. 

“You killed someone else before it happened, didn’t you? You cut off their hands, got rid of them, and then you—you left yours behind with the body.” Casey felt his chest tightening, felt the new gash in his torso burn and sting so bright it almost felt fresh.

“That way, if anyone came sniffing through the wreckage…they’d have no choice but to connect your fingerprints to the victim. Your records, too. They’d think you died in that explosion.”

Casey had seen his fair share of criminals going out of their way to make things…elaborate. Sometimes that just made them easier to catch, but other times it left him feeling cold, scared, almost helpless depending on what exactly he was looking for. 

The scheme Mad had apparently cooked up was a very labored one.

It was a long-con, a true gamble.

And, worst of all: it was infuriatingly, horrifically clever.

Now it was Mad’s turn to whisper, his voice dangerously close to shaking. 

“H-how…how did you do that?!”

“It’s really not that hard with you, Mad!” Casey fumed, throwing his hands up in the air and wincing as the muscles in his bandaged arm screamed. “Keeping track of everything you’ve done? That’s painful for sure. But you always have your damn tells!”

Mad gripped the arm of his chair, his hand shaking as his digits sank into the leather. 

“Shut up.” The warning came out as a hiss. 

It fell on deaf ears.

“Why else would you keep running around with fake names, ruining different people’s lives, causing wanton destruction?!” Casey shouted. It felt like a section of his brain was about to bash its way out of his skull. One hand subconsciously reached for his head, soon touching down to rake across his black hair, almost digging his nails into his own scalp. 

“Shut. UP,” Mad repeated, his breathing now ragged.

Casey wasn’t deterred. “It’s not just because you get a kick out of it! It’s because you can’t even take responsibility for crimes, of all things! You really think you’re some kind of mastermind, but if it wasn’t for all the high numbers and missing cases and flash you’re so obsessed with, then you’d just be another low-level, dime-a-dozen scumbag!”

“SHUT UP!” Mad shrieked, practically jumping out of his chair. 

In a swift, blurry movement, he grabbed one of the coffee table’s legs, raised it up, and hurled it across the room. 

It hit the opposite wall with a dull, deafening WHAM! before falling to the floor.

(Oddly enough, it stayed in one piece, though there were some brand-spankin’-new cracks in the white paint. Not to mention a fresh dent in the wall.)

Casey stared at the display, only for a violent flinch to sear through him as the shifting continued in his peripheral vision. He braced himself, clenching his jaw, gripping at the couch cushions.

Mad stormed further away, approaching a door that waited right on the living room’s border. He ripped it open, using so much force that it was a miracle he didn’t rip it off its hinges.

Then he ducked into the next room and slammed it shut, making the wall shake for a long few seconds. His angry movements grew muffled, fainter (not by very much of course), but didn’t stop altogether.

Somehow, this new, relative silence felt worse than the screaming. 

Casey swallowed a lump in his throat. He chewed his lip, glancing all around the space—there. 

A hollow threshold on the other end of the living room, almost perfectly opposite of wherever Mad had retreated into. 

He had no idea how much time Mad would take to sulk, to get his aggression out, to be unable to watch him. 

He had to move quickly. 

Casey sat upright, feeling his shoes touch down on the carpet. 

Even after steadying himself, he still had to screw his eyes shut and suck a sharp breath in through his teeth as he stood up.

The room swayed, and the pain drank that right up. 

Agony raced up and down his legs as he began to walk, but he couldn’t let that stop him. He shifted his weight with each step, making as little noise as possible. 

Once he was close enough, Casey reached out and pushed his hand onto the wall, half-leaning against it to keep his balance.

He had to get out of here, but he couldn’t just leave. 

After all, where exactly would he go? He didn’t even know how close this house was to the area he’d been attacked at.

Wandering would be useless; Mad could track him down and re-capture him easily 

If Casey truly wanted to escape, he’d have to be smart about it…

___

Azalea dug around in her bag and fished out a familiar, pink-stained wooden container. She popped it open and gazed inside, silently reading the labels on the little glass vials she’d taken samples from a few minutes ago.

She’d used up the Japanese Giant Hornet venom for the job—so, that left four types of hype for her to work with, each ready to go, filled with clear, oh-so innocent-looking liquids. 

She settled on potentially incriminating a Gila monster, grabbing the appropriate syringe and spinning it between her gloved fingers. 

Those lizards were considered to have one of the most painful bites in the United States, though lethal cases were almost unheard of.

The same went for the other toxins she’d brought. 

Arizona bark scorpion, platypus, bullet ant…oh, they offered side-effects that were agonizing, but not technically fatal. 

Just enough juice to incapacitate someone for a while.

Though, they couldn’t exactly knock someone unconscious. Sure, the shock and pain could potentially make the unlucky victim pass out, but it was still a gamble. 

A gamble that Azalea wouldn’t have to worry about with certain other substances in her collection.

The same ones that she’d somehow forgotten to bring along. 

Hell, she’d even neglected to bring a trusty dart gun! It wasn’t impossible to pull off stealth-based work without one, but still...

Caliban pushed off from the top of the fence, landing beside her with a light thump on the grass. He dusted himself off and began stalking forward…only to stop short, seeing the self-aimed disappointment on her face. 

“Hey, c’mon, don’t beat yourself up about it,” he assured, giving her a light pat on the shoulder. “We’ve improvised before, so we can do it again.”

“I know, I know,” Azalea replied, offering a gesture that was half-nod-half-shrug as the two of them crept through a very unkempt backyard.

She was grateful for the morbid optimism; he’d already heard her slight panic-rant back at the motel, and yet he wasn’t getting snappy.  “It’s just…you’ve got more history with this guy than the rest of us. I don’t want to make things any more stressful.” 

“Well, yeah.” Caliban admitted, chewing his lip with a nod of his own. “But since when does random stuff like this not have any stress?”

A wide grin then spread over his features, showcasing the way his teeth looked a bit too sharp. “Besides, most jobs tend to get more fun sooner or later.”

Azalea chuckled, the syringe already feeling lighter in her grasp.

It was very late in the night. The sky had been completely swallowed up by clouds; the moon’s glow just barely managed to peek out through a few of them, but that only made so much of a dent in the darkness. 

This wasn’t a problem, really. More than enough time had passed for them to adjust to nocturnal schedules, to learn how to make their way with limited vision.

Maybe that was why Azalea could see her brother’s eyes glinting almost as much as his teeth.

Much like the ones on her face, Caliban’s eyes were brown. And yet, right now, they almost seemed to take on a shade of yellow that would’ve been creepy to most other people. 

(His eyes always did that when he had a lot of adrenaline. Even more so when he was hungry.) 

Though there was a decent amount of space, the house didn’t have much in the way of a back-patio. 

The siblings ducked as they passed a couple windows, soon approaching a door. It seemed a hole had been cut out, since there was a wide plastic panel adorning the lower-half. A typical doggy-door. 

“Does he have any pets?” Azalea asked, eyeing it cautiously. “Have you ever seen him with one?”

Caliban shook his head. “Doubt it. He doesn’t seem to like most animals, if the faces he's made at Snare are anything to go by. This probably just came with the house.”

He fished through his jacket’s pockets and brought out a couple lockpicks. It took a moment of shifting them about in the keyhole, but a small click rang through the air soon enough. 

He twisted the knob and started to push, only for the door to stop less than halfway.

After flinching in near-perfect unison with Azalea, he carefully wormed his fingers through the crevice between the door and its panel. 

“What the—?!” Caliban whisper-shouted, moving his wrist up and down. “...There’s latches!”

Azalea furrowed her brow. “Plural?”

“Yeah! I can feel four or five of ‘em!” The cannibal gave an aggravated growl. “This has to be the one thing he’s actually thorough about.”

Azalea pursed her lips, tossing an anxious glance over her shoulder. 

Pre-planned jobs already came with their own time-crunches. Stuff like this only tightened that leash even more. 

K.O. had agreed to create a distraction after waiting two minutes; the siblings couldn’t afford to waste even a few seconds if they wanted this to work. 

She glanced down at the doggy door, raising her foot to give it a little kick. The plastic flap yielded easily. There was nothing behind it. 

After that, Azalea let out a sigh. “Alright, hold these.”

She pushed her bag and the syringe-container into Caliban’s hands without waiting for an answer, then dropped down to her knees to push the flap up and out of the way. 

Her shoulders made entry a little awkward, but she was petite enough to make it through just fine. She picked herself up, glancing around at an empty garage. 

Or, mostly empty, since the car Caliban’s rival apparently used was parked outside. A desk had been set up in the far-corner, cluttered with sheets of paper and various tools. A few strange, glinting shapes hung on the wall nearby; either weapons or more pieces of equipment—or both. 

The smell of metal and motor oil hung heavy in the musty air.

Azalea turned back to the door, making short work of the comedic amount of latches that had been installed onto it. 

The threshold was shut as quickly as it’d been opened, Caliban scurrying through to join her. 

“You didn’t see anything,” Azalea stated, squinting up at him as he handed her stuff back.

Caliban raised one hand in a small salute…though that didn’t stop one corner of his mouth from twitching in that way you just knew meant a giggle was being pushed down.

Another door stood at attention just a few feet away. 

The two of them crept toward it, only briefly jumping out of their skins at the sudden cacophony of shattering glass, followed by the unmistakable wailing of a car alarm. 

“There!” Caliban proclaimed, struggling to keep his voice low. “There’s the distraction!”

Azalea nodded, racing up a short set of concrete stairs. She pressed her ear against the door, listening carefully. She managed to catch frantic footsteps stampeding somewhere inside, though they were quick to disappear.

She was silent while turning the knob, swift as she pushed the entrance open. “C’mon, c’mon..!”

Her brother followed her lead into a laundry room, then into a small kitchen.

With the overall dingy vibes and the aged light buzzing and flickering above, you’d think there would be dishes piled up in the sink. But no; there were only knives.

“Where do you think he put him?” Azalea whispered as she sidled past the dining room table. “There’s a chance this place has a basement.”

“Maybe, but this floor can’t be that big—” Caliban started, then cut himself off. He turned his head, craning his neck in a sharp, sudden way. “Wait..!”

He took in a brisk breath, his nostrils flaring in a way that was almost similar to the near-constant twitching of Snare's nose. “I smell blood. Think it’s fresh.”

Azalea was right behind him as he trekked forward.

They came upon a much wider space—a living room, complete with a sofa here, an armchair there, and a small white table to seemed to have had a brief exchange of principles with one of the walls.

 A metallic gleam caught Azalea’s eye; Casey’s half-respirator, lying vacant right by the crash site. She tip-toed over and plucked it off the floor, winding the head strap around her free wrist. 

There was another door across the room, but the short corridor stretching out to the right seemed a bit more interesting.

The siblings kept going, turning a corner just in time to discover a closet; one that had been installed on a track, not touching the floor or ceiling by less than a single inch. 

That itself wouldn’t have been much to look at.

No, what really got their attention was how the door was sliding open.

Slowly.

Deliberately.

A dark eye shone through the crack, widening as it stared at them.

Neither Azalea nor Caliban had much of a chance to stare back. 

As if on cue, hollow space grew wider, allowing an arm to lash out. It wrapped around Azalea first, just touching along her back, then stretching to grab a handful of Caliban’s shoulder. 

The two of them let out twin yelps of panic as they were drawn forward, soon colliding with a number of hanging coats and miscellaneous clutter as the door slid shut behind them.

And now Azalea could smell blood too. Caliban had learned to track certain scents almost like a shark, but it was stronger in here

The figure responsible for this was taller than both of them. 

Even in the darkness, it didn’t take much time at all for both of them to recognize his face from so many near-misses in the past. 

But if anything sealed the deal, it was his voice. 

“I knew it!” Casey proclaimed, clearly struggling to whisper. His tone was strained by something more physical, though; like he was biting back an acidic tinge somewhere. “You guys have connections with him!”

The investigator raised his arms again, attempting to pin Caliban to one of the narrow walls. “Mad couldn’t get what he wanted from me, so called you in to take care of the rest!”

Even through the new chaos, the siblings still had a chance to exchanged confused glances.

“That’s not true at all!” Azalea snapped right back, tugging at one of Casey’s arms. “It’d be a clear break of the family’s rules!”

“The hell are you talking about?!” Caliban hissed, struggling against the other man’s grip like a bag of angry cats. “That guy’s a total parasite! I wouldn’t even put his cuts on my table, let alone work with him!”

“Likely story,” Casey growled. “Why else would you have come here?!”

“Because we’re trying to help you!” Azalea shoved her way in-between Casey and Caliban, forcing the former to release his grip. Caliban staggered back, catching himself against the opposite corner of the cramped space.

Casey gawked at the two of them, slowly shaking his head. “...No. No, you aren’t—”

“Yeah, we are!” Caliban protested. “There’s no time to explain! Just go with something..!” His eyes passed over something behind all the hanging stuff, only to freeze in a neck-snapping doubletake. His voice suddenly wavered, hitching. “...for once…”

Azalea felt a wave of something cold and prickly slide over her shoulders. 

“Cal?” She called, trying to keep her voice soft. “Cal, what is it?”  

Her brother didn’t answer. He just kept on staring. 

Azalea shuffled closer, pushing everything aside to see for herself. 

She automatically wished that she hadn’t. 

The closet’s back-wall was, to be frank, falling apart. A large hole marred the paint, revealing crumbling drywall and even a bit of a support beam. 

Caliban audibly gulped, his already-wide eyes growing even wider to accommodate the rotten memories now circulating through his head.

Azalea knew, because those same memories were doing that exact thing to her. 

Caliban stepped away, pressing his back against one of the closet’s doors.

“Cal,” Azalea repeated, finding it even hard to keep her tone even. “Cal, it’s okay—” She reaching up to grasp his shoulder. “Look at me, not at that.”

Caliban swiveled his head to face her. His eyes were still full of that strange, yellow-looking gleam, but his energy wasn’t excited anymore. Now, it resembled that of an animal caught in a trap, just about desperate enough to chew off one of its legs to escape. 

“This isn’t the same as that was,” Azalea told him. “We’re not—” She had to take a shallow breath, had to stop herself from shaking. “We’re not back there.”

“I-I know,” Caliban replied, nodding frantically. “I know, I know…”

“We’ll get out of here soon enou—”

“Shh!” Casey (who had apparently just been polite enough to stand by for this little scene), jolted in place, his focus darting back over to the doors.

The three of them fell silent.

Somewhere else in the house, a door let out a long, low squeal. 

Floorboards creaked softly. 

That might be K.O., part of Azalea’s mind whispered. He could’ve ditched Mad and circled back here to help us.

But that couldn’t be the case.

K.O. wouldn’t have been walking so quietly, so carefully. Not if he’d led a threat far enough away, at least.

Closer…and closer…

“Casey,” an unfamiliar voice called, dripping with bitterness and dread. “Casey, come on—you shouldn’t be hiding from me.”

Casey edged away from that spot where the door met the wall. 

Caliban slid closer to Azalea, eyes still wide, fear draining away. His features would’ve been completely unreadable to almost anyone else. 

“You said what you said,” the voice continued, even closer than before. “And I said what I said…”

In her peripheral vision, she saw him reach into his jacket, saw something shiny with a wooden handle appear in his grasp.

She brushed her arm against his, shifting the syringe to her opposite hand. 

“I know you’re around here somewhere!” The voice was full-on shouting now, desperation hanging in thick tangles around the words. “Doing this won’t prove anything!”

Azalea peered over at the detective, just in time to see him lower his head, shivering and clenching his jaw.

The closet door was flung aside with a grating whoosh!

A new figure loomed in the hall outside, dressed in an unmistakable bear-suit, the tan fabric smeared with red stains. His eyes were narrowed at first, only to almost pop right out of his head as he noticed the new guests in his house. 

But that only lasted a split-second. 

Caliban leapt out with an ear-piercing war-cry, his favorite cleaver a blur as he raked it against the other man, who shouted with unintelligible rage and hatred as he lashed right back. 

In a matter of seconds, they both disappeared back around the corner.

Azalea didn’t hesitate. She surged out and down the other side. Casey struggled, trying to move on his own terms, but she kept a death grip around his wrist. She could still hear her brother, hear his shouts of fury and pain mixing with that other voice, hear the subsequent thudding and shuffling of limbs against the walls and floor…

Coolness seeped over her, making goosebumps sprout all over her arms.

At the end of the hall, she discovered another door, wide open, letting the fresh, nighttime air filter on through. 

K.O. raced across the threshold, skidding to a halt upon seeing one of his accomplices. 

“I tried to draw him away, but he just went running back here before we could get far enough,” he reported in-between gasping breaths, panic heavy in his voice. “What’s going on?!”

“Change of plans,” Azalea replied, somehow just as breathless.

She pushed Casey toward K.O.—yes, the latter was shorter than the former, but he was also one of the strongest members of The Pentas Family. He was their very own underground fighter, after all.

“Take him back over there!” She instructed, pointing past his shoulder at the abandoned motel, her heart sinking as the background noises grew fainter for a millisecond. “I need to help Cal!”

“Don’t I get a say in this?!” Casey demanded, still jostling unsteadily as K.O. took hold of his arms. 

Before either of his technical captors could respond, a new sound sliced through the air.

Azalea couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard something like it, but her instincts were already shrieking and clawing at the interior of her skull. Judging by K.O and Casey’s expressions, they knew to recognize it, too. 

A chorus of rapid, buzzing, mechanical revving, almost like a car’s engine.

Almost.

Except for the fact that most cars didn’t come with a long, spinning line of teeth.

“GO! HURRY!” Azalea shouted, feeling the blood rush through her ears as she retraced her steps, sprinting past the closet, back to the entrance of that kitchen from what felt like hours ago.

Mad had his back to her, holding that same shape she’d seen in the garage. The noise it made now felt like nails being drilled into her ears. 

And in front of Mad, lying on the floor—Caliban. 

The screaming suddenly felt muffled, except for a slight ringing along the edges.

Azalea could practically feel her blood start to boil in her veins. 

Her brother had been backed into a corner…and now, some filthy bottom-feeding child murderer was AIMING A CHAINSAW AT HIS FACE.

Caliban was holding up a chair, using it as a shield. The chainsaw’s teeth sputtered and jumped at the obstacle, but that would only last so long. 

Before she even realized it, Azalea was running, leaping onto Mad’s back.

Mad let out a guttural yelp, swinging his weapon up and away from Caliban. 

He tried to sway from side-to-side, tried to thrash his new attacker off. 

But he didn’t move fast enough. 

In a hazy, fluid movement, Azalea’s arm lashed out, then came arching back toward him. 

The needle glinted hungrily as it sank into his shoulder. She pressed down on the plunger, her white knuckles cracking from sheer force. Part of her almost expected the syringe to break apart in her hand.

Mad froze in place, lowering the chainsaw in a subconscious, almost mechanical way. He started trembling, his breathing growing even more ragged. 

She jumped away from him just as he dropped his toy (which apparently landed right on its OFF switch, Thank God). 

Then, he crumpled to his knees, and started screaming. 

A confused, raspy, keening distress-call.

He writhed in place, clawing at his shoulder as tears streamed down his face. 

Caliban was back on his feet in an instant. He raised the ruined chair over his head, then swung it down onto the chainsaw’s engine about half-a-dozen times. That didn't seem to inflict too much damage, but it was better than nothing. 

Once he was satisfied, the cannibal turned his sights back to Mad. 

Lowering his head and squaring his shoulders, he charged with another bloodthirsty scream, holding his former shield like a battering ram.

Mad’s neck was caught between the two front legs, and though he reached up to grab at them, he couldn’t stop the new momentum. 

Caliban shoved him forward, making him skid across the floor until he was against the wall. 

He didn’t stop until the chair’s legs dug into the adjacent wall, causing little wisps of dust and drywall-crumbs to come flying out. 

And just like that, Mad was pinned. 

For a few long seconds, Caliban didn't let go of the chair's back-post. Instead, he loomed over his opponent, panting like a dog, his eyes feral as they rolled around in his head.

"You look like a tuna melt," the cannibal declared.

Though this didn't stop Mad from all his kicking and squirming, a flare in his eyes made it clear that comment had struck some kind of nerve.

"...I HATE tuna melts," Caliban added, his snarl quickly shifting into a grin so wide it almost seemed to split his face. A dark chuckle seeped through his bared teeth. "HATE 'EM!"

He pulled away, throwing his head back to let out a loud, ragged high-pitched cackle, his teeth practically gnashing at the air.

While Azalea was normally happy to see her peers getting some well-earned stress relief, she still knew very well that this impromptu timeout-trap wouldn't hold Mad forever.

Sure, the pain from the Gila venom would slow him down, but even that could only last so long. The side-effects varied from person to person; sometimes they'd linger on for hours. Other times, however, they might start wearing off in forty-five minutes...

With that in mind, she felt her free hand tug at her brother's jacket, then heard the speed of the world whistling past the two of them.

She finally, finally managed to blink, and she was outside again.

She didn't have to guide Caliban along. He readily ran beside her, unhinged chortles still leaking out in-between breaths.

Her lungs were threatening to burst open and tangle themselves all over her ribcage, but she couldn't think about that right now.

Azalea just had to focus on running, had to focus on how Caliban was still breathing, had to focus on the two other, very familiar figures up ahead.

Casey, who was being half-carried-half-dragged, and K.O., who was halfway through the entrance of that decrepit motel...

@sammys-magical-au @the-matpat-ever @lexusinsannus @b-is-in-the-closet @im-a-weird0 @lampsforsocks

You changed,

You haven’t

A follow up to our lovely collab with @wouldntyou-liketoknow, this is more of a flashback to kinda get into the relationship between Casey and Mad through Mad’s eyes. It may never erase what he’s done, but it may show a glimpse as to why he can’t seem to let Casey go.

Has always been, and always will be known as a monster, yet one soul decided to take a chance, to hold his hand and make him feel something more than just a monster. He was more in that person’s eyes, and he never wanted to let go of that feeling. The simple single touch of another who never views him as nothing more than a…

Shame he no longer can feel the touch.

@crazy-obsessed-enby @iswmperson @lexusinsannus @sammys-magical-au @wouldntyou-liketoknow @the-matpat-ever

He can only dream.

[dinosaurgiantpenny]

[deadolloading]

Solicitudes

Presentación de mi perfil, lo que escribo, reglas.

¡Hola pequeña personita! Me presento, soy deadolloading aún que pueden decirme Joven D, Doll, Dolly o como gustes. Mis pronombres son She/Her/Him, ¡Pero puedes decirme como sea!

Mi blog es totalmente en contenido en español, esto es debido a que no se mucho de inglés y hasta que no lo aprenda en su totalidad, no haré contenido en inglés.

El contenido de mi perfil apunta específicamente a todo lo relacionado con fanfics, pequeños escritos míos, etc. Igualmente los fanfics van del famoso Character x Reader o como el famoso Character x T/N.

Personas de cualquier edad, genero, creencia o nacionalidad ¡Es completamente bienvenido! Ya que mi contenido va para todo público ya que me incomoda escribir cualquier cosa NSFW, por lo que todo mi contenido es SFW, en caso de ser lo contrario se pide que no interactúen con esa publicación.

Requests are open!

Lea esto antes de solicitar cualquier fanfic, headcanon y esas cosas (ㅅ´ ˘ `)

Nota: A veces no puedo publicar mucho debido a lo ocupado que suelo estar.

Soy muy imaginativo con headcanons, escenarios/drabbles y es posible que veas mucho de eso en mi perfil, pero nada de fanfics o one-shots y tendrás que esperar mucho tiempo para que haga uno.

Por favor, no envíe hagas spam de solicitudes porque en esos caso no lo haré.

Si no publico un post muy largo, puede ser porque no tengo mucha imaginación en ese momento, disculpas de antemano.

¡El inglés no es mi primer idioma! Así que lo siento mucho por lo que solo escribiré en español.

Cuando pida algo en mi bandeja, por favor dame detalles de lo que quieres, como una parte específica que desea que agregue, qué personaje, género del lector, etc.

Solo puede escribir de 2 a 3 personajes a la vez.

Quiero que este lugar sea seguro tanto para mí como para los lectores.

Tengo todo el derecho a rechazar una solicitud, especialmente si rompe con las reglas que ya tengo.

Acepto escribir

Relaciones poliamorosas.

Dolor/comodidad.

Pelusa.

Amor, oc x character

No acepto escribir

Incesto

Sexo/NSFW

Violencia

Pedofilia, zoofilia

Relaciones altamente tóxicas

Fandoms y personajes para los que escribo !

Videojuegos

Phantom of the Opera - MazM

Christine Daae Sorelli Dupont Melek Levni Detective Hatim Eric

Genshin Impact

Sucrose Rosaria Beidou Amber Kaeya Diluc Jean Aloy Lisa

Mario Bros

Princess Peach Princess Daisy Rosalina Pauline Mario Luigi

Cuphead

Baroness Von Bon Bon Chef Saltbaker Cala Maria Hilda Berg

Five Night's at Freddy's

Michael Afton William Afton Henry Emily Clara Afton Animatronics

Sims 4

Elvira Lapida

Series/Anime/ARG

The Mandela Catalogo

Cesar Torres Mark Heathcliff Adam Murray Jonah Marshall Arcangel Gabriel Alt!Archangel Gabriel Sarah Heathcliff

Popee the Performer

Papi Poppe Eepop Kedamono

Kimetsu no Yaiba

Tanjiro Kamado Nezuko Kamado Inosuke Hashibira Zenitsu Agatsuma Muzan Kibutsuji Kagaya Ubuyashiki Kyōjurō Rengoku Obanai Iguro Gyomei Himejima Tengen Uzui Shinjuro Rengoku Mitsuri Kanroji Shinobu Kochō

Welcome Home

Wally Darling Julie Joyful Barnaby B. Beagle Frank Frankly Eddie Dear Howdy Pillar Sally Starlet Poppy Partridge

My Hero Academia

Kyoka Jiro Eijiro Kirishima Denki Kaminari Mei Hatsume Mt. Lady Tsuyu Asui Tenya Iida Endeavor Ochako Uraraka Momo Yaoyorozu

Sakura CardCaptor

Tomoyo Daidōji Tōya Kinomoto Yukito Tsukishiro Maki Matsumoto Nadeshiko Kinomoto Syaoran Li Fujitaka Kinomoto Kaho Mizuki Sakura Kinomoto Clow Reed Caras Clow

Sailor Moon

Usagi Tsukino Rei Hino Makoto Kino Ami Mizuno Minako Aino Haruka Teno Michiru Kaio Setsuna Meio Nephrite Mamoru Chiba/Tuxedo Mask Kou Seiya Kou Yaten Kou Taiki

Dragon Ball

Gohan Veggetta Piccolo Trunks Broly Androide 18 Androide 17 Whis Krilin

Scooby-Doo

Vilma Dinkley Daphne Blake Shaggy Rogers Fred Jones

A Series of Unfortunate Events

Montgomery Montgomery Violet Baudelaire Klaus Baudelaire Georgina Orwell Justice Strauss Fernald Fiona Kit Snicket Lemony Snicket  Gustav Sebald

Marvel/DC Comics

Solo agregare unos personajes

Doctor Octopus - Spiderman Miguel O'Hara - Spiderman Ghost Spider - Spiderman Spider-Man Noir - Spiderman Doctor Stranger - Marvel Peggy Carter - Marvel Raven - DC Comics Starfire - DC Comics Beast Boy - DC Comics Green Arrow - DC Comics

Moral Orel

Bloberta Puppington Clay Puppington Rod Putty Stephanie Putty Nurse Bendy

The Amazing Digital Circus

Ragatha x Reader Pomni x Reader Caine x Moon Caine x Reader Jax x Reader Gingle x Reader

Otros personajes (serie o película)

Miss Peregrine - Miss Peregrine y el hogar para chicos peculiares Carrie - Carrie 1976 Michael Myers - Halloween Jason Voorhees - Viernes 13 Thomas Hewitt - Masacre en Texas 2006 Ghostface - Danny Johnson Phantom of the Opera - Movie 2004 Blue Diamont - Steven Universe Yellow Diamond - Steven Universe Personajes de Disney - Solo si lo conozco

⠀⠀ ⠀ Reglas ⛧ ?!

ㅤㅤ⛧ Especificar por favor lo que quieren, no soy adivina. Si quieren cierta situación especifica, ese tipo de cosas ya saben.

ㅤㅤ⛧ Al momento de escribir para lectores, lo diré de una vez, no se mucho de pronombres. Por lo que si quieres de un personaje no binario o algo así, por favor dime como es su uso de pronombres para escribirlo y te sientas cómodo.

ㅤㅤ⛧ Esto totalmente abierta a la idea de escribir OC x Character, para eso pido que en privado me den algo de información de su oc. Alguna ficha, descripción de personalidad y física, ese tipo de cosas.

ㅤㅤ⛧ Pido que me tengan paciencia, suele escribir de forma muy tardada debido a mi gran bloqueo de escritor. Ténganme paciencia, soy nuevo en esto :').

ㅤㅤ⛧ ¡Pueden pedirme cualquier cosa! Romance, platónico, relación padre/madre e hijx, de hermandad, etc.

ㅤㅤ⛧ Por favor, pido respeto ya que esto es como un tipo de pasatiempo para mi. No vengo a molestar a nadie y tampoco vengo a que me molesten. Si no les gusta mi perfil o tienes problemas conmigo, te pido amablemente que dejes mi perfil y con gusto puedes bloquearme.

Eso sería todo por mi parte, bienvenidos a mi perfil y espero que les guste mi contenido.

¡Nos vemos!

[kikabea100]

Decided to write my own take on what I think "FNAF: Secret of the Mimic" will mean for the lore.

I think the game will show us exactly how the games parallel the books. From my viewpoint,

Edwin is Henry's counterpart. Henry created the Mimic in the same way Edwin created it. My explanation as to why Edwin created the Mimic at the same time as Chica was because it was meant to show how Henry created Chica, maybe even designed her.

Going with the theory that the reason for the Mimic to be paired with Bonnie and Freddy in FNAF 2 is that he is the Counter-Auguste Clow, I also suspect that's where the Mimic picked up on William's bad habits.

As we see in the Tales from the Pizzaplex's epilogue, the Mimic originally was built without legs, mirroring what we know about the Mimic from the demo we heard being described as he also didn't have legs. For the question on how the Mimic got legs later on, I don't have an answer to that

[uwmspeccoll]

Milestone Monday!

Crowning Love 💒💍

On this day, February 10, 1840, Queen Victoria of the United Kingdom married Prince Albert of Saxe-Coburg and Gotha at the Chapel Royal in St. James's Palace. This marriage was significant because it united the British monarchy with the German nobility since Albert was a German prince. The two shared a deep and loving relationship, characterized by a strong partnership. Victoria was just 20 years old at the time, while Albert, her first cousin, was 21.

This royal wedding established traditions that continue to be practiced today. Departing from the previous custom of private nighttime ceremonies, Victoria wanted her subjects to witness the bridal procession, so she held hers during the day. This led to the highly publicized royal weddings we see today. She also wore a white satin dress at a time when the norm was to wear a variety of colors, ranging from red or pink to brown or black.  This sparked a surge in white wedding dresses, ultimately contributing to the established tradition we see in modern weddings today.

The couple had nine children, and their offspring married into various European royal families, earning her the nickname "the grandmother of Europe." After Albert's premature death in 1861, Victoria mourned deeply and wore black for the rest of her life, contributing to her public image as a figure of mourning and loss. Their love story remains one of the most romantic in royal history.

--Melissa, Special Collections Library Assistant

The images featured come from:

The Enchanted Dolls’ House Wedding by Robyn Johnson was published in New York by Handprint Books in 2007. Our copy is a 1st American edition. This adorable pop-up book presents the fashions, customs, and traditions of weddings held in Victorian England. 

The Queen’s Tact, a humorous poem written by New Zealand author and biographer Hector Bolitho, was published in London by Nicholson & Watson in 1938. It was produced by William Clowes and Sons, who were known for developing the use of steam-powered printing presses. The mounted illustration was created by British artist Steven Spurrier. 

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

The Gift That Keeps On Giving: Incorrect Quotes (please just ignore how none of them are holiday-themed...)

Remember this post? Well, unfortunately, it was pretty damn prophetic. The gift-story I've been working on will take more time than I expected. (On the bright side, maybe I can make a weird little New Year's Eve thing out of it.)

But I still refuse to not post something special for my friends on here for Christmas!

And if it can't be a full-on story, then I'll go for the next best thing: MIXING FANMADE CHARACTERS INTO MEMES.

(Disclaimer: two of the characters involved here do not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by my amazing friend, @insane4fandoms. Sam Ryder, meanwhile, is the OC of another one of my wonderful moots, @sammys-magical-au! And as for the character who do belong to me...well, if you'd like to learn more about them, they'll each be linked as they're introduced.)

___

[Since they're sort of on the same page, Casey is trying to interview Sam. He's currently trying to discuss The Pentas Family with them.]

Casey: How did you even get into an alliance with them to begin with? How can you handle all the horrific stuff they do?!

Sam: *looking past Casey, watching through the window as Murdock, The Newcomer, Caliban, Azalea, and a few other Pentas members are chasing a few targets/rivals down in the streets*

Sam: ...Sometimes, I'm not really sure, either.

___

The Newcomer: *talking about the rest of The Pentas Family* “i CoUlD fIx tHeM." The Newcomer: Yeah? Well, I could accept these guys as they are. You don’t like murder? Grow up. The atrocities are part of my family, and I’ve decided they’re funny.

___

Casey: Oh, fiddlesticks! This really ruffles my feathers!

Murdock: *looking genuinely disturbed/concerned* PLEASE just say "fuck."

___

Garret: *kicks in the door to a target’s hideout* Your free trial of life has ended.

___

Caliban: Reverse tooth fairy where you leave money under your pillow and the tooth fairy comes and leaves you a bunch of teeth.

Casey: . . .Why?!

Caliban: *shaking a bag of teeth* Just because.

___

K.O.: If I got my foot cut off, then picked it up and swung it at you, would that be me hitting you or me kicking you?

Casey: Well, you'd really just mentally scar me more than anything!

___

Parker: Look, in my defense, I had some really good music on, and it made me want to do something kinda evil.

Casey: . . .

___

Azalea: Hey, there’s our old friend!

Casey: ...You and your buddies literally tried to kill me at some point.

Azalea: That was obviously just our way of getting to know you.

___

Val: People like to say “you can be part of the problem or part of the solution,” but I happen to believe you can be both

Casey: That is NOT how it works.

Sam: *shrugging* I mean...technically, sometimes it can be...

___

Two-Toes Johnny: I’ve had a lotta people ask me, “Hey, Johnny, are you a glass-half-full or a glass-half-empty kinda guy?” Two-Toes Johnny: And after some time to think, I can now confidently answer that question. Two-Toes Johnny: *pours some water into a glass. . .and then smashes that glass on the floor*

___

Phoenix: I can’t do this, it’s against my moral compass.

Casey: Your moral compass is a roulette wheel.

Phoenix: What's your point?

___

Miles: Nice opinion! One small issue, though. . . Miles: . . .I’ve planted a landmine in an undisclosed location inside your house. Every step you take is now a risky move.

___

Casey: I think my guardian angel drinks.

Sam: Join the club, dude.

___

Howie: *pulls up one of his cars with a few other Pentas members riding in the backseat; rolls down the window and honks the horn at The Newcomer* Get in, loser! We’re committing homicide!

___

Casey: My bounty is missing, and there's literally blood on your hands! What did you do?!

Garret: Alright, fine. I may have aggressively hugged him...specifically with my scarf...around his neck.

Casey: So you strangled him to death?!

Garret: No, no. I aggressively hugged his neck with my scarf.

___

Casey: WHAT ARE ALL THESE DEAD BODIES DOING HERE?!

Jay: *nudges one with his shoe* Honestly, not much.

___

[Sometime after Casey managed to steal a bounty from Murdock]

[Extra Context: Murdock is 5'10. Casey is 6'3]

Murdock: Listen, I get that we don’t see eye-to-eye on some things, but—

Casey: That’s because you’re short.

Murdock: . . .WHAT did you just say to me?

Casey: Oh, I’m sorry. Did you not hear me down there? Should I sPEAK UP?

Murdock: What are you doing?!

Casey: I didn’t say anything. What’s up? Ah, sorry, DOWN. ‘Cause that’s where you are.

Murdock: ARE YOU TRYING TO GET YOUR—

Casey: “Kneecaps broken?” You gonna kick my shins or somethin’? ‘Cause that’s all you can reach, right?

Murdock: What is wrong with you today?!

Casey: Oh, do we have a short fuse today? DO WE. . ?

Murdock: Why are you being so insulting?! I—you—we were just having an argument—

Casey: Sorry, speak up. I can’t hear you all the way down there.

Murdock: . . .

Casey: Speak a little louder for me. Y’know, ‘cause you’re short.

Murdock: THAT’S IT, I’M GONNA—

Casey: Whoa, calm down there, you little IMP. ‘Cause, y’know, the shorter they are, the closer to hell—

Murdock: I GET THE JOKE, AND NOW I'M GONNA KICK YOUR ASS, I SWEAR TO GOD!

___

[Sometime after Casey calls a truce with The Pentas Family. Recently, he's been struggling with a strange case, so he's reluctantly sought out some help/advice from Caliban. The two of them have been sneaking around the city late into the night; they're just now approaching the building where Casey keeps his office]

Casey: *turning the corner and looking up* ...SCOUT!

Caliban: *following Casey's gaze, his eyes widening and mouth dropping open* ...SNARE!

[Scout and Snare are currently sitting on the roof of the building, just above the back entrance]

Casey: WHAT THE HECK ARE YOU DOING?!

[Neither Scout nor Snare answer, since they're respectively a beagle and a hare]

Caliban: HOW DID YOU GET UP THERE?!

___

Two-Toes Johnny: *pouring himself a glass of wine* GOOD MORNIN'! Don’t forget to drink your water and mIND YOUR FUCKIN’ BUSINESS! Two-Toes Johnny: . . .This is wine, but you KNOW WHAT I MEAN! Two-Toes Johnny: If the things in your life are not bringin' you inspiration, income, or orgasms, they don’t belong in your life! So stop lettin' them linger around! Two-Toes Johnny: Ignore the judgmental people who always got somethin’ to say! They look like wildebeests, and you’d rather be the bitch that’s being talked about than the miserable bitch who’s talkin’! Two-Toes Johnny: So, thank you for comin' to my Sunday service. We fuck ‘em up, we fuck ‘em down, we fuck their friends when they’re outta town. Two-Toes Johnny: *takes a sip of his wine* . . .AMEN!!!

___

K.O.: YOU’RE TOO LATE, CLOWES! I AM NOW FORKLIFT CERTIFIED!

K.O.:*drives around, laughing maniacally. . .at least until he crashes the forklift into something, causing now broken shelves to start falling. . .*

K.O.: *stops laughing* o-OH MY G O D—OH MY GOD—WHAT THE FUCK IS—AAAAAAAAAAHH—!

___

Azalea: Okay, what does A stand for? Phoenix: Arson. Azalea: Aww, you're so good. Okay! B! What does B stand for? Phoenix: . . .Barson. Caliban: *laughs* Azalea: What stands for C? Phoenix: Commit arson. Azalea: D! Phoenix: Don't come near me, I'm going to commit arson. Caliban: *now on the floor, laughing even harder*

___

Parker: We are one hundred meters from your location and approaching rapidly. Parker: S t a r t r u n n i n g .

___

Casey: Sometimes I wonder why humans have different blood groups.

Caliban: So I can enjoy different flavors.

___

“What are you, exactly?”

Val: A mobster.

“No, what’s your gender?”

Val: I’m a contract killer.

“No! Like, what’s under your dress?!”

Val: *pulls out a minigun from their thigh-holster under their dress* A GUN.

___

[Casey has gotten caught up in one of Miles' booby traps. Surprisingly enough, it's not a harmful one, but it's still pretty damn aggravating since it ruined one of Casey's stake-outs. Sam has found Casey and is now helping him out]

Sam: Is there something you'd like to say, Mr. Clowes? Casey: *one eye twitching* Oh, there are SEVERAL things I'd like to say...

___

@the-matpat-ever @b-is-in-the-closet @lampsforsocks @bloodyhound12345 @yourannoyinglittlesistersteph @flaming-dolph16

[goblinsofdiscord]

Goblins of Discord 👹 Enneagram Type Database 🤓

All typings have a corresponding youtube video (linked). Many more on their way. Please note, that some of these are likely to change a bit in the future.

I’ll probably update a handful of older ones soon, as my understanding of the Enneagram has evolved since some of them were made (and is still deepening). This obsession is all-consuming and I won’t stop until I can psychically intuit every single type + instinct combination on sight, within 10 seconds and am rebirthed into my next form as the 🧞‍♀️👁️ human pixie frequency diviner of the apocalypse. 😈 🔥

If you think you’ve found a weirdo type and might want to join a typing call, DM larissa on the goblinsofdiscord instagram, or post the type below in the comments.

🍄 👀 If you want to book a typing call or submit an introvert video (of you or someone you know) to be picked over, spitroasted, impression’ed on, click here.

Enneagram Type 1

John Waters 🗑️✝️ 1w2 7w6 4w3 so/sx 💖💧🧚‍♂️ The Pope of Trash

Jamie Lee Curtis 🎃 1w2 36 so/sx 👹 The Horny Karen

Nasim Aghdam 🐅 1w9 7w6 4w5 so/sp 💥 Triple Frustration Threat

Quentin Crisp 🎀 ✨ 1w9 4w3 7w6 so/sx 🦚 Trailblazing Peacock

Enneagram Type 2

Pamela Des Barres 🌼 2w3 7w6 9w1 so/sx ☀️ Flowerchild Supergroupie

Big Edie (Grey Gardens) ✝️🐈‍⬛ 2w1 6w7 8w9 sx/so 🍸 Mother Diva

Enneagram Type 3

Lucy Lawless ⚔️ 3w2 8w7 5w6 so/sx ⚔️ watch

Montel Williams 👄 3w2 6w7 8w7 so/sp ⚔️ watch

Jensen Ackles 👻 3w2 6w7 8w9 sp/so ⭐ watch

Corey Feldman 🎩 3w2 6w7 9w1 sp/sx ★Ascension Millennium

David Fincher 🎥 3w4 5w6 8w7 sp/so 📦 What's in his Box?

Bret Easton Ellis 😍🗡️ 3w4 5w6 8w9 so/sp 🖤🚬 American Psycho

Whitney Houston 🖤 3w4 6w7 9w1 sx/so 🥀 Queen of the Night

Gregg Araki 🚬 3w4 6w7 9w8 so/sx 👄 The Doomed Enneagram

Nicole Kidman 👠 3w4 6w7 1w9 👠 watch

Emma Roberts 🫖 3w4 6w7 1w2 so/sp 🍰 watch

Belinda Carlistle 🔥 3w4 1w9 7w8 🔥 sp/so watch

Caroline Calloway 💸 3w4 7w6 9w1 so/sx ✨ Happy Scammerversary

Enneagram 4

Vivien Leigh 🌹 4w3 6w7 9w1 so/sx 🥀 Making Fours Dramatic Again

Winona Ryder 🥀 Enneagram 4w3 6w7 9w1 sp/so 🥀 The OG Sadgirl

Jeff Buckley 🥀 4w5 6w7 9w1 sx/so 💔 watch

Enneagram Type 5

Anna Khachiyan 🧠🕳️ 5w4 9w8 4w3 so/sp 🚬 watch

Shirley Jackson 🥃 5w4 📓 livestream slop job

Sam Bankman-Fried 🤓 5w6 9w8 3w4 spso 💩 Gaslighting Nerd

Enneagram Type 6

Larry David 🍋 6w5 1w9 4w3 so/sp 😒 Miserable F*ck

Lauryn Hill 😇 6w5 8w9 2w1 so/sp 🎤 Gonna Find You..

Julia Ducournau 🚗 6w5 9w1 4w3 💋 Baby, I Like it Raw

Caroline Ellison 🧠 6w7 1w2 3w2 sp/so 🖖 Polycule Pick-Me

Robert Crumb 🤡 6w7 4w5 1w2 💦 The Sex Weasel

David Icke 🦎 6w7 9w1 3w2 so/sp 👁️👽 The Passion of 6

Daniel Clowes 👻 6w7 9w1 4w3 so/sp ✒️ Like a Velvet Glove

Phil Ochs 🎸 6w7 9w1 4w5 so/sp 💧 The Misunderstood Folk Hero

Dylan Moran ☘️ 6w7 9w1 4w3 sp/so 🤴 watch

Mia Goth 🍯 6w7 9w1 2w3 sp/sx 😇 Strange Angel

Sean Baker 🍊 6w7 9w1 3w2 so/sp ☀️ Red’s Rocket

Enneagram Type 7

Josephine Baker 💃🏽 7w6 28 so/sx 🎶 Shine on, Queen

Little Edie (Grey Gardens) 🧚‍♀️ 7w6 9w1 4w3 so/sx ⭐ 🩸 Fallen Star

Florence Welch ✨ 7w6 4w3 9w1 sp/so 🧚‍♀️ Chaotic Pixie Queen

Theo Von 🍆 7w6 9w8 4w5 sp/so 🐀 The Rat King

Danny Elfman 💀 7w6 9w1 4w5 so/sp 🎃 Dead Man’s Party

Johnette Napolitano 🩸 7w6 8w9 4w5 sp/sx 🐍 Concrete Blonde

Vincent Gallo 👹 7w6 4w5 8w9 sp/sx 😈 Horny Goblin

Heidi Fleiss 🐍🦜 7w8 1w9 3w4 spsx 🍑🚬 Hollywood Madam

Eartha Kitt 😻🐈‍⬛ 7w8 4w3 1w2 sx/so 🐈‍⬛😿 Cat Woman

Enneagram Type 8

Robin Quivers 😈😇 8w7 6w7 2w1 so/sp 💋 Glorious Narcissist

Ma Anand Sheela 😎 8w9 2w1 6w5 so/sp 💧 I Love B*tches

Glenn Danzig 🦇 8w9 6w7 4w5 sx/so ☠️ Prince of Darkness

Sylvia Brown 🔮 8w9 7w8 4w5 sp/so 🧿 watch

Enneagram Type 9

Rachel Dolezal 🐑 9w8 62 sp/so🌹 Mother Issues

Kathy Bates 🍯 9w8 62 sp/so 🩸 Sweet Misery

Shelley Duvall 🍯 9w1 6w7 2w3 sp/so 🐑 The Saccharine Sacrificial Lamb

Keith Moon 💥 9w8 7w6 3w4 sp/so 🌙 Wild Man

Sophie Thatcher 🩸 9w8 7w6 4w5 sx/sp🧚‍♀️ Grime Fairy

Dash Nekrasova 🕯 9w8 4w3 7w6 sx/so 🚬 watch

Nathan Fielder 🕳️ 9w8 5w6 3w2 sp/so 🤡 watch

Cazzie David 🦝 9w8 6w7 4w5 sp/so 🦝 Sad Sack

Charles Burns 🕳️ 9w1 5w6 3w4 so/sp 🕳️ watch

David Cronenberg 📺 9w1 5w4 3w4 so/sx 👄 Dream Daddy

Jessica Lange 🦢 9w1 63 so/sp 🦢 watch

John Galliano 🧵 9w1 4w3 7w6 sx/sp 🪡 Objet D'Art

Tyler Gaca 👻 9w1 7w6 4w3 so/sx 🍯 Ghosthoney

Chuck Palahniuk 🧞‍♂️ 9w1 7w6 4w3 so/sp 😈 All Hail the God

Corey Haim 🍍 9w1 7w6 3w2 sx/so 💔 Heartbreaker

Anna Biller ☠️🔮 9w1 4w3 7w6 so/sx 💖⚗️ The Love Witch

Frank James 💅 9w1 3w4 6w7 so/sp 🔪 watch

👯✨ Twins ✨👯

Lori & George (formerly Reba) 🤠 🤩

Lori: 6w7 9w1 3w2 sp/so

George (Reba): 9w1 3w4 6w7 so/sp

Carmen & Lupita 🦋🧙🏽

Carmen 6w7 9w1 3w2 sp/so

Lupita 9w8 7w6 3w4 sp/so

[my-chaos-radio]

Release: September 15, 1997

Lyrics:

Songwriter:

Hey oh mah mah mah

Lih le oh my ah

Paul Geoffrey Spencer / Stephen P. Spencer / Scott Rosser / Nicholas William Laird Clowes / Gilbert Gabriel / Paul Spencer / Stephen Paul Spencer / Nick Laird-Clowes / Gilbert Alexander Gabriel

SongFacts:

👉📖

[gritboy]

Twist #1

Comics anthology from the late 80s New York City cartooning scene. Comics by Basil Wolverton, Mort Todd & Daniel Clowes, Peter Bagge, Josh Gosfield, Josh Alan Friedman & Drew Friedman (with the classic “Hey Jules”), Patrick McDonnell, John Holmstrom, Stephen W. Blickenstaff and Robert Williams. 32 page black and white comic with color covers Kitchen Sink Press, 1987

[wouldntyou-liketoknow]

OKAY OKAY OKAY IT'S FINALLY HERE!

(Sorry about the long wait, friendo 😅 Don't worry, things should move along a little easier after this. In the meantime, I hope you enjoy!)

___

Abel Impulse [Part 1]

(Disclaimer: two of the characters in this story do not belong to me. Casey Clowes was created by my amazing friend, @insane4fandoms. MadPat was created by Random Encounters)

(Now, as for the fanegos who do belong to me: for more information on Azalea, go here. For more information on Phoenix, go here. For more information on Caliban, go here. For more information on K.O., go here.) 

(Trigger Warnings: murder/death, poison, blood/gore, violence, mentions of beating/fighting, mentions of allergic reaction, mentions of cannibalism, knives/blades, fire/smoke, mentions of arson, descriptions of illegal business, strong language. Please let me know if I missed anything.)

___

Azalea wasn’t quite sure why the knocking had startled her. 

Aforementioned knocks had been soft, just barely making the old door shake in its frame. They hadn’t even made her jump; just sent a quick, light flare of something both cold and hot up her spine.

It wasn’t like she’d been alone—no, she’d had company ever since sunset. 

First with her peers, during the long drive from the Cove Port Inlets to one of many small, decaying towns on the side of the roads across all those vacant fields…and then with her latest target. (Well, that was only technical. She hadn’t been hired to kill him. This was a bit more personal than most jobs. Then again, there was no denying how he’d painted a target on his own damn back, so…)

A sleazeball who went by the name Mr. Honey. Very ironic, considering what she’d done to him. 

It wasn’t like Azalea had been on-edge due to her current environment, which was, to put it frankly, decrepit as all getout. 

Wallpaper peeling in awkward curls, the smear-covered shards of a few broken windows here and there, a smell in the air that was like if a thrift shop had just given up…or a perfume made from the blended remains of bedbugs. Azalea was no stranger to rotting, run-down places. Hell, this wasn’t even the first time she’d found herself in an abandoned motel for a job. Sure, it wasn’t very glamorous, but it worked. You had to be flexible if you wanted to be successful in business like this. 

(This was Honey’s fault, really. According to a few underground grapevines, he’d made this forgotten inn a hideout for his goons—including the one she knew was currently taking more licks than even the average Tootsie Roll Pop—for almost a year now. No way this was the first time someone else had found it and snuck in while he was away…though it’d definitely be the last time. The last time for him, at least.)

It wasn’t like the room Azalea had chosen for this session had been very silent. Her victim’s voice had been tapping on her eardrums for about an hour or so.

The whistling that grew louder and louder as he’d drawn closer to her hiding spot. 

The shocked sputters when she was able to jump him, which had quickly evolved into threats and insults as she managed to hog-tie him and drag him away. 

The doubtful taunts that crumbled all too quickly, arrogance eaten up by dread as he watched her fill up the syringe.

The screams of horror and pain after she’d pushed the needle deep into his skin, on the spot where his neck met his chest. (Not too close to the carotid artery; that would’ve just made him bleed. Would’ve made things happen too fast.)

And now, a raspy chorus of wheezes and sobs and splutters, all unintelligible and creeping along similar to how mold would spread over something damp.

(Plus, that wasn’t mentioning the another room just down the hall. Even with all the walls in between, if Azalea concentrated, she could pick up a distant cacophony. Muffled cries of pain, thuds and thumps, laughter…Well, that’d been the case earlier. Now the noise had tapered down considerably.)

So, to hear such a light tapping at the door cut through all the downright delicious agony…

Maybe it was kinda like a spark creeping toward a powder-keg, just barely being snuffed out before it moved too far up the fuse.

That particular analogy turned out prophetic as the door opened with low creeaaak, and a familiar face peeked inside, fair skin framed by long, straight black hair. “How’s it going here?” 

Azalea nodded in greeting. “Good. I think my part of this whole thing is pretty much done.”

Phoenix tilted her head, leaning a little further inside. “Wait, really? What happened to those multiple doses needing a few hours to take effect?”

Azalea shrugged, then gestured for her friend to come closer. “See for yourself.” 

Phoenix slipped inside and shut the threshold behind her. She began traipsing across the little room, only to stop short once her focus settled on the old, rickety bed in the corner. 

Or, rather, the mound of lumpy flesh that used to qualify as a person weakly trembling on the musty mattress. 

Half of Honey’s body had swelled to nearly twice its original size. Not only that, but his skin was discolored and flushed, glistening with a thin layer of sweat. Clusters of shiny, angry-looking hives had sprouted up along his arms and neck and face; they could’ve been mistaken for scalds if you were watching from a distance. 

“Oh my God…” Phoenix murmured, her eyes growing wide with morbid fascination. “What did you give him?”

“Japanese giant hornet venom,” Azalea replied. 

“Okay, but how much?” Phoenix raised an eyebrow. “You’ve said before how expensive some toxins can get; you didn’t run out of anything, right?”

“No, I didn’t. Just had to use one syringe’s worth.”  The softness left Azalea’s grin in favor of something sly and acidic. She knew damn well that even if those hornets were far more aggressive than bees, it still would’ve taken a couple hundred stings for them to be deadly.

Phoenix blinked, then glanced back at the man who lay gasping and somehow barely managing to even squirm on the mattress. Her eyes were searching now.

“Oh, wait—he had an allergic reaction, didn’t he?” A smirk graced her features as she looked back at Azalea, who offered a nod. 

“Exactly! What a lucky coincidence, right?” Azalea directed that last part toward her victim, her voice tapering down a few octaves. She took a step closer, leaned down ever-so-slightly.

Even through all the torment, Honey still winced, trying and failing to edge away despite the fact that his torturer actually wasn’t even close enough to reach over and poke him. 

Of course, he wasn’t just wincing from the pain. 

He’d known a whole lot about allergies himself. 

Enough to somehow hear about K.O.’s nut allergy. 

Enough to sneak around The WormRoll on a recent fight-night. 

Enough to somehow find K.O.’s water bottle and spike it with nut-infused cooking oils. After all, the match would’ve had to be technically forfeit, and all the betted money would’ve gone to Honey’s own fighter (nicknamed Swerve, if she remembered correctly) if K.O. had a reaction before he even stepped into the ring…

Thank God that The Newcomer had managed to find out—hell, they’d been the one to rush in and smack the contaminated drink out of K.O.’s hand just before he could take a sip.

Still, impressive as it’d been, it hadn’t stopped Honey and his goon from running off before much else could happen. 

Azalea wasn’t sure why; fleeing after attempted sabotage never made things better. NEVER.

Especially not when you tried to pull that shit with The Pentas Family. 

“Did you check up on the guys?” Azalea wondered aloud. 

She turned her attention back to the syringe she’d used, now being both cleaned and fidgeted with. She shifted the base of it in her palm, allowing the needle to catch some light from the dim, flickering insect-morgue on the ceiling. (She wasn’t sure how long it’d been since this motel had been left to rot, but her instincts said it was a wonder there was any electricity left.) 

“Oh, yeah. They should be ready to wrap up soon. K.O’s gotten his own fill—last I saw, Cal was halfway through with the harvest,” Phoenix reported, leaning against the adjacent wall. 

She played with the buttons on her blazer, which was tinted a deep teal hue that no-one else would’ve been able to pull off. It’d been sewn in a perfect combination of fitted and draping. Apparently to keep up the personal trend, rather than a button-down and slacks, she wore a lovely jumpsuit underneath that was such a dark shade of indigo it nearly matched her raven hair; just a hint of violet-blue buried low in the fabric.

The news brought a smile to Azalea’s face. Sure, Caliban could’ve just waited to do his disposal stuff back at home (and aside from being potential extra backup, there was no doubt he’d come here for the adrenaline rush), but it was still nice to hear that her brother was going the extra mile to help out a friend. 

Through the corner of her eye, Azalea caught another metallic glint. 

Phoenix fished a small box-like shape from one of her pockets. It shone in a silvery way, despite being covered in thin streaks of black that all worked together to form a pattern like half-melted spirals. She’d had it since even before she’d first joined the mob. Azalea wasn’t sure where it’d come from, but she wouldn’t be surprised if Phoenix had made it herself. Just like the rough-around-the-edges band of silver that was almost always coiled around her index finger, topped with a small, raw piece of garnet.

With a clink, the lighter’s top half was hanging open by a hinge. And with a soft, almost whispering fwoosh! she brought a spark to life, quickly coaxing it to grow into a thin flame that lapped at the air. She didn’t produce a cigarette—she never had, and not just because smoker’s lungs made mob work even harder than it already was—nor did she hold it close enough to her face for the glow to reflect in her eyes.

But really, that didn’t make a difference. 

Plenty of people had dark, warm eyes. 

Phoenix’s eyes had never been just warm. More like burning from inside… 

“Good thing Cal keeps a hidden stockpile. Y’know, jars and chemicals for his Black Market clients. For the stuff he decides not to eat,” Azalea mentioned, an unconventional type of sugar seeping back into her voice. “I’m pretty sure he brought a little too much ethanol along tonight. Guess I can’t blame him, since it’s not too often he gets to do his work anywhere outside the tunnel-dens back home, but still…”

The way she trailed off was very intentional. 

After all, K.O.’s car had already been crammed almost as tight as a steel drum at the start of this job. She didn’t need to spell out how there’d only be so much trunk-space after everyone was ready to go back.

Certainly not enough for two dead bodies, even if one had been hollowed out like a pumpkin. And that wasn’t even mentioning how there wasn’t exactly a good spot outside the motel to hide them.

A new smile spread across Phoenix’s features, now with a clear pop of energy. Her knuckles twitched, grip visibly tightening around her lighter.

Ethanol was very common in the world of specimen preservation (the casualdejekyll to formaldehyde, as Caliban had once said with enough pride and knowing snark to make Murdock start a small fistfight with him). It was perfect for killing bacteria and slowing down the decay process, allowing dead tissues to still look fresh.

It was also well-known for being quite flammable, to the point where it could even be ignited just by being left too close to a hot surface.

“Huh,” Phoenix finally replied, tracing her fingertips along the lighter’s stripes. She glanced around the room, grinning at the peeling wallpaper that seemed to have a similar texture to old, dry newspapers. “You really think so?”

“Sure,” Azalea chuckled. “C’mon, you know Cal; he won’t mind. Besides, it’s not like anyone’s gonna miss this place.”

“True, true,” Phoenix hummed with a joking conspiratory edge. 

Azalea’s smile went soft and knowing.

Despite all the occasional squabbles here and there, Caliban got along well with the rest of his and Azalea’s peers. Family was part of this mob’s title, after all. (It was kind of a blessing, really; way back when, he and Azalea hadn’t exactly had the resources to make many genuine friends.) 

Addiction came in many different forms, so against all odds, it made a morbid type of sense that people could bond over it. 

Caliban craved flesh and blood, Phoenix craved flames and smoke. 

They both felt itches in the back of their minds, both had urges that needed to be hidden outside of work. 

Of course they’d wound up having a little kinship. (Hell, one time R.D. had even cracked a joke about basically having an extra sister-in-law.)

“By the way,” Phoenix cleared her throat, nodding over to Azalea’s victim. “When is he gonna give it up? I mean, no rush, really, but still…”

She trailed off, leaving Azalea to pause, chewing her lip.

“Yeah, good point,” she agreed, chewing her lip. “Well, anaphylactic shock works differently for everyone. Sometimes it takes half an hour, sometimes less than fifteen minutes. I don’t know this guy’s history, but—oh!” 

She glanced back at Mr. Honey, only to cut herself off at the sight of his watery eyes, which had apparently rolled up into his head, hiding his irises from the world. 

The conversation must have distracted her from how his breathing had gotten more slow and shallow and resigned, bit-by-little-bit until it sank into the new silence. 

“...Well, I guess he’s gone now,” Azalea replied with a shrug. 

The syringe in her hand gleamed like it’d been fully polished; no more bloodstains or drops of deceptively clear-looking liquid remained. So, Azalea looked over at the dust-buried nightstand, reaching over to grab a small container—one of many that she’d brought from home, made from pink-stained wood.

She popped it open, revealing four syringes in the top half, kept in place by velcro strips, and five glass vials, each filled with a different toxin, nestled in slots on the bottom half. 

Ah, make that five syringes, now that she was returning the latest needle to be used. 

With that, she slid the box into a crossbody bag (one of her favorites, since it was fluffy and pastel; no way most people would look at it and guess that its contents were something lethal) and headed for the door, blissfully unaware that the universe had decided that she needed a callback from earlier. 

There wasn’t really any other way to explain how the door burst open, slamming against the wall with a heavy thud! as a much taller figure clad in crimson leather rushed across the threshold.

Azalea let out a short scream, which was a somewhat impressive feat, considering how her heart had all but leapt into her throat. 

Phoenix followed suite, shock forming an invisible trebuchet that launched her lighter into the air, all the way up to the ceiling. 

Did it count as a miracle how that forced it shut, snuffing the flame out before it could catch anything?

Scratch that, it was definitely some form of divine intervention. What goes up must come down, after all, and as the lighter plummeted, it managed to strike the intruder’s head with an almost cartoonish thunk! before bouncing again and finally hitting the floor.

Despite its small size, the lighter was still pretty much solid metal, so of course the intruder stopped in his tracks with a yelp, clutching at his temple and gritting a mouthful of teeth that seemed a bit too sharp the longer you looked at them.

“Oh my—Caliban!” Azalea half-shouted, relief and exasperation making a very interesting concoction as they slithered through her brain. “Don’t give me a heart-attack, I’m not ninety-two yet!” 

Instead of answering, Caliban resumed his hussle.

“Snare?!” He called, dropping to his knees to look under the bed, not paying any mind to the corpse nearby. “Snare..!”

Caliban’s voice gave Azalea pause. Despite the volume, it wasn’t sharp like usual. In fact, it seemed to almost be fraying around the edges. 

He nearly flipped the rickety old frame as he stood up and moved on to yank the closet door open. Once he’d apparently discovered what Azalea had when she’d checked it an hour or so ago (which was a big pile of nothing, unless you counted cobwebs and dust bunnies) he turned back to face her. 

She saw how her brother’s eyes bulged from their sockets, how some of the color had drained from his face, and she felt something cold and clammy trickle along her ribcage. 

“Cal, what’s going on?” She ventured closer to him, her voice a little softer than before. 

“I—I lost track of Snare,” Caliban answered. The panic in his eyes seemed to pulse; the struggle to keep his focus from dropping to the floor was clear as crystal. “The room K.O. chose—I could’ve sworn the door was closed and locked when he started on his half of the job. I was holding Snare during all that, but once it was my turn, I set him down. And by the time I was done…”

“He wandered off when you weren’t looking?” Azalea finished the report for him, making sure to be quiet and give off no trace of sarcasm. That was the last thing he needed right now.  

Putting on some kind of facade was a common underground tactic, one they’d both learned a long time ago. (Hell, Murdock did it all the time when he was in public.) But if anyone could tell when Caliban was being genuine with his emotions, it was her. 

Caliban nodded ruefully. “I realized I hadn’t taken any fingers for him, but once I did, he—he was just gone! I almost tore up the whole damn room, but I couldn’t find him anywhere!” He wrung his hands, glancing back and forth between his sister and Phoenix. “Have you guys seen him?” 

“...No, I haven’t. The door’s been closed since I started up on my half,” Azalea replied, her heart sinking as she saw how his eyes were glistening. 

Phoenix shook her head, a similar type of worry creeping across her features. 

“Did you check any of the other rooms? I saw some open doors while I was keeping watch,” she offered as she quietly stuffed her lighter back into her pocket. 

“Yeah, yeah. Up until this one, I mean…” Caliban chewed his lip. “There’s just a few left on this floor, but still no sign of him so far.”

“Okay, okay.” Azalea nodded, reaching up to put at hand on his arm. “No reason to stop looking, right?”

“Right!” Caliban echoed with an empathic nod, staying by his sister’s side as she led him through the door and back out to the hallway. 

Phoenix followed the duo, quick to push Room 23’s door shut behind her, closing off the corpse before any eyes could’ve potentially peered through the hall’s windows at the wrong time.

(There wasn’t really a reason to go back to that room, but even if she did, it wouldn’t matter. The knob’s lock had been picked earlier, so it could be picked again just in case.) 

Azalea caught movement out of the corner of her eye, and it only took a few seconds for her to recognize the figure exiting the last room down the hall. The jeans he wore had been tinted amaranth; the exact same red shade as the boxing trunks he wore to his fights. 

K.O. was resourceful like that—he didn’t want to represent The Pentas Family only half of the time. (The fact that they complimented his sleeveless, bleach-dyed shirt so nicely helped.) 

“Any luck?” Caliban asked, taking a couple steps toward the slightly younger man. 

“Not yet,” K.O. replied, his voice apologetic and a bit lower than usual. He winced as the cannibal stopped short, shoulders slumping. He closed the distance himself, pausing opposite of Azalea, his blue eyes as determined as they were sympathetic. 

 “Hey, it’s not like this is The MGM Grand. There’s just fifteen more rooms to go,” K.O. continued, gesturing past them to the alcove across the hall, where the matted carpet turned and stretched to cover a narrow staircase. He then reached over to clap Caliban on the back. “He couldn’t have gone too far. We’ll find him, I promise.”

Anyone else would’ve flinched, considering how K.O.’s hands were still adorned by a pair of brass knuckles (especially since they were both smeared with fresh blood). 

But Caliban only took a deep breath and nodded. “Thanks. I owe you one after this—don’t let me forget.”

A brief smile flickered on K.O.’s face. “Don’t worry about it.”

And with that, he raced down the hall, his footsteps getting more and more faint as he descended the stairs.

“Maybe he went back to the room you guys used after you left?” Phoenix wondered, her eyes now thoughtful as she scanned the world around her. “He might think he’s just playing a game with you.” 

Although worry still had a strong grip on his eyes, Caliban perked up. “Good point…!” 

He turned on his heel, Azalea letting go of his jacket sleeve so she could jog alongside him past one door, then two, then five…

“I’ll go help look downstairs!” Phoenix called after them.

Azalea tossed a quick “Thanks!” over her shoulder as Caliban ducked into Room 30.

(Even if motels were meant to be smaller scale, there was no doubt he and K.O. had felt a little disappointed that there weren’t enough rooms here for digits to reach the sixties and then some.)

“Snare? If you’re here, then fine, haha, you got me,” Caliban called, his voice getting a little closer to breaking. “Y-you can come out now…”

The scent of iron—or maybe pennies? It was hard to tell sometimes—hung in the air, heavy like the heat of dryer exhaust.

Even as she helped her brother search, Azalea couldn’t help but examine his and K.O.’s work. Checking under the bed was the first thing she did, and just like Room 23, there was a dead body lying on it, so…

Neither his arms nor legs were bound, but strips of nylon were strewn about a folding chair in one corner.

Granted, the pressure tattoos they’d left around the corpse’s wrists were a bit hard to see, what with all the angry splotches of pink tinged with yellow that bloomed over almost every square inch of visible skin. 

Azalea knew from experience that it’d take a day or two for those marks to turn black and purplish-blue…then again, the guy’s skin would adopt a sickly shade of gray by then.

The bruises on his face were complimented by streaks of dark red, oozing from a nose so broken that it could’ve been compared to a ball of clay squished by a toddler’s fist, as well as busted lips and some freshly-broken teeth.

Above it all, a pair of eyes that were both swollen shut from repeated strikes (kinda fitting, since this guy wasn’t in any condition to ever open them again).

And yet, all the obvious head-trauma hadn’t been what killed him. No, that honor went to his neck, which rested on the mattress at a very uncomfortable angle, forcing him to face the wall and nothing else.

 “K.O. must’ve taken his time with this, huh?” Azalea inquired. 

“Yeah, he did,” Caliban replied, glancing over to the beaten mess of a man. “It was kinda interesting to see, since he usually moves so fast in the ring.” 

Azalea tilted her head to the side. “It was nice of you to be so patient.”

(Well. Patient might’ve been a generous word if she was honest. Long, wide strips of skin were missing from the corpse’s arms; portions of muscle tissue underneath had been taken as well, leaving some of the gashes deep enough to reveal slivers of bone. Though most of the slicing had been done with a knife, there were messier bits here and there—curving scrapes that ended in small, shallow holes that could’ve only been left by teeth…)

Caliban shrugged. “Can’t really blame him for wanting to stretch the session. Considering what could’ve happened, I mean.”

He kept moving as he spoke, gathering up glass jars in his arms. The fresh specimens inside  bobbed up and down as the chemicals gently churned around them them. The disturbance almost made them look like blood was still coursing through them. Like they could still be functional, still be alive. 

They clinked against one another as Caliban deposited them into a box on the coffee table. It was a snug fit, especially with a tupperware container—likely full of skin and fingers—being pinned to one side, but it seemed to work.

The corpse’s chest was open wide in a classic Y-incision, flesh jagged around the edges. The ribcage had been spread like one of those stiff-jointed stim toys, the ends of each one snapped off. Other than that, the cavity looked truly hollow—unless you counted the intestines, that is. A few of them were dangling out, probably having been tugged this way and that while the kidneys were being taken.

The carnage was all topped off by the dead man’s hands. A total of ten bloody stumps at the base of each knuckle.

“I should’ve done it earlier,” Caliban murmured, gazing down at those stumps, shaky hands clutching at his hair as he headed over to the door. Snare clearly hadn’t come back here, so the search had to continue. “He would’ve stayed if I did...”

“Hey, you didn’t do anything wrong,” Azalea protested as she followed him. “Snare wouldn’t just leave you for no reason. He’s never been to this place; he probably got curious and went off exploring.”

Caliban swallowed a lump in his throat, nodding. “Right, right. It’s just—I’d hate if he thought I forgot about him—”

For the third time tonight, something came along to make Azalea nearly jump out of her skin. At least she wasn’t alone for it, seeing how a violent shudder raced through her brother’s shoulders.

A chorus of barking and yipping tore through the air somewhere outside the building.

The two of them exchanged glances, both of their eyes growing even wider to accommodate the way panic was getting closer to becoming something physical. 

One part of Azalea’s mind went back to all the times her and Caliban’s peers had commented about stuff like Sibling ESP. It was an interesting concept to be sure, though she’d been on the fence about it for the most part. Skepticism had nothing to do with that; she and Caliban had just been through so damn much together. 

Right here, right now, however, she could tell  exactly what he was thinking. 

Snare was fast. Snare was crafty. Snare could hold his own, whether it was against humans or other animals. 

And yet, if there was ever a time for What Ifs to infest a person’s mind…

“Cal?!” K.O.’s voice rang up through the thin walls, almost bouncing off the corners. “Cal, Aza, get down here!”

Caliban was off like a shot, stampeding halfway down the stairs before the words were even fully in the air. 

Azalea stayed on his heels, to the point that it was astounding they didn’t trip each other up. 

Caliban jumped over the last step before disappearing around the corner. “...SNARE!”

Azalea practically ricocheted off the wall, skidding to a halt just in time to see a pale blur bounding up into her brother’s arms. 

“Oh my God, oh my God, buddy…!” Caliban almost squealed as he spun around in a tight circle, hugging a very familiar cat-sized, long-eared bundle of white fur to his face. 

He paused, looking his pet dead in the eye. “You scared me half to death! You raised my blood-pressure like you were gonna get paid for it!” A breathless laugh tumbled out of his mouth. 

Snare, of course, didn’t reply, unless you counted how he pressed his little Y-shaped nose against his owner’s cheek, wriggling excitedly in the embrace.

Azalea let out a little sigh; admittedly, there was still some whiplash in her mind, but it was always nice to see pets getting love. She made a mental note to give Cuddles extra attention once she got back home.

“So—so, where was he?” Caliban asked, still chuckling with relief as Snare tucked his head under his chin. “Where did you…” 

He trailed off, eyes widening and jaw dropping. 

Azalea followed his gaze, only to feel her own face fall.

K.O. stood just a few feet away, fidgeting in place, carefully bouncing another critter in his arms.

It was a dog—a relatively small one, only so much bigger than Snare, with floppy ears and a coat of short fur a mix of tan, black, and white. A low, anxious whine rumbled in its throat, though it grew quieter as K.O. scratched its belly. 

“Hey, don’t worry. It’s alright, it’s alright…” K.O. mumbled, his eyes darting back and forth between his accomplices and the canine. “I, uh—I think Snare must’ve smelled him, or something. I found them running around somewhere by the back entrance.” 

Caliban nodded, confusion and relief making for a very interesting cocktail on his face.

 Snare leaned forward, curiously tilting his head as he stared at his…chaser? Surprise playmate?

“...Well, he can’t be a stray. Look, he’s got a collar,” Azalea mused, stepping forward to get a better look at the red band around the dog’s neck. And as she gently prodded, she discovered that, rather than a metal tag, a small barrel was resting against the dog’s chest.

She froze; she recognized this collar. 

Hell, she remembered making remarks, both snide and genuinely curious, about how Saint Bernards were the only dogs that ever really wore barrels, and that practice in general wasn’t exactly common nowadays, so why would…detective-trained beagles need to…?

“Guys…” she blurted, glancing at K.O., glancing back at her brother. “Guys, this is—”

“Casey’s dog,” Caliban finished, a new type of anxiety flickering in his eyes. 

In almost perfect unison, the three of them hurried away from any nearby windows. 

“But we haven’t seen him snooping for weeks now!” K.O. proclaimed, ironically hugging Scout a bit closer. (Thankfully, said beagle didn’t seem to mind too much.) “This was a random job! We weren’t even expecting to come here! How the hell could he have tracked us?!”

Caliban’s furrowed his brow as he stared at the floor, mouth opening and closing with no words coming out. 

Azalea found herself in a sort of similar boat, struggling to see any potential answers.

K.O. was right, after all; there shouldn’t have been any way for Casey—for any investigator—to have figured out what was going on here.

The revenge-plan had been made so quickly; really, it was sheer luck that they found about about this motel being used as a hideout when they did—

That train of thought came crashing to a halt as Phoenix came into view, leaning around one corner by the dusty old check-in desk. Her face was a mask of concern, fiery eyes wide and uncertain. Without a word, she motioned for her peers to come closer. 

And so they did, following her lead down yet another hallway, passing by more rooms (as well as a pool that just had to be a biohazard by now) before reaching a glass door at the very end.

One that led out into the parking lot, which stretched all the way around to the back of the building.

Phoenix stopped just before the threshold. Not pushing the door open, not turning to the others. Instead, she simply pointed.

The old motel wasn’t the only thing in this area that had been left to rot a while ago. It truly seemed like the small town around it had become unsaturated as a whole. It was just one of those places that was meant to be avoided, yet stubbornly kept halfway-functioning. One of those places where cops didn’t bother to come around all that much…

A little neighborhood stood not too far at all from the motel. 

It would’ve been impossible not to see movement in front of one house in particular, on the outer-edge of the block: a man dressed in some kind of light-brown suit, spattered with dark red stains that just barely shone in the light of a nearby streetlamp. (Sure, it could’ve been paint. But people like Azalea and her peers knew better. If anyone knew red, it was The Pentas Family.) Caliban sucked a sharp breath through his teeth. Azalea looked over just in time to see one of his eyes twitching.

Phoenix pursed her lips, nodding. “I thought you’d recognize him.” 

The group kept staring, kept watching as the same man Caliban had ranted about having a grudge against—for very valid reasons, mind you—pull someone else out of the backseat of a car. 

The other man was very tall, and very clearly unconscious, seeing how he didn’t even try to struggle as he was half-hoisted from under his arms and dragged along the grass. He boasted a head of black hair and dark brown skin…which somehow didn’t hide a couple bruises and cuts on his face. 

In fact, it seemed some blood had even managed to drip down onto a shiny gadget that hung from his neck…

“There he is,” K.O. blurted after a collective gasp broke the new silence. “It’s him.”

Casey.

Casey Frickin’ Clowes (the Frickin’ was silent, of course). 

The same private detective who’d been trying to disrupt underground business in the Cove Port Inlets. 

The same investigator who, despite all the taunting and tricks and near-misses he’d gone through, blatantly refused to give up on his work 

The same guy who had, somehow, against all odds, turned out to be…oddly fun in the whole cat-and-mouse scheme of things. 

(More fun than the average cop, that is.)

And he was being dragged into a shady house by a scumbag who’d gained quite a bit of infamy for the amount of missing children’s incidents surrounding his own work…

“So.” Phoenix finally turned to her friends, her eyes cautious. “What do you guys think we should do?”

“...Step in,” Caliban answered. “Otherwise that onise-bitch is gonna kill him. There’s no way that’s not what he’s planning.” 

“But how can we go about that?” K.O. asked, carefully rocking Scout in his arms. “Without giving him too much to work with?”

“We’ll figure it out,” Azalea replied, subconsciously raising a hand to draw small circles on Caliban’s back, feeling just how tense he’d gotten in so little time. “We always do, right?”

@sammys-magical-au @the-matpat-ever @lexusinsannus @im-a-weird0 @b-is-in-the-closet @lampsforsocks

I knew you,

In another life

Back at it again with another little comic of Casey Clowes and his brother runaway murder case. Not many are aware of how deeply rooted the hurt hatred the detective has to the child murderer, but most can make an obvious and reasonable guess. Though there is much more than what Casey leads on.

Despite all the horrors, pain, and hate they feel, they were and may always, despite one not wanting to, be brothers. Maybe Casey would like it, that in one lifetime, in all possibilities, life may not have been cruel to give someone to him only to tear them away.

@wouldntyou-liketoknow @crazy-obsessed-enby @iswmperson @lexusinsannus @sammys-magical-au

Wouldn’t that be lovely?