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hyrule-kingdom-updates · 3 years

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ALL of the emojis for Siv :D

What is the kindest thing your OC has ever done for someone? What is the kindest thing someone has ever done for them? On the flip side, what is the worst thing your OC has done to another person?

I don’t think I can point out a *single* ultimate kind act, but Siv raising and caring for his brother throughout their whole childhood is definitely one of the kindest periods of his life. Spoilers, but: Siv didn’t actually believe himself to be capable of being a knight, in fact Ligero was specifically trying to keep him out of Larc’s life, letting them grow to be more independent, giving Siv every reason to be jealous and spiteful. But Siv trained to be a knight anyways because he didn’t want his brother to be alone through it all. He would never admit it, but Siv is a really kind and soft person. He cared for everyone of LinkLink’s scars and scabs when they went shield surfing, he took Zavis to a surprise party when his mother didn’t bother to throw anything that special. He wrote Revali letters, he sewed little rat plushies for Aryll to add to her collection—and I think it all stems from his childhood, where the only thing that he was certain of, the only choice that he could without a doubt claim was a good and kind thing that he didn’t mess up on, was caring and loving for someone that he by all other means didn’t have to.

As for the kindest thing someone has done for him, well honestly I think Siv would consider anyone giving him a basic amount of respect and appreciation as the “kindest” thing. Although once, Zavis allowed himself to team up with Link to plan a perfect party for Siv, which is to say, a very notable feat.

As for the worst thing Siv has done to someone: that’s probably spoilers. :3

What does your OC do when they see others upset or in pain? An upset friend? A stranger?

If a stranger was upset, Siv would probably just think, “Sucks to suck!” and move on. Unless they were like, REALLY sobbing, to the point where it would be impossible to ignore. Then he might stop walking, chat them up and buy them a drink, maybe hear their woes, but that’s probably it.

If it was a friend, he’d be immediately on their case, but would still try to play it off as him being an apathetic, disgruntled guy. But you know, Siv didn’t become an official royal Branch Buddy for nothing.

What is something true about your OC that they refuse to admit about themselves? Is there any reason to this besides embarrassment?

Under absolutely no circumstances will Siv admit that he is shorter than anyone. He finds it completely unfair that BOTH of his brothers are taller than him. He would hate it if you told him so, but Siv without a doubt has inherited a bit of his father’s ego, so calling him short, or even complimenting his hot royal guard brother when Siv is right there would ruffle his feathers to say the least

Describe a regular day for your OC. What is their schedule (if they have one).

Pre-Orator days, Siv basically wakes up whenever he wants (usually past noon), feeds the pet rats in the alleyways, then heads to the underground. Everyday is scraping enough rupees for a hot meal and a drink by selling illegal tickets to the underground monster fights, maybe organize a rigged gambling ring or two, and obviously scam any ten year olds that were looking to enter the world of pocket monster fighting themselves. Then when the “work” day is done, he’ll pop by an adequate tavern (the only one that would tolerate letting someone like him around) and eat and drink, and...that’s pretty much it.

As the Royal Orator, Siv wakes up and immediately heads to the dining hall, then hauls all the food and drink over to his office by 10am, cause that’s when his official work hours kick in. He then has to just sit there, listen to people’s grievances and input that will promptly be ignored (by either his hand, or most certainly by his superiors) while also posting out the important announcements and rat doodles with the Quill of Roost(both pre and post consumption). He might grab lunch in between and do fuck all, but by 9pm he’s gone out and about, doing whatever it takes to get as little sleep as possible because he doesn’t really like the sort of dreams he’s been having.

Current Siv doesn’t have a schedule, but he does have an agenda.

How does your OC think they will die? Does death scare them? Is there any reason for this?

Siv isn’t thinking about death. In truth, he thought he would have died much, MUCH earlier. Maybe get stabbed or executed? Maybe have a poor run in with an ex or particularly angry victim of his scams? But hey, now that’s he’s living the high life with all this power, he doesn’t care about death! For all he knows, he could live forever as long as he sticks with Ganon! All he has to do is follow what he says, and he’ll be happy forever and never have to fear anything ever again.

What is your OC’s most traumatic experience? (If they don’t have just one traumatic experience either pick one or describe them all!)

The Asunder Incident.

Siv constantly questions himself after that, “Why would I do that? Was I really capable of killing someone? Surely not, I’m not...I’m not that bad...” but the facts obviously stated otherwise. This was basically the incident that cemented himself as the person he is at the start of hku, apathetic and broken. He wouldn’t admit it then, but this singular event basically solidified everyone’s prejudice and perception of him, and rightfully proved them correct. It was his own actions that left him hated, abandoned, and alone, so yeah, he can’t complain now, it’s all his fault.

How would your OC react to the death of a friend/family member/loved one? Is there anyone they can confide in?

If Ligero died he would throw a fucking party for the ages.

Other than that, yeah, if someone he knew and cared about died he would be very heart broken about it. I think the only person he would really confide in about it would be Larc, but if it WAS Larc that died...I can only assume he would at the very least be severely depressed. He’s his favourite, cherished, little brat brother, after all.

What would your OC be like if they were evil. Or if they’re already evil what would they be like as the good guy?

This is an interesting question given that...I’ve already shown both sides to this, haven’t I? Maybe I’ll just let the story speak for itself...

How would your OC react to somebody telling them that they love them? (+ bonus give another characters/OC name!)

Siv would first play it off as a joke because defense mechanism! “Haha, yeah, and you know what I love? The bathroom!” and he would be off escape the situation. But if they were persistent, he would be very flustered and very...vulnerable, and scarily sentimental in his opinion. It would take some time, but I believe eventually he would really, truly accept it, in the end. Although patience is certainly a virtue, it took an entire childhood for him to use the L word for his brother.

What does your OC hate about themself? What lies about themself do they believe? On the flip side, What does your OC love about themself?

He hates being a bad person. He does not believe himself to be good or worthy of anything, thus he internalizes it wholeheartedly in order to gain that sense of control. So now that Siv’s accepted he will never be truly happy, he’s like, “Great! I can just not care about anyone else now.”

Thankfully, that’s changed recently, and he now believes, “You know what? I’m NOT a bad person! It’s everyone else that’s been wronging me! The problem with me is that I’ve been way to much of a coward to take what I deserve, so now I’m gonna do it, no matter what! I deserve to not be hurt anymore, and if I can’t do whatever it takes to achieve that, then how can I say I deserve to be happy in the first place?” Be sure to thank Calamity Ganon for that pep talk.

Right now Siv loves his power. He’s had the most control and power in this one relationship with Ganon than he’s ever had with anyone else in his entire life. He’s finally on top! Number one! He has something to really be proud of about himself! The old Siv hated themselves, but now that couldn’t be further from the truth.

Does your OC have any scars? How and when did they get them?

He doesn’t have any notable scars, especially given that he’s got the power o’ malice, baby! Malice is a representation of many things, one of them being time and memory, so it’s pretty easy for it to heal and return skin, flesh, and bone to a prior state. Perfect for healing and repairing people and objects, alike! Of course, malice is more famous for doing the opposite, sucking your soul out from you prematurely, feeling yourself die rapidly, your last breath being snatched and forced out of your lungs, a thousand breaths meant for a lifetime suddenly sapped out in a few minutes. But I don’t know why I’m talking about that, that’s not relevant haha

What is something your OC blames themself for and is it really their fault? Does it keep them up at night and is there any lingering trauma?

The Asunder Incident, he blames his actions for leading him to basically abandon his brother for like fifteen years. But that’s all I’m gonna say as I have plans to talk about his feelings on it further in the actual story.

In what situation would your OC be pushed to commit an act of violence? Would they go as far to kill someone if they had to? How would this affect them and their relationships with others?

Why, I can’t answer this in detail! That’d be giving away the story :3

Ok, maybe I’ll say this: Siv tells himself that he would do anything to get what he wants, of course he would do anything, because if he can’t, well then that just means he’s a pathetic coward who doesn’t deserve happiness anyways. So of course he claims that he will do anything, even killing someone.

What would your OC do if they were given god-like powers or the ability to change anything about the world for a whole day?

Siv would eliminate all shitty parents, maybe also give revive some dead people, and also permanently have a giant neon green tattoo of a dick be on Ligero’s forehead. Assivus would do the first thing, but he might also make everyone who has ever wronged him suffer for a very long time on top of that.

Describe one of your OC’s worst nightmares.

- Oh no, made a ficlet.

The first night he was in the castle, he had a dream.

There was a man, sitting across from him, dressed in glittering gold, with a green sash wrapped across his chest and waist. He was tapping his long nails against a desk, HIS desk, the white and purple quill still in the cup of ink, and blank parchment in front of him.

The man looked very out of place, and that was ignoring the fact that he was a withering corpse.

You’re dashing, aren’t you? The man said, still tapping his fingers. That’s when Siv realized that he was just sitting opposite to him, in the seat where guests were supposed to be. He tried to speak, but couldn’t. He tried to move, but couldn’t. He tried to blink, but didn’t.

He sat there and listened to the man, attentively.

Do you know what you’re doing here, Asunder? the man asked. Asivus didn’t. Do you know why I’ve allowed you here? What you are?

Siv didn’t know, but he couldn’t exactly express as such.

That’s because you don’t need to know. At least for now. The man leaned forward like mist, disappearing as Siv felt something pass through him, he couldn’t turn to look behind him as a delicate hand was on his shoulder. You’ll know things when I want you to know. You’ll say things when I want them to be said. And you will do things when I want them to be done. Because I own you. Err...

The man suddenly stopped to think, leaning on the right arm of Siv’s chair, tapping his bony chin, as if he had made a casual slip of the tongue. Because...you owe me. Yes, that’s the word. I’ve helped you so much Assivus Asunder. Or “will?” “Have?” “Am currently?” Futures and times are a funny thing. I apologize, I’ll have my words sorted out into something more professional and proper in our future.

The man spun around, and suddenly, he was no longer a corpse, but a dashing Gerudo man, dressed brilliantly and handsomely. His eyes were no longer a hollow gold, but green, somehow familiar.

The room was no longer some dinky orator office, but the sanctum of the castle, the apex of the kingdom. The man snapped his head towards him.

Let me ask you something, Assivus Asunder: Would you rather be here?

He gestured to the grand view of the sanctum, the sunset casting striking shades of red, black, and gold across the towering walls.

Or here?

The world spun once again, and they were suddenly on a dark street. The houses of Rauru diced the stone brick pavement. Siv glanced around and saw himself, sitting on the ground. There were two knights, one of them cursing loudly, and the other laying down beside him. There was so much blood and he could feel himself floating closer and—

No. NO. Wait. STOP. PLEASE! He tried to speak, scream, anything. No sound came. He saw a sword, a dark and rich puddle that seemed to even reflect his own face and—

They were suddenly back in the office.

Which is better? What do you prefer, of the two? I’m assuming the former? The man looked at him. I will allow you to nod yes or no to the former.

Siv immediately nodded a yes.

Trick question!The man boomed. Both are fantastic places, environments that you should love and cherish. There is so much good hiding in the places you would least expect, Assivus. I’ll help you remember that.

The world was suddenly nothing. Nothing but black. Just him, in a chair, staring at this smiling, pleasant, scary, red haired man.

Don’t you want help, Assivus? I think there’s something you want, that you need help attaining? Isn’t there something? There’s no shame in admitting.

Siv thought for a moment, then slowly nodded a yes.

Do you want MY help?

Uhh...Siv wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Perhaps you can do a favor for me?

Fuck no! was Siv’s immediate thought. Who the fuck—First off, I don’t think I really like you, actually, so—

Oh that’s alright! The man was suddenly very close to his face. Oh shit, could he hear my thoughts? Assivus, you can do whatever you want to do to be happy. I don’t want to force anything from you. He patted his cheek with a very cold hand.

In fact, I’ve now decided you don’t have to do anything for me. I am going to help you, and you don’t need to do anything in return. The man stood back, clasping his hands together. How does that sound?

I... He tried to speak, but remembered he couldn’t even move his lips.

I’m sorry again, Asunder. Here, I’ll allow you to speak now. The man didn’t even wave a hand, but Siv could suddenly feel how hoarse and dry his throat was.

So how about it, Assivus Asunder? I want you to be in charge of your destiny, I want you to be in total control. I would never force anything from you, I will simply be here, by your side, helping here and there, as you...figure it all out. How is that? Does that sound alright?

Siv opened his mouth, but couldn’t decide the words. If I say yes can I go back to sleep? Hella tired...

The man didn’t move, but Siv someone sensed a whisper beckoning somewhere with a “Yes. We’re all tired of many things, aren’t we?”

“O-Ok...” Siv finally said. “Alright, sure. I don’t see why n—”

Before the words were fully out of his mouth, the world suddenly stopped dead, as quick as a snap. He awoke from his bed with a jolt, his heart racing like he had just run a marathon, even though he didn’t find those last moments to be that thrilling or terrifying.

Siv sat for a moment longer, trying to contemplate the dream. But as most dreams are, the memory of it fell out of his grasp like loose sand between his fingers, and soon enough, it was already gone.

He flopped back into bed with a sigh.

Whatever it was, it was probably nothing.

What advice would your OC give to their younger self? What advice does your OC need now?

Already answered in a previous ask c:

#oc ask game #out of character #Asivus Hartell #hku spoilers #Yes the ficlet at the end I'd consider canon

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originalwinnercheesecake · 4 years

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Chain of Iron theories: who becomes a Downworlder

Alright so I took a break from posting my theories to enjoy the comedic hijacks of the letter game, but March 2 draws closer and I have more theories to release on to the masses. So I decided to jump back in with a hot one. We will be seeing more of the downworld in books to come, including esteemed members such as Magnus Bane, Camille Belcourt, and Woolsey Scott, and someone in TLH’s future is not with the shadowhunters, but as a downworlder. I am assuming that this person will turn into a vampire or a werewolf, as warlocks are born and turned fey usually have to grow up in fairy. Also because (minus the rare warlock) werewolves and vampires are what make up the predator Lupus and we know we are going to revisit TPL and see it develop more as an organization. As always theories are below.

3.) Thomas Lightwood becomes a downworlder {werewolf (retracted)}

When I first hear that someone was turning into a downworlder I immediately theorized Thomas because I knew the found family tree says he dies at 30 and I was looking for a way for that to be wrong. So my idea was that maybe Thomas got turned into a downworlder at 30, had to leave to learn to control his powers, and that the clave wrote him off in their records as having died because they are just that terrible. I am retracting this theory though on a few grounds. One learning that the silent brother who wrote the found family tree was Brother Zachariah. Jem would not do do such a cruel and bigoted thing, he is and has always been better than that. Secondly 10 years after TLH the world wars happen and I cannot imagine that Shadowhunters are not negatively effected by something so catastrophic and wide spread. I googled when the world wars happened rechecked the Thomas’s wiki page and sure enough he is said to die one year into the first world war, at the same year the air attacks started in London.

My conclusion is that while I would like Thomas to become downworlder, if it would allow him to live past being 30, I find it unlikely. I now believe that Thomas dies trying to help mundanes evacuate London or take shelter during air attacks. (Drying my own tears, handing everyone who needs one a tissue, and moving back to the downworld theories)

2.) Charles Fairchild becomes a downworlder (werewolf)

So I preety much think if it is a Shadowhunter it will be one of the Fairchild brothers. they’re just about the only ones left where it is a tose up whom continues the family line. I know Matthew is more likely, but until I read Matthew’s trandformation written by Cassandra Clare herself it could still be Charles. How it would happen is a little more tricky for me to explain, but I might have something. See Charles is on my list of potential characters Belial may possess and turn into the killer. I also said that if he is the killer than I only see a 50% chance he will be freed from that control by Matthew or one of TLH gang. But what if Belial sends him to attack the Merry Thieves when hey are at The Devils Tavern or Hell’s Ruelle, you know a place that also has werewolves, and before he can vanish he is bit by one? Then he transforms at the next full moon. What if Belial can only control human minds and since a werewolf is half animal changing into a wolf snaps Charles out of Beial’s control? Then him turning into a downworlder wouldn’t necessarily have to be a bad thing. He could meet Matthew later and tell him about the change freeing him, then Matthew could go tell Will and Charlotte, and they could make new alliances with the downworld to help take down Belial.

(Is this whole theory me tying to convince myself Matthew woun’t be turned and James and Matthew won’t lose their Parabatai bond?) Who’s asking? Its like 97% that. The other 3% is me really wanting Charles to go talk to Woolsey Scott because I felt really bad for him in TLH when he implys that the reason he hates being gay is because as far as he knows gay men are not allowed to be political leaders. I get it, representation is important.

1.) Matthew Fairchild becomes a downworlder (Vampire)

Matthew is the most likely one. We all know it, there have been hints foreshadowing in every one of Matthew’s appearances dating back to his first appearance in Nothing But Shadows, when he first said he does not like the way shadowhunters live their lives and wishes he were not one. We know he prefers to associate with downworldrs and frequents their establishments as an escape when his life as a shadowhunter gets to be to much for him. While I doubt he would ever ask someone to turn him (he wouldn’t want to leave Henry or the Herondale’s) as we saw in Cast Long Shadows when at downworld establishments Matthew isn’t always careful and can be too trusting. Throw in the alcohol he is always drinking and something is bound to happen. Judging by that line where he tells Cordelia that he would “like a portrait of himself that shows that... while he stays forever young” something will happen with him and a vampire. Matthew might make a better downworlder than a shadowhunter, especially if he eventually joins the Predator Lupis. That is a care taker job and he is loves/ is great at being James and Henry’s care taker.

It would be heart breaking for Matthew to no longer be able to see Henry or to lose his Parabatai bond with James. Lets remember though that James and Cordelia likely become the London Institute Heads after Will steps down, and in COHF Sebastian said that the London Institute and Predator Lupus head quarters had famous ties to each other once upon a time. So if Matthew Changes into a vampire he may not lose James and Cordelia for good. His and James’s their will change yes, but it can withstand. Just like Will and Jem’s bond changed but withstood Jem becoming a silent brother.

Bonus) Bridget Daly (Vampire??? possible fey connection??? )

So Bridget Daly. The London institutes crazy, dark ballad singing, child watching, frying pan brandishing, over all amazing resident is still somehow alive in TDA, and if we keep reading TLH we will eventually know how. (She is just to tough to die. The grim reaper hasn’t come for her soul because she terrifys him). Lately I have seen theory’s crop up that the person who becomes a downworlder won’t actually be a shadowhunter, but it will be Bridget, and that is how she gains immortality. I love this. But I need details and no one is providing me. Is Bridget attacked? Who hurt this women? Is this the result of some dark spell? Or did she have some downworlder do it to her by choice? Did she know that Shadowhunters were just going to get moe stupid and crazy as time went on, and decide that for Londons (if not the worlds sake) she needed to stick around and sing/beat some sense into their heads?

Make me cry. Stephen Herondale grew up at the London institute. Stephen knew Bridget. He had this amazing (possibly downworlder) women in his life for 17 years and he still fell into Valentine’s trap after moving away. Did Bridget grieve over him? In another life Jace could have grown up at the London Institute. He could have grown up helping Bridget cook and learning her dark ballads!!! (hey fanfic writers)

I don’t know what we will get from these books regarding Bridget Daly’s future, but she is an amazing character, and her story better do her justice.

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artificialqueens · 5 years

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Undone, Chapter 23 (Bitney) - Stephanie/Veronica

Summary: Bianca goes to NOLA for Latrice’s wedding, and returns home to a big surprise.

Thank you to our awesome beta readers: @missdandee and @kitschypixel

***

“Okay so, be honest...do I look fat?��

Courtney bursts out laughing, then stops abruptly when she sees Bianca’s hands on her hips, a deep scowl on her face.

“Sorry--I didn’t think you were serious,” she giggles. “Of course not.” Courtney leans back on the sofa cushions, cuddling the dogs to her chest.

“For the record, that is not the correct response to that question,” Bianca informs her, adjusting the straps on her Maid of Honor gown. “You’re a woman, how do you not know that?”

“Sorry,” Courtney shrugs, then offers aa conciliatory smile and adds, “You look beautiful.”

“But...I mean, can you tell I’ve gained weight? Are my sisters gonna be suspicious?”

“I honestly don’t think so.”

“Okay. Good,” Bianca sighs. “Thank god for empire waists.”

“Are you gonna be okay? I know it’s a big deal, and he’s not gonna be with you, so...” Courtney bites her lip. “Will it be weird?”

“Maybe a little, but...I mean, the people I care about already know. And everyone else...will probably just think he’s working, or something. I don’t really care, honestly.” It’s mostly true. Of course, she knows that she might get some awkward questions, questions that she really won’t want to answer. But she tries not to think about that, and more importantly, she doesn’t want Courtney to worry. So she goes on to assure her, “I’ll be fine.”

“Good.” Courtney nods, stroking the top of Dede’s head and gazing up at her.

“I kinda wish you were coming,” Bianca adds softly. It’s almost an afterthought, slipping out before Bianca can stop herself. Her cheeks flush with embarrassment, realizing how needy she must have sounded.

Courtney takes ahold of her hand and squeezes it.

“That might be a little hard to explain,” she says, trying to deflect from the intensity of her feelings. How much she’s dreading the separation, which she knows full well is ridiculous. It’s going to be a few days. When the fuck did she turn into such a co-dependent mess?

“Yeah,” Bianca agrees, although inside, she’s thinking that it wouldn’t, at all. In fact, it would be the easiest thing in the world to explain. This is Courtney. I accidentally fell in love with her. Oops. She gulps. “Plus it’s probably not gonna be a very vegan-friendly affair.”

“Besides, I need to watch the dogs, right?”

“Right,” Bianca chuckles.

“...but maybe next time,” Courtney says, and deep dimples appear in Bianca’s cheeks.

“Really?”

“I mean, they sound great. I’d love to meet them.” Her voice is light, but the offer seems genuine.

“Yeah that would be…” Bianca’s heart is pounding. She clears her throat. “I’m sure they’d love you.”

“It’ll be really nice, once you’re there. To be home,” Courtney says. Instead of what she wants to say. Fuck propriety, just take me with you.

“Yeah. I hope so.”

***

It is nice, being back, especially since it’s the first time in several years she’s around her old friends and family without Jared. She feels lighter - in spite of the weight gain that will definitely make her sisters suspicious. But even that doesn’t worry her, as she revels in the familiarity of it all. The warmth of these people with whom she grew up.

The hug from her mother, that first day, makes everything worth it. And when she lies down at the end of the night, body sore and aching but absolutely stuffed with all her favorite foods, she realizes that she’s got a valid excuse for looking a little plumper than usual.

Her nagging worries about the Jared Questions that she assumes are coming turn out to be overblown. At the rehearsal dinner, all anyone cares about is her job - does she really get to meet celebrities? Who’s the most difficult on set? Who seems nice but is actually a secret bitch? Can she get a discount on tickets to Universal Studios? She happily answers them all, even the dumb ones.

The ceremony is beautiful, charming, funny - perfectly suited to Latrice and Chris. At the reception, Bianca gets to sit at a table with Vanessa, her favorite (only) younger sister, the two of them cackling up a storm in no time.

Vanessa has no questions about Jared, but she does have a ton about “that sexy blonde you’re shackin’ up with.”

“That’s not exactly the situation,” Bianca tries to explain, but Vanessa isn’t buying it.

“Come on, throw me a bone! She’s the one you wouldn’t shut up about over Thanksgiving, right? Did you meet on set? Did you have some kind of steamy, torrid affair?” she tongues her straw, eyes sparkling.

“No...sorry to burst your bubble,” Bianca tells her.

“Aww, man!” Vanessa slouches, crossing her arms, disappointed. “What a bummer.”

“Sorry, but...the idea of an affair makes you happy?” Vanessa’s husband asks, furrowing his brow.

Vanessa huffs out a huge, put-up sigh, explaining, “No, Brock, the idea of B cheating on that fuckin’ douchebag makes me happy!”

“Wait...I thought you guys loved Jared,” Bianca says.

Vanessa exchanges a Look with DJ, across the table. If anyone knows Jared, it’s him - one of Bianca’s oldest friends, he also happened to live in New York while Bianca was in school there, and used to hang out with her and Jared all the time.

“Well…” DJ begins, clearing his throat, speaking as diplomatically as possible. “I mean, we did our best to accept him, since you loved him, and-”

“We hated that guy,” Vanessa cuts in.

“I didn’t hate him,” Brock offers.

“Shut up, you have no taste. Hated him. Good riddance.” Vanessa tosses back some wine.

“And...we’re real sorry about your impending divorce…?” DJ gives a smile that’s half grimace.

Bianca laughs a little, rising from the table. She would love to bask in the relief that everyone will unquestionably be on her side, but the wedding coordinator is gesturing for her frantically.

“Well...thanks for your support, guys. But I gotta go give a speech.”

“Don’t fuck it up!” Vanessa calls after her, and Bianca turns and gives her the finger before continuing to the front of the room.

She stands at the mic, looking out amongst the crowd of mostly familiar faces, gaze finally landing on Latrice, who beams up at her from her seat at the bridal table.

“Hi, I’m Bianca...but you guys probably know that.” Bianca clears her throat, reminding herself that this is friendly crowd, and to just relax and give the toast for her best friend. “Okay, so. I actually met Latrice in second grade. More specifically, I met her laugh. It was the best sound I’d ever heard, one morning in front of school as we were getting off the bus.”

“I was laughing because you told someone that they looked like a garbage can,” Latrice cuts in, grinning at the memory.

“That was me, bitch!” Vanessa pipes up from the crowd.

“Well, you deserved it!” Bianca shoots back. “You never brushed your hair and you always had that awful Hello Kitty sweatshirt on. Inside out.”

“I was in kindergarten, you asshole!”

The crowd, most of whom know them all, are laughing now, and Bianca makes a face at her sister to shut her up before getting back to the speech she’d prepared.

“Anyway, I heard this laugh. This amazing, gorgeous laugh, and I turned around and saw Latrice, and introduced myself, and it turned out that she was going to be in my class. And so I informed her that we were now best friends.”

“So bossy,” Latrice comments, giggling affectionately.

“And I soon found out that she was the greatest best friend anyone could ever ask for. Kind, funny, generous, smart...and of course, that laugh. I made it my life goal to make her laugh as loud and often as possible. Bonus points for extra inappropriate situations like assemblies and math tests and church. And for many years, I was really proud of myself for being the person who made her laugh the most. Until of course, Chris came around.” Bianca pulls a face.

A few good-natured murmurs of “oooh” and “uh oh…”

“I was a little pissed at this at first. I’m not gonna lie,” Bianca continued. “But soon I got to know Chris too, and unfortunately, he’s so damn likeable, that I had to admit, she’s got amazing taste, in addition to all her other talents. So Chris, thank you for giving my best friend the love and respect and joy that she deserves, more than anyone else I know. Thank you for making her laugh.”

Bianca turns to Latrice, who now has tears streaming down her face.

“I love you so much.” She raises her glass. “Here’s to a beautiful marriage, and lots of laughter.”

As the guests applaud, Latrice jumps up, running towards her friend. Bianca puts down the mic just in time for a huge, tackle-hug, Latrice squeezing her so tight that she feels she might break.

The DJ cranks up the music and soon Bianca finds herself pulled onto the dance floor by both Latrice and Chris. She makes a halfhearted, laughing protest.

“Guys, aren’t they about to serve dinner-”

“Who cares, bitch, I’m the bride!” Latrice spins Bianca, encouraging more guests to join them on the dance floor, an unplanned interruption while the catering staff scurries to get dinner on the tables.

Bianca dances with her a bit before she’s swept away by various other friends and family members, when she takes the opportunity to get another drink and make her way back to their nearly empty table.

“Nice toast.”

Bianca looks up and smiles at Vanessa.

“No thanks to you.”

“So...uh, when were you gonna tell me about the baby?”

Bianca blinks, and Vanessa rolls her eyes, sitting down beside her, voice uncharacteristically low.

“Your tits are out of control. And, that’s your third cranberry juice...”

“How do you know there’s no vodka in here?”

“Is there?”

“...I’m doing a cleanse. You know...detoxing.”

“Ahh...a dairy and butter cleanse?” Vanessa raises her eyebrows. “Don’t play me, I saw you inhale 40 pounds of cheese during the cocktail hour. Good luck tryin’ to shit later, by the way.”

“Vanessa…” Bianca glances around, praying that no one she cares about is in hearing distance.

“Is Jared the father?”

“Yes! What kind of question is-”

“Hey, I’m not judgin’. It just seems like the timing is a little…”

“Fucked?”

“Yeah. You alright?”

Bianca sighs. In an ideal world, she would be basking in the idea of sharing this news. She’d have already told her mother and everyone in her family. They’d be celebrating, thinking about names. Thank god that she has Courtney, or she’d be going crazy.

“He doesn’t know yet. And...it’s still really early, so I don’t want to-”

“Don’t worry, I won’t say nothin’.”

“Anything.”

“Eat me, bitch.”

Bianca laughs softly, and Vanessa grins, plunking herself down into her lap.

“And I’m real happy about your future spawn.”

Bianca wraps her up into a big hug.

“I love you...little asshole.”

She’s a bit relieved, if she’s honest. That Vanessa knows. That someone knows. It allows her to breathe. To enjoy herself and let loose and have fun the way she used to, and the rest of the weekend zooms by in a happy blur. When she finally boards the plane on Monday, exhausted and full of love, she truly believes that everything will be okay.

***

“Court?” Bianca calls, pulling her suitcase behind her.

There’s no answer, but the dogs come skittering across the wood floor, barking and wagging their tails excitedly.

“Hey babies,” she coos, scooping them up, wondering what Courtney’s up to. Her car’s home, but maybe she’s out on a run? Bianca continues down the hall to the bedrooms. “Whoa…”

Courtney sits in the guest room, hair piled atop her head in a messy bun, surrounded by flat pack furniture, every inch of the floor and bed covered in pieces, head in her hands.

“What’s, uh...goin’ on here?” Bianca asks.

Courtney looks up, eyes teary.

“I was trying to build the crib,” she says. “I wanted to surprise you.”

“That’s so sweet.” Bianca chuckles slightly. “And I mean...I am surprised, so-”

“I’m sorry, I know it’s a fucking disaster, I just can’t figure out these instructions and I already had to take it apart three times and I-” Courtney’s breath hitches as she tries to hold back her tears.

“Hey, it’s okay. Although we may have to revoke your lesbian card if you can’t even handle IKEA,” Bianca teases, then stops.

Courtney isn’t laughing along; she isn’t seeing any humor in the situation. She actually looks distraught. Bianca kneels down beside her.

“Court...hey...” A pang of guilt washes over her as she realizes that this is all her fault. Courtney is 27, and it’s the last day of a holiday weekend. She should be day drinking on a boat, or dancing in front of a barbecue full of veggie burgers - something fun, with music and friends and laughter. Not stressed out over building a crib for a baby that she never asked for.

“I’m so sorry, B.” The look on her face breaks Bianca’s heart. Just exhausted, miserable defeat.

“No, I’m sorry, I never meant to bring all this stress into your life-”

“You didn’t! I just wanted to do something nice for you, I-”

“You do nice things for me every day,” Bianca tells her, shaking her head. She reaches out to touch her hand softly. “You know what I was thinking when I was in the uber from the airport?”

“What?”

“I can’t wait to be home.”

Courtney looks at her for a few moments, not quite believing it.

“Really?”

“Really,” Bianca promises. “You know what else I was thinking?”

Courtney shakes her head.

“I’m really fucking hungry.”

“Oh god, shit, of course you are.” Courtney scrambles up, springing to action. “Um, we still have a bunch of that vegetable soup, and I think there’s some brown rice in the-”

“Courtney, I can fix dinner.”

“But you just took a long flight, and-”

“Yeah, but I wasn’t flying the plane. I was just sitting there, popping those herbal xanax you gave me. And by the way, those things are shit.”

“Sorry,” Courtney says, still a bit teary.

“I’m kidding. I mean, they are shit but...” Bianca trails off. Courtney is still looking a bit frayed and delicate, and maybe making fun of her isn’t what she needs at the moment. She takes a deep breath. “…Look, I know I’ve been a mess...”

When Courtney begins to protest, she holds up her hand.

“No, it’s true. I’ve been a mess. It’s okay to say it. But...I won’t always be a mess. And you’re allowed to have bad days, too. I need to be the one to take care of you sometimes. Okay?”

Courtney finally smiles, taking a deep breath and nodding.

“Okay.”

“There’s just one little...problem.”

“What? Are you okay? What-”

“I need help getting up.”

Courtney starts to laugh, pulling Bianca to her feet. Once they are face to face, Courtney looks at her for a long moment, eyes soft.

“I love you, B.”

For a brief moment, Bianca agonizes about what she means, exactly. What kind of love? Is she still talking about friendship? Is this a confession? What now? But then, she swallows back her swirling insecurities and simply goes with it. She wraps her arms around Courtney’s waist, buries her face in her neck. Breathes.

“I love you too, Court,” she murmurs softly against her skin.

***

Bianca stands at the stove, finishing up a quick stir fry, when Courtney enters the kitchen. Her hair is damp, face scrubbed clean, a look of mild embarrassment playing on her face.

“Hey...feeling any better?”

Courtney nods, fingering a lock of her hair.

“I’m sorry about all that, I was just-” She pauses, biting her lips, then changes course. “That smells good.”

“Come taste…”

She steps up to the stove, allowing Bianca to cup her chin, feeding her a piece of bell pepper off the wooden spoon.

“Seasoning okay? I think it needs more salt.”

“Maybe a tiny bit…” Courtney shifts, still looking uncomfortable.

Bianca focuses back on the stove, humming softly under her breath. When she lifts up her head to speak, it’s at the same time as Courtney.

“You know-”

“I just want-” Courtney stops, laughing a little. “Sorry, you go.”

“You’re allowed to have a bad day.”

“I know, but-”

“You think I don’t know, how stressful all of this has been for you? Just because you don’t complain, doesn’t mean I don’t understand.”

“It’s not like that, honestly.”

Bianca decides to leave it. Beckons her over to taste the food again.

“Better?”

“Perfect.”

Bianca wipes a tiny bit of sauce from Courtney’s lip with her thumb, sucks it into her own mouth without thinking. Her cheeks immediately begin to heat up, and she clears her throat.

“Um, can you grab plates? This is almost-”

“Sure, of course.” Courtney quickly busies herself with setting the table. “Want some coconut water?”

“Alright…” Bianca chuckles. “You know, I actually missed that damn coconut water this weekend.”

Courtney giggles.

“I’m glad you finally understand how good it is.”

“Only that brand though, and only when it’s diluted,” Bianca says, shaking the wooden spoon at her.

“Right, of course.” Courtney flashes her a smile.

When they sit down to eat, Bianca can’t shake the feeling that something has changed. Something unspoken and important. She catches Courtney’s eye and they exchange a long, heated look. Bianca feels her pulse quicken, knows that her cheeks must be at flushed as Courtney’s.

She squirms in her seat, trying unsuccessfully to shove aside her anxieties like she’d done earlier. Finally, she can’t take it anymore.

“What are we doing right now?”

Courtney shakes her head slowly.

“I don’t know.”

“I mean, you wanted to wait. Do you still-”

“I don’t know. It’s hard to know what’s right,” Courtney admits. “I’m just trying to...I’m a bit...conflicted.”

“That’s fair,” Bianca says, but can’t ignore the pang of disappointment in her chest. She really thought that something would be different tonight. She’s afraid to let herself hope that it still might be.

They eat the rest of the meal in relative silence, minds spinning. There’s so much they want to say - need to say - to each other, but neither of them knows where to begin.

Later, when Bianca stands at the sink and begins to scrub the pans, Courtney reaches into the hot, soapy water and pries the sponge out of her hand.

“You cooked,” she reasons.

“Okay, but, if you’d cooked, would you let me do the dishes?” Bianca asks.

“That’s not a fair comparison,” Courtney tells her, a smile pulling at her mouth.

“Why not?” Bianca releases the sponge.

“I’m not pregnant.”

“Yeah, thank god for that,” she mutters automatically, cringing a little when she sees Courtney’s eyes widen. “I mean, uh...I think I’m enough of a hormonal basket case for both of us.”

Courtney doesn’t respond to that, merely begins scrubbing the small saucepan vigorously.

Bianca sighs, drying her hands.

“Look, I know that you’re...that you have reservations, and I don’t blame you. And I’m not trying to pressure you, or...but my feelings haven’t changed. So, whenever you decide that you want to…” Bianca swallows down the lump rising in her throat. “I’ll be here.”

Courtney continues to scrub, slower now, appears to be mulling over what Bianca’s saying with grave consideration.

“I just want you to be sure,” she finally says.

“I’m sure.”

Courtney turns around and looks her in the eyes.

“And, I’ve never been sure about anything like this. But...yeah, I’m sure about you.”

Her eyes are so soft, so warm, and when Courtney looks at her, all the feelings she’s been pushing away for almost a year come flooding in. She drops the sponge and dries her hands, chest rising and falling rapidly with shallow little breaths.

Bianca waits.

Time seems to slow down as Courtney walks forward, eyes locked with Bianca’s. She stops, both hands reaching up to cup her face, gaze falling to her full lips, then back up to her eyes.

In spite of the heat in the kitchen, the hair prickles on the back of Bianca’s neck, nearly causing her to shiver in anticipation. Courtney’s so close now that she can feel her heartbeat, pounding as rapidly as her own. Her eyes flick down to Bianca’s softly parted lips again, and Bianca can’t help the breathy sigh that escapes her, feeling Courtney’s thumbs gently stroking her cheekbones.

Bianca licks her lips, still waiting, practically trembling now.

As Courtney closes the last bit of distance between them, Bianca’s eyes fall closed, entirely focused on the feel of soft lips pressing against hers, hands still holding her cheeks, grounding her.

It’s nothing like their first kiss, the breathless, intoxicated excitement of finally giving in to their innermost desires, the dangerous thrill of eyes on them. Or even later that night, alone, the desperation of knowing it could be the last time.

This kiss is soft, tentative at first--then slow, leisurely, utterly indulgent. Both of them well aware that they have all the time in the world, allowing themselves to breathe into it, feel every sensation down to their toes. This kiss is every unspoken glance, every disregarded feeling, every secret desire whispered in the dark.

Bianca can’t tell, once they separate, if it’s been seconds, minutes, or hours. All she knows, as Courtney presses a forehead against hers, is how right it feels, how safe and warm and perfect. She wraps her arms tightly around Courtney’s waist, entirely unmotivated to move from this spot, to let go of this moment. Her head drops, nose tucked into Courtney’s neck, inhaling her scent.

Almost unconsciously, her lips begin to trace Courtney’s collarbone, hungry for the taste of her skin. A stifled, high pitched whimper spurs her on, makes her grip Courtney’s waist tighter, kisses turning feverish, their embrace growing heated and sweaty. She backs Courtney up into the table, using the hard wooden surface to keep them both grounded.

Courtney’s fingers tangle deeper into her hair, body arching forward as Bianca’s hands slide up under her shirt. Her skin is still buttery soft from her shower, and Bianca rakes blunt nails up her back, tongue chasing the biting kisses along her neck.

The intensity builds in Bianca’s body, heart pounding so loudly that she almost doesn’t hear the sudden CRASH as a plate shatters to the floor.

“Shit!” Courtney reels back, gasping for air, cheeks a dark red.

Bianca gulps. Regret fills her chest - not at the (now former, RIP) plate, but at the fact that Courtney is no longer in her arms, that she’s tugging her shirt down and sliding off the table.

“Careful, you’ve got bare feet!”

“I’m okay,” Courtney says. “Don’t move; I’ll get a broom.”

“I-”

Bianca’s heart slowly stops pounding, and when Courtney reappears in the doorway, wearing tennis shoes and armed with a broom, she smiles sheepishly at her.

“I’m sorry about your dish.”

“It’s fine.” Courtney glances down, frowning. “You have bare feet, too.”

“Yeah, I know, hand me the-What are you doing?!” she shrieks, as Courtney begins to scoop her up. “You’re not gonna be able to lift me, stop-”

“Shhh…” Courtney carries her out of the kitchen and continues to the living room. Bianca stops squirming, quickly realizing that she isn’t going to drop her.

“This is a little excessive,” Bianca says, feet dangling, now secure in Courtney’s arms. She tilts her head girlishly. “I guess I should stop talking shit about CrossFit, huh?”

“Guess so,” Courtney deposits her onto the sofa and places a kiss lovingly on her forehead. “You can wait here; I’ll finish cleaning up.”

“But-”

Courtney tosses her a wink and scampers back to the kitchen. Bianca’s head drops to the cushions, a smile playing on her face.

***

“...B?”

Bianca’s eyes open slowly, registering that it’s now dark. Courtney kneels down in front of her, a hand on her waist.

“What time is it?” Bianca croaks, rubbing her eyes.

“Almost ten. I thought you’d probably want to move to an actual bed.”

Bianca yawns, nodding, and lets Courtney help her up from the sofa.

After Bianca quickly gets ready for bed, she pads down the hall to the bedroom, noticing a sliver of light coming from Courtney’s room. She knocks on the door, and it swings open a second later.

“Everything okay?”

“Sleep with me,” Bianca requests, following up a split second later with, “Please.”

As an answer, Courtney steps forward, pressing a kiss to her cheek.

Once they’re in bed, limbs tangled together, lips seeking each other out in the dark, Bianca feels so warm and content that her body immediately relaxes, eyes falling shut against her will. She struggles to keep them open, protesting weakly when Courtney stops kissing her and suggests that they should just sleep.

“I don’t wanna sleep,” she whines, fingers gripping Courtney’s t-shirt.

“You have a 6 am call tomorrow,” Courtney murmurs into her hair. “And you need to rest.”

Bianca lets out a small whimper, fighting the exhaustion weighing down on her, as Courtney wraps tighter around her.

“It’s okay. We’ve got plenty of time…”

“Mmmhmm…” Bianca finally relents, burying her face in Courtney’s hair as sleep envelopes her.

#rpdr fanfiction #bianca del rio #courtney act #bitney #latrice royale #vanessa vanjie mateo #lesbian au #fluff #angst #undone #stephanie #veronica #concrit welcome

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leejrdans · 5 years

Text

you can try to conceal your heart with red and gold titanium, but you can never truly hide from your demons.

Merlin’s beard, what is ( LEE JORDAN ) doing out at this hour? For a ( HALF BLOOD ) who is ( 19 ) years old, ( HE ) really ought to know better. You know, I hear that they’re aligned with ( THE ORDER ), but that could be just a rumor. I do know that ( HE ) is ( A CIS MAN ) and a ( GRYFFINDOR ) alumni though. They’re very ( FORTHRIGHT ) and ( CAPTIVATING ) but also quite ( IRREVERENT ) and ( BIASED ), which could be why they remind of ( LAUGHING TO FEEL ALIVE AND SPEAKING UP TO STAY ALIVE, A RESTLESS FEELING IN THE PIT OF YOUR STOMACH THAT ALWAYS DEMANDS MORE MORE MORE, HONESTY AS YOUR NATIVE TONGUE ). Some people say they’re the spitting image of ( TREVOR JACKSON ), but I’ve never heard of them.

LINKS: pinboard. stats page. wanted plots is COMING.

CHARACTER PARALLELS: will be added one day when my brain does work

HEY GUYS, it’s mar again. lee is a new muse. as in NEW. completely fresh. i am Nervous! but i love 1 man!!! note: lee is quite a Social Man, so i kind of went ahead and assumed some stuff about his position at hogwarts ( like, popularity & how the slytherins receive his biased commentary ) but i’m not trying to generalise at all and say that THIS IS HOW YOUR CHARACTER SHOULD FEEL bc i hate that LMAO take it all w a grain of salt its just how i?? ig imagine things went but if they went differently that is Okie

history.

lee is born in st mungo’s, to a halfblood mother & a muggleborn father. they’re not married. hell, they’re barely in love, but she still squeezes his hand during it all, and he cries, and for a moment they think that - maybe - they can be happy. ( someone should have told them that a child is never the solution, that it doesn’t work like that. )

lee’s mother moved into his father’s place -- a tiny flat, in peckham, but it was bigger than her own place -- and brought only two suitcases and a backpack ( warning sign one ). they tried, hard, for a while. lee’s father worked and his mother was at home, most of the time, looking after her son and making empty wine bottles appear ( warning sign two ) and then staying away during weekend nights ( warning sign three ).

she leaves for the first time when lee is nearly one, taking one of her suitcases and her backpack and slipping away in the death of night. lee’s father is lost -- for a while, but finds help in neighbours and sisters and his mother, mainly. and that’s how it went for years --- his mother coming back, and leaving, and coming back, until she didn’t come back again, not really. lee’s dad said it was enough, one day, and lee’s mother retreated to her own place. his father tried to get full custody and got it, eventually and then there was his mother, not cut from his life completely, but only semi-there, appearing when she could and - most importantly - wanted to.

he doesn’t really get it, in all honesty, as he’s five when his father tells her mother she can’t live with them any more, and most of his life after that is him and his dad and his aunts and his grandmother. plenty of family --- plenty of reasons to be happy, but an inexplicable gap, still.

lee grows up in peckham, london, and attends muggle elementary there. he goes to diagon alley on afternoons after school and weekends, with his dad, and later alone. he likes gazing at brooms ( wistfully ) and hanging out with fellow wizarding kids and magic, magic, magic. there’s magic at home too, of course, but his grandmother and aunts are all muggles, so there’s not much, but in diagon alley there’s so much of it. he likes the muggle world, sure ( especially video games & music ), but it’s nothing compared to the wizarding world.

i mean --- it’s not like he’s bored, because everything is excitable for young lee, and there’s fun to be found in everything, but there’s just more in the wizarding world - more mystery and excitement and ways to wreak havoc. because that he does love --- pranks, innocent and less innocent, hijinks and shenanigans. getting on his teachers nerves with bad jokes and cursewords.

lee doesn’t grow up with a lot of the things that some might consider crucial -- financial stability, a stable family life, a nice neighborhood. but it’s good and it’s whole in its own way. there’s plenty of people lee loves and plenty who love him back and it’s good, and when he’s off to hogwarts he’s both mad excited and secretly a bit scared and sad to leave his fam behind.

hogwarts, though, is a BLAST. lee is sorted in gryffindor ( because where else? ) and finds friends, fast. in his own house, outside of it, in his teachers, kind of ( he personally is convinced that minerva mcgonagall adores him, despite her disapproving glares ). he’s okay at his classes -- he has the skills, sure, but not the concentration and focus -- and better at everything else.

lee starts commentating on quidditch matches after he doesn’t make the team. he’s not broken up about it, in all honesty --- he sees how hard the team has to work and laughs at his mates who have to sweat while he gets to sleep in. commentating is more fun, anyway. it gains him some popularity, some enemies in slytherin, maybe, because he’s not very unbiased in his commentary. he loves his time at hogwarts, in all honesty, even more when he gets that gig.

his father meets his current girlfriend when lee is in his fifth year. they marry in the summer after his sixth year and have their daughter -- zoe -- about a year later. lee loves them. he’s conflicted at first, but he’s happy for his dad, and his baby sister is CUTE AF.

lee jordan is a rebel. in tiny, fun-loving ways ( pulling pranks, cracking jokes, being a bit of a class clown ), but also in a political, angry way. it doesn’t show in his earlier years, but as the war starts, and he grows older, too, he finds his priorities shifting. lee knows injustice. he’s dealt with prejudice his entire life --- at muggle school, at hogwarts, even. and as prejudice and bigotry gains the upper hand in the wizarding world, he grows angrier. restless.

the DA is a way to rebel more effectively, he supposes. protesting when he’s not in school. cracking open history books when he��s supposed to be practising for his NEWTs ( and he is not taking history ). lee looks at the world and he’s angry, he’s restless, he wants to do something but he does not know what---- because where do you start when so much is wrong?

right now.

lee has graduated hogwarts ( believe me when i say that those last months without fred & george were fucking boring, but he at least got to focus a bit more on his NEWTs ) by now and he’s floundering around. i like to think that he’s working for/with the twins, helping with inventing stuff and marketing kind of things for the www, but if this doesnt mesh with any potential fred/george players, i can 100% alter this skjsdf.

he wants to do something more, though. tell stories. speak up. journalism has always pulled at him --- not written, but on the telly or radio. he likes music too, of course, and the truth, especially --- and an idea is starting up in his mind. he’s slowly working towards setting up an underground radio, gathering equipment and figuring out ways to organise it. potterwatch is coming, and once the ministry is taken over ( if -- of course, that’s where this rp’s plot takes us ) it will be there, the urgency bigger. i don’t know exactly --- i’ll probably discuss this w sarah too but i think right now potterwatch is just an untitled work in progress.

lee’s not an official order member, but i do think he’s alligned, in one way or another. he’s willing to do what’s right, keeps his DA coin on him because of it, but also tries to take the world with a grain of salt, still. laughter is what makes him feel alive, and everything else he does to stay alive, to still make this world a livable place.

rebel boi.

personality & tidbits.

lee is a dank meme lordt who would be an icon on social media, if we had it. he just likes dumb ass humour. a bit of a class clown --- he just likes attention, but he also likes making people laugh and having a good. fucking. time.

lee is hilarious and it’s the truth.

he rly loves his fam!! is worried abt them!! he still lives at home its a blast but he wants to move out tbakjdsf.

his mother doesnt rly ... idk he does think of her as his mother but not rly as part of his family, bc family is not blood anyway. he’s had a few good talks w her since he’s grown older tho but it’s a sore, complicated spot.

lee loves music a Lot. hip hop, trip hop, some punk here and there ... bonus points if it’s a political bop!!

has the mouth of a sailor and now that he’s out of school he doesnt even try to fight it. no mcgonagall around to tell him off after all!!!

enjoys smoking pot & drinking beers w his buds. just -- letting go, having a laff and relaxing to the fullest. likes watching muggle tv when high especially, such a hobby!!!

idk!!!!!!!!!!!! will add more mayhaps???

#potter intro #YEET

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nate-the-ok · 6 years

Text

Sugar Napkins Glass

One of my larger projects, written in a particular mood, then I got out of the mood. Lost interest. Its a time investment, fair warning

Sugar, Napkins, Glass: Chapter 1

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. The things sea air does to cream cheese.

Scrape. Scrape. Scrape. (Three more furious scraping sessions)

It was late evening on the isles of Costa Marco, and Greg Sattle was deeply contemplating how drowning actually felt as he psychologically held his nose and cleaned the day`s cream cheese stains from the floors of his seaside café, The Port Side. He certaintly never imagined himself as the owner of some cream-colored scene out of a Martha Stewart Magazine, but crazier things have been done for love. Well perhaps not, Greg thought to himself. Ships were launched. Hundreds, perhaps thousands have died. But no one surely would subject themselves to ten years of imprisonment in a coffee shop. Her name, as apt as names go, has changed over the years. First, it was Elizabeth. Then, it was Liz. Then it was Ellie. After that it was Mom. Now its…well there are a plethora of profanities on Costa Marco relating to nagging old sea hags.

As the sun set over the ocean waves, bubbling and rippling the light from a distance, inducing a trance-like state for all of the barely clothed onlookers, Greg scanned the beaches, reigning down his mighty judgement upon all of god`s creation.

“Perverts. Sicophants. Mankind is a disgusting thing. All of these people, living artificial lives in artificial clothes, with artificial personalities, having sex with each other and drinking and lazing about. The fat jiggling bipeds live meaningless lives, consuming and consuming and consuming. A colony of walruses lives with more honor”

While deep in his sociopathic rants, Greg`s only son and heir to his legacy, Samuel, sauntered over to his father.

“Hey uhh, dad”

Greg hated his son. He was positive that he was the dumbest person on the entire island. No, the entire planet. It wasn`t even that that bothered him. It was his stupid, rage inducing manner of speech. It was a cross between the calm, swaying way of the islanders, and a lifetime of listening to the worst music god ever created. It was like listening to a four year old whine about having wet himself for 23 years. There were many occasions where Greg would chuckle to himself as Sam stubbed his toe on a door, or got beat up by a gang of street thugs. Ah the glories of cosmic justice he thought to himself. Now he approaches, likely to ask for something, as all weak willed individuals do on a regular basis.

“Yes Sam?” Greg said with obvious disdain, mocking Sam`s imperceptiveness, and crying on the inside that his son would always be, that stupid.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to loan me like uh…fifty bucks?”

Another thing that bothered Greg about Sam. He had zero charisma. He came off as needy and useless as he actually was. The only job he could ever get, was washing dishes at the cafe, which somehow, he still showed up late for. You couldn`t send him to military school to straighten him out, because they`d probably kill him for being such an annoying little shit, and say it was an accident. It was that part, that he regretted that his son would die, that really bothered Greg. Why god? Why other than by blood relations should I care about this…

“What exactly for?” Greg retorted

“Um…Im taking a girl on a date and I uh…need some spending money”

It was here that Greg paused. Surely, with this small investment of mere material gains, perhaps this will finally change sam`s silly ways. Hopefully he falls in love with this girl, and eventually she breaks his heart, that always toughens up a man in the end. Good god was sam a virgin? It`s a distinct possibility, but how could he know? Sam never confided in Greg. Ever. What the hell. Maybe it`s worth a shot.

“Sure, here…consider it a bonus…actually it`s not a bonus you`re a terrible worker and if you weren`t my son i`d fire you”

“Thanks dad!” Sam replied with renewed elation, as he scurried out the door, hopping into the old convertible Greg had gave him for his nineteenth birthday. Another failed attempt at manning him up.

“Maybe im just a shitty parent” Greg said out loud to himself.

Maybe he`s a lot of shitty things. However, that`s not nearly the most important part of this story.

“Oh a whisky oh a danny, when will the whisky run dry?” Bellowed each member of the small crew. Caribbean lobsters were rare, but in recent years, their populations blossomed, for almost unfathomable reasons. Regardless, dozens of fishing companies cropped up around Costa Marco, looking to cash in on a commoditiy, which pound for pound, was more valuable than gold. Of this small crew of the “Sandy Boot”, there was Rook, the boats` captain. He was a truck driver, for more years than he cared to remember, or forget for that matter. When the sea called to him, he remembered childhood stories his grandmother told him, of sailors and pirates, of heroes, and most importantly, drunks. Those decades of sitting in the cab of a truck, passing by non-descript highway rest stops and meaningless landmarks gave him a hunger for a real culture, and companionship. Sure there was the occasional bar-room hookup, as many as a guy as old and as fat as him could get but…he wanted a friend. More than anything.

Rook did the song justice, and drained the last swig of whisky from the clear glass bottle. Happily giggling as he spun the thin aluminum wheel around in the cabin making a course for home, while the other members of the crew scoffed in sarcastic disappointment. The small lobster boat only cost the crew a collective fifteen grand to purchase and insure, but had already made them incredible returns. None felt the weight of that more than Trip, the crew`s most experienced fisherman, but also the poorest. You see, Trip was a local to Costa Marco. His ancestors were slaves, and each preceding generation were slaves. First to white men, then to oppressive governments, then to drugs, and finally, to the sea. Many of the ethnic locals to Costa Marco are fishermen. But not all of them were ever good fishermen. All of them, save for Trip. To anybody else, he was just another kid who knocked some poor girl up, and ruined the rest of his life, trying to take care of a kid. To Trip and Louisa, they were in paradise. Sure they lived in a small apartment by the docks. Sure they didn`t own a car, or even have a checking account. What they did have however, was the kind of love that we all refuse to believe is real, and a beautiful baby boy to match. Their life went as followed. Trip would get up early in the morning, and join the rest of the crew on the boat to fish. Louise would wake with the sunrise and feed their child, sipping tea and reading books, gossiping with her neighbors on the beach behind their home. As the sun went down, she would build a fire, and cook a meal of chopped fish and island fruits. When Trip returned, he would walk onto the beach, lay on the sand next to his wife, take his son in his arms, and they would laugh until the fire left their minds, and fell to embers. When the clock struck ten, the three of them would settle down to bed, and the process would begin again. I`d wager that at the time, since Trip had finally been able to bring in good money, they were the happiest people alive.

As that rusty old boat pulled into the docks, and Trip called to Louise, Margo was tying off ropes, and looking over cages that had been damaged, eager to repair them. She was a kind of inquisitive, thoughtful human being that had been completely ensnared by the mere concept of rope in general. She could not explain just how-hold on a second, a woman? On a boat? Believe it or not, yes. A woman on a boat. Perhaps it was because Rook`s guilty pleasure was staring at her ass when she pulled a cage up from the sea. Perhaps it was the fact that on Costa Marco, everyone was too laid back to care at all. In reality, it was the mutual understanding between workers, that if you wanted the money, you worked hard for it, and you weren`t a total bitch, then you could fish like anyone else. It was that kind of atmosphere that Margo really craved. The kind of togetherness and happiness that was alive in the isles of Costa Marco. She could walk the streets on a Friday night, and join any party she wanted. Smile with whoever she wanted, laugh with whoever she wanted, and drink with whoever she wanted. It was her other craving though, that drove her to the fishing industry, and to the seclusion of the house she was able to purchase, just outside of town.

Cinnitar. A strange name for an incredibly popular opioid. It`s popularity wasn`t in it`s nature or it`s flawless marketing. It`s popularity was based on it`s safety. Margo would walk home from the boat after Rook distributed the previous day`s pay, spend a third of it on Cinnitar, and crash at her place, unwinding slowly into a peaceful, yet dreamless sleep. The gimmick associated to Cinnitar was that no matter how much of it you took, you couldn`t die, and there were virtually no side effects. While initially created to humanely kill family pets, when the formula was released to the general public, crafty chemists soon realized the drug`s massive potential. Margo had a massive amount of reasons to take the drug, but only one that she really couldn`t get out of her head. Her Abortion. Breaking up with Grant. She wasn`t supposed to feel guilty. It was the right thing to do. She was taking control of her body, and her life. Where did that ever get her? Where could it have gone? These kinds of questions only frightened her more when she knew Trip`s story, and watched his family eat dinner on the beach a hundred times. She wanted that, more than anything she wanted that, but she made that choice a thousand years and a thousand miles ago, and there was no way to go back. So it was here, that she would lay back on the hammock, ladle some Cinnitar into her arm, and imagine she made the choice she wanted, maybe even the right choice.

Suddenly, the newest member of the crew, Spencer, was knocking at her door. Margo couldn`t even stand to respond, and hoped he would just go away. She only ever invited him over along with the whole crew one time, as a housewarming party, but besides that, she had been a hermit. Spencer though, was persistent, knocking away like an idiot, because he saw her going in there…which yes, means that he followed her.

“Oh well, I guess she was just tired from fishing today. It was pretty hot out” he sighed to himself.

Margo relaxed back into her hammock. She liked Spencer. As far as guys went on all the islands, he was pretty cute. But it had only been…two years? Since she up and left her home in Georgia to find her way in the carribean, just to throw herself at the map and see where she could stick. It had been a long time, she thought. Maybe too long. Maybe she should give Spencer a shot, she thought, but before she could explore that line of reasoning, another wave came over her, and she was further back in that hammock than ever before, further back in her past and her guilt.

Walking home at night on Costa Marco is a very surreal experience. There are Boas hanging in the trees, pigs and dogs scurrying about, and when you hit the city, it`s a complete paradigm shift. There are vibrantly dressed locals and self-proclaimed locals dancing and drinking and laughing, jabbering and swooning to the hastily strummed guitars and battered drums. When Spencer left that small but happy place in the world, he turned down the many streets until he reached his own little cobblestone corner. Really a treasure of an abode, an old colonial townhouse, shoulder to shoulder with the infinite, but not quite well laid out rows of the other townhouses. He turned the old iron key, creaking open the heavy wooden door, into his own little grain scented shelter. Throwing wood into the fireplace, and firing up his laptop, he began to peruse his greatest passion… bread. Artisan, hand crafted, wood baked, the boy was obsessed. You see, Costa Marco was surprisingly devoid of this kind of bread industry. No dish, local or otherwise served or prepared on the islands required it, in fact, one would be looked upon with a small amount of disdain if seen eating a sandwich. This kind of atmosphere suffocated Spencer. He wanted to share his passion for bread with everyone he knew, by opening his own bakery. You could imagine by this description, that Spencer was a simple kind of guy, but in a magnificently pleasant kind of way. Spencer had spent most of his life travelling, as his father and mother were both in the navy, which meant that for the most part, spencer grew up on naval bases and with other navy kids. They all wanted to follow right in line with their parents, as disciplined and honorable scholars, pilots, or sailors. Spencer wanted none of that. All he wanted, was his bakery. It is hard to determine when, where or how he became obsessed with bread, or why frankly anyone cares, but all this interest is a testament to, is the kind of purity of heart Spencer possessed.

“Just a few more weeks” Spencer muttered to himself with a smile,

“And they`ll all see”…He trailed off, sensing he was tired, and rising to his bedroom. With each thunk of the heavy wooden steps he thought of Margo. How pretty she was. How her hair glistened in the midday sun. How the waters rolled off her skin. Yes, this is love, he thought.

The crew of the sandy boot were a lively bunch. The money was good, but what would it mean if they couldn`t buy paradise in…paradise. Poor old Greg was no exception. As he forked the thin steel key out of the decrepid lock of the café, and wandered over to his old Toyota truck, he began for the first time in his life, to seriously examine the choices he had made. For an inimaginable amount of time, Greg was locked in his relationship with Liz. Funny. He hadn`t even called her that in his thoughts in years. He could sense it. Just like how he sensed some asshole slowly crawling up his tail light on the old highway.

“Why I oughta” Greg snarled to himself, well aware that he only said that due to the fact thousands of other faces on the televisions did before him,

What he “oughta” do became less and less clear. His stream of consciousness was inundated with images of graphic, brutal violences he would inflict on the morally devoid creature that parasitically perched itself on his mechanical posterior. While making a curve on the old road, he caught a good glimpse of the driver in his rear-view mirror. It was just some...average young woman. Really nothing of great stereotypical or demonstrative worth. Suddenly, a wave of sympathy overcame Greg. Maybe she was just having a bad day. Maybe she was just angry about something. Maybe he had tailgaited her some time ago, and this was her form of revenge. Maybe, and entirely possibly, she was thinking the very same thoughts he was in his car, driving home late at night. Wondering about all the things he had done, the bills he had to pay, or the big decisions he would have to make. And a big decision, he certaintly did have to make. And it would pertain to whether or not he would stay with Liz.

It wasn`t like it was rocket science. Greg wasn`t always this spiteful, this mean, or even this domecticated. Liz hated camping. Before he met her, he could barely stay out of the woods.

“Yeah, Camping. Another thing to look foreward to when she`s out of the picture” Greg said aloud to himself, in rhythm with the soft country music on the radio.

“And that stupid kid of ours. He can be HER problem”. His voice began to rise with elation, as if the lightball was slowly coming on in his head.

“And I can finally smoke a cigar, inside or out…Hell ill be sure to ash`em right in the carpets”. The rhythm was infecting his reasoning, a little song being invented as he talked more and more.

“Oh yeah you bet it baaabay, that I`ll be smokin` up the town…do do do, pah do do pah pah… Oh yeah won`t be a clean carpet arooooooouuund” He laughed and tapped on his wheel as he sang his little song, all the way up his driveway.

Greg didn`t even bother to go in the house anymore. The ol` salty sea skank (his favourite colloquialism), would always be there to ask him how much money he made at the café that day.

“It was your idea bitch, and you`d know how much we were making if you ever left the house”

Greg pondered that hypothetical strategy in an argument as he walked into the shed, and flicked then lights on. Upon the table, lay his only true love. His beautiful bearded lizard, which he named Tequila. Greg…Greg was the kind of guy who loved to watch things. To be in control. There was nothing Greg loved more than to feed Tequila, in the morning before he went to work, and at night when he came home. Despite the fact that all the simple lizard ever gave him was the occaisional eyeball lick, or even a rare nibble on his fingers, Greg interpreted that as true affection.

“Oh little Tequila, you look so hungry!” Greg said, opening the cabinet above the lizard`s massive tank, and pulling out a small colony of grasshoppers.

Greg thought for a moment as he fauned over his pet, and smirked when he said, “So hungry that these little sons of bitches…might not be enough”

Greg put the grasshoppers back in the cabinet, and pulled another tank up from the ground across the floor. Within, rested half a dozen garter snakes, just now becoming startled at being lifted on the table.

Then, with the methodical preparation of a serial killer, Greg donned a leather apron and a pair of leather gloves, grabbing the fattest snake from the tank, and sealing the rest away. Greg took time to examine the creature, ensuring that it wouldn`t be strong enough to possibly hurt cute little Tequila. Of course none of those snakes stood a chance, but even a scratch on one of his stubby little legs would deeply disturb Greg. He gingerly placed the snake in the opposite end of Tequila`s tank, pulled up a chair, cracked a beer, and just watched.

Tequila was quick to take notice. It wasn`t very often that he had roomates. The new company was very exciting, but quite strange. Like an innocent, scaley puppy, tequila plodded off of his log, and towards this new arrival.

“Hold on a moment” Tequila thought to himself, slowing his pace as he analyzed the scent of the creature. He approached with caution…and a feeling…came over him…

Within a flash, bits and pieces of his new friend were strewn throughout the sand, a chunk of it`s torso sliding down his gullet.

“No…Not Again!”

Greg was sufficiently appeased by this display, and took the time to clean the cage while Tequila was occupied with his food, and changed his water.

“Isn`t it maaaaagic” Greg sang to himself, as he closed down the shed, and turned off all the lights, only dimming Tequila`s light in his tank.

“He gets scared of the dark…musn`t do that to him” He muttered, having thought about it and said that phrase a thousand times by now, it had become more of a routinely incensed nervous tick, for now Greg would have to actually go inside his house, and face his wife, which especially as of late, had become thornier than Tequila. Yes, thornier. Nothing else… weirdo.

Greg walked up to the bug screened back door, and as he climbed the second of the three steps, the light above the door came on, which meant that Liz was fast approaching, likely having seen Greg leave the shed. He opened the door, with her standing in front of him, crossing her arms and staring at him with pursed lips. She always had a flair for the dramatic. Never seemed to like existing in a state of calm or contentment. As far as Greg knew, she loved to be miserable and combative.

Greg wasn`t really in the mood for one of her fits. He knew how the argument would go. He knew exactly what she would nag him about. The Café isn`t making enough money, the house needs renovating, you need to spend more time with sam, you need to work out. It was the last part that bothered Greg the most. His physique had never been exemplary, he knew this, and he thought she knew this. Where did this desire for a six pack and biceps appear? When she started to have to shimmy through the closet door sideways?

After a single, tense moment, Greg simply put his keys on the hook beside the door, and walked on by. Sure it required one awkward shove, and really did nothing to appease Liz, but what was the point? All she wanted to do was argue till the sun came up.

He casually walked over to the kitchen and pulled some raw fish he had bought from the market two days earlier, prepared a skillet, and began to sear it on the electric oven, not expressing a single emotion aside from blank disdain as she walked in, still pouting about…well he didn`t even bother to find out.

He kept standing over that fish, casually turning from side to side as he grabbed various spices off the racks beside the stove. Ultimately, he found her performance entertaining and predictable. She had done this a thousand times. She would continue to do this a thousand times. It had been years since he stopped wondering what he could do, what he could say so she would finally hug him after a long day of work…again Greg felt regret.

“How terribly attached to a terrible woman have I become? I would be so much happier if I just…left. But I can`t…How fickle the heart is”

He remembered when they first moved into the house. They had arguments yes, but they were small, never lasted long, and were always resolved. He thought that was the sign of how resilient they were as a couple. Over time though, with the innumerable failures of Sam, the highs and lows of the café, the hurricane…Their arguments grew more fierce. They could argue for hours. First it was a low rumble. Then it was a scream. At least he`d get the occasional “I love you” from her. Nowadays, he couldn`t even remember the last time he, or even she said it.

He could remember the last time they cooked together. It was beef stew. He remembered the sound of her laughter as they casually splashed the red wine into the broth and their glasses. He remembered how warm she felt in his arms as they fell asleep on the porch, stinking of wine and spilled stew.

“Yes…that was the last time we were happy together” he thought to himself.

He slid the fish off the skillet and onto a pan, turning around and placing it on the table, unsuprised to see he wife still standing there in the doorway, maintining that blank, judgemental expression. He sat down, pushed the plate to the side slowly, and motioned for her to sit down. Slowly, she rose from her stance, and took the chair across from him. After a long moment of silence, and losing the staring contest with the tribal figurine in the middle of the table, Greg spoke.

“Aren`t you tired?” He asked, deliberately, implying so much with so little.

In complete understanding of the implications, she replied

“I…Yes… I am”

“How long has it been…since you were actually happy to see me?” He asked, having completely forgotten about the fish growing cold beside him.

“Too long” She curtly replied.

There was another long pause as Greg began to feel a wash of emotions come over him. He really loved her. There was no denying that. He began to process the thought of her not loving him, images of her leaving, of her looking away when he passed her on the street. It began to destroy him in ways he couldn`t imagine. He couldn`t stop it, he had already set in motion.

“ Do you still love me?” He asked, having asked a thousand times before in the past as a rhetorical question, always replied with “of course idiot”, or “you know I do”. This was the first time he really meant it, and really wondered. And it really hurt.

There was another long silence. Everything felt colder, and darker to Greg. His life, and his worldview were hanging in the balance. The fact that she even took a second to consider sent him spinning. It felt like a knife was being pulled out of his chest, the sheer anticipation of what he knew would come next.

Liz rose from her chair, and took a picture off the wall. It was from years ago, when the whole family had taken their first vacation together. Greg was standing over Liz, his hands on her shoulders, as She was sitting on a canoe, sam in her arms, still a baby. She came back to her chair, and put the picture on the table, staring at it for yet another agonizing eternity.

“I loved you for who you were…but not for who you are”

He could not think. He could not speak. He responded as blankly and as simply as he could muster.

“In that case…I want you out of the house by next week”

“What? Greg that`s completely unreasonable” she said, which to Greg indicated that she wanted to go, and she wanted to for a long time. It also enraged him for some reason, that she would have the gall to break his heart, and still ask for reparations.

“I don`t particularly care. Actually, here`s the deal. I`ll give you that goddamned café, and ill keep the house, which I paid for by actually working at MY café. I swear to god if you say it`s somehow yours to give, the only claim you have was that it was your goddamned idea. It`s in my legal name, I did all the work to get the land, to build the damn thing, and still ran it for ten years. Take whatever damn money you`ve got saved and get an apartment in town. Maybe you`ll find a skinny Cuban guy to sleep with while you`re there!” Greg yelled.

“Just…fuck you Greg. Fuck you.” Liz replied, tears streaming down her face as she ran upstairs, the clunk of her suitcase slamming to the floor. Greg didn`t care. This was the hundredth argument they had gotten in, and he was making sure this was the last. He was angry, but only as a way to drown out just how upset he really was.

The sound of the suitcase hitting the floor, of dressers flying open, was the melody to which Greg went on his laptop in the living room, and electronically transferred ownership of the café over to Liz. He promptly went into their bank account, destroyed the split account, taking what was his, and establishing his own account. “Hmm…She only has $38,000 left…How did she even earn that much?”. He didn`t bother to find out. He had now financially cut her out of his life. The wonders of the internet.

There was a pang of regret in Greg. Perhaps this was too extreme. Maybe it was, but there was no coming back from what he just did. Those two minutes of conversation could have gone a thousand different ways. It began to feel like he chose the worst way possible. All he wanted was for Liz to love him again, but instead, he pushed her away. Was it justified? After years and years of these arguments maybe it was. He just felt like he needed to…pull the plug, so to speak. Just to cut it off and end it. So, he reasoned, like any other case of amputation, it would hurt, but in the end, he would be better off. Still, he wouldn`t have an arm. That was ultimately the question. Would Greg rather have a cancerous, venomous part of his life that made him miserable, or not have that at all? What was worse? What Greg did know is that it was too late to wonder. He had tried medicating for decades, with know sign of remission. Now, Liz was coming down the stairs, and Greg began to be so upset that he couldn`t think of any more medical juxtapositions.

What was worse was that she didn`t even look at him when she went out the door. All he could yell at her was that the Café was her responsibility now, and she`d have to find a way run it in the morning. He remembered the keys in his pocket, and threw the café key in her car as she opened the passenger door to throw her suitcase in. She still did not look at him. She refused to look at him. Even when she was pulling out of the driveway, She didn`t even look towards the house, and sped off to town. So Greg stood there, on the porch, and for the first time in fifteen years, he cried.

It wasn`t like how he imagined. The house didn`t feel free. A weight wasn`t lifted off his shoulders. It felt empty. Like there were still parts of it that were actually hers. He wanted to call her. He wanted to tell her he was sorry, that she should come back and they could talk things over. It was too late though. He knew her. She would take this whole incident to heart. She would go through with it, regardless of how she still felt about him. The ultimate issue was that they both loved each other, but they couldn`t stand each other. It was a sick, unhealthy way of existing, and Greg sought to excise those feelings as he cleaned up the bedroom and the bathroom, putting whatever she left behind in a box, which he was debating either burning, burying, or throwing at her whenever she found out where she lived. Fortunately she was pretty good about it… in fact it was too good. Maybe she had rehersed this. Maybe she was just waiting for this argument, the go ahead, the justification to finally leave. She had to have been thinking about it. Way more than he actually was.

The reality was that when you`re married to a woman for thirty years, she accumulates more crap than she could possibly fit in one exceptionally large suitcase. She took the essentials, her clothes, her jewelry, so on and so forth. What did she leave behind? The kind of things that hurt to still see. Photos. Letters. Little arts and crafts, any kind of sentimental object.

“Regardless” Greg said to himself.

“This was going to happen one day or another…just when and how were the only questions…doesn`t change the fact that I still feel like shit about it.”

There really isn`t anything he could do except just sit on the bed, and imagine what life would now be like. Where his fit of rage and honesty really put him. He didn`t have a job anymore. That was something to consider. What could he even go for? He had a degree in business management, and sociology. He had years of experience running small restaurants. Those kind of credentials don`t get you far in this kind of a place. What really mattered was that he was old, fat, and…didn`t have Liz. He felt guilty about not being more sympathetic. About not feeling at all bad for essentially kicking her out in the middle of the night. It was just…her words. I loved you for who you were…not for who you are”. She had, without any kind of anger or impotice, said the most hurtful thing Greg ever heard in his life. He regretted ever complaining about her, even though that complaining was mostly to himself. He was angry, shocked, and plunged into this deep pit of depression all in an instant. The fact that he suddenly lost control of his emotions wasn`t forgivable but to Greg…it was understandable.

-----------

Greg awoke the next morning, with a pain in his chest. The knife wound from earlier had moved to the center of his chest, slowly ripping and tearing. It no longer felt metaphorical. It was a literal, real pain, and as he saw it… it was all his fault.

“What am I thinking?” he said to himself, squinting his eyes as he sat up in the morning sunlight.

It was eight o`clock in the morning. He normally got up at six to get to the shop and open by seven, but what the hell. It`s not his problem anymore.

“I am a grown ass man and I`m pining after that hag?”

Oh god of course. The only reason he was sad was because he only chose to remember the good parts of their marriage which to be honest, were just as she described. They started good, and tapered off around… jesus a quarter of the way through? Did he not remember the endless, pointless, and frustrating fights they would get in? How she would blame him for how Sam turned out? No. He shouldn`t feel sad. The only reason he does was…human nature.

“Yeah… that`s gotta be it.” Greg thought.

He got up, and went through his typical morning routine, plus a mug of rum and fatefully, a cigar on the porch. As he took deep, long tokes on the sweet treasure he had denied himself for years, he began to remember what kind of a man he really was.

“Just getting in touch with my ego. It`s what Freud would want”

Suddenly, he remembered his only friend, and ran to the shed. He scooped up little Tequila from his tank, and placed him in a basket (formerly used for bath towels…why would you want a smaller towel? Why not just the one size towel? Another annoying mystery of Liz) beside him, pouring him a little dish of rum.

“This is the life eh Tequila? A bit of rum, the lazy island breeze, and the cool morning sun…I just feel like staying right here. Doing absolutely nothing. In that way I guess we aren’t that different eh little man?”

Tequila had already taken a few sips of the rum, and began to feel groggy, making a movement with his head that appeared to Greg as a nod.

“The food god has poisoned me…the sweet smelling liquid was a deception…”

The spiny lizard felt the warmth of the sun on his scales, and reminisced on the few times he ever saw the great ball of orange light.

“Perhaps I am dying…why else would the food god bring me here?”

Hours indeed did pass. The sun rose, and all the island birds were chirping and cawing. Greg used to think it was an annoying racket, but now, a little buzzed on the rum and having meditiated in this state for some time, it was a chorus, more beautiful and sanctified than any church choir he ever listened to as a kid.

Greg felt sore, and decided to rise from his seat, and noticed that Tequila had finished his bowl of rum, and now was listing around his basket, attempting to escape.

“I think it`s high time I did something…that I expanded your perspective”

He picked up Tequila, and brought him in the house. He had never left the confindes of his tank, save for the one time Greg brought him out in the yard to run around a little bit. He gently laid him on the couch, set out a plate of pre-killed grasshoppers and a dish of water, and closed the door behind him.

“I`m just curious as to what the hell happens” he giggled to himself.

“Also as to what…has happened”

He grew morose, and finally decided to assess the damage on what happened the night before. As he was pulling out of the driveway, he questioned for but a moment, the soundness of the decision to let Tequila have his way with the house. Before he could consider that for any longer, he saw Sam pull into the driveway, or attempt to. For the first time in his life, Sam looked truly angry with his father. Greg sighed, and pulled back in the driveway, getting out and leaning against the bed of the truck as Sam pulled in himself.

“Hey Dad can you tell ME what uh, happened last night?” Sam said, with a kind of difficulty that made it very apparent he was inexperienced with this emotion.

“When did you find out?” Greg said, with the kind of calm respect he never gave to Sam. He was innocent here. He deserved to be treated with respect when it came to this, of all things.

“Last night Dad. Mom`s staying at my place right now” Sam answered, still pseudo angry with Greg

You mean the apartment I pay for? Greg thought. No. This wasn`t the time for bitterness or sarcasm about anything. Not with Sam.

“Sam, I know you`re a man and you have a lot of things of your own to worry about and pay attention to but…you must have known this was coming”

“OF COURSE I did dad! I just never thought you would be the one to…do it. And that way? Do you know how mom feels right now?”

Greg sighed heavily, and moved to the porch. Sam followed, eagerly awaiting his father`s answer. Greg sat back down in his chair, and sparked up the short cigar he had been working on since the morning.

“Come on Sam…Sit down” Greg motioned to the other seat, formerly Liz`s seat, back when he and Liz used to do things like that together. Sam complied, and pulled the chair over to sit beside his father. Greg looked out at the island and the jungle, the ocean and the birds flying over the canopy. Sam sat staring at his father, incredibly nervous as to what he would say next. Greg looked over, and began.

“As you know very well, your mother and I loved each other very much, and that`s how and why you came about…but that was a very long time ago. Now we just make each other miserable, and we just need to go our own directions”

“That still doesn`t explain why you were so fucking rude about it” Sam said, calmly responding. It was the first time he had ever cursed in his father`s prescence, and frankly, it impressed him.

Greg took another cigar from the wooden box, and waved it as an offering to Sam. Sam nodded, and awkwardly fumbled the lighter as he lit it up. He coughed, and took the cigar between his thumb and index finger, resting his arm on the arm of the chair, the way all the mob bosses did in the movies.

“You know what kid…you`re right. Maybe it was a bit much for me to have done what I did and said what I said the way I said it last night. I can`t take that back…but you know what? If I did it any other way, your mom and I would have second guessed it, gotten back together, and six months later I`d be thinking about doing the exact same thing again. I know it was a shitty thing to do but…that`s how your mom and I are. That`s how it would have worked out either way”

Sam didn`t seem satisfied with the explanation, and kept looking off in the distance, waiting for a further explanation.

“Listen, just help your mom out for a few weeks so she can find a place and get back on her own two feet. I assure you, after all of this is over, her and I are going to be far better off, and you`ll start to see that in both of us”

Sam continued to stare foreward, but then began to speak.

“I just can`t understand it. How two people can be together so long and now…it just happened so fast”.

“Yeah kid… it still kinda feels like just a…nightmare right now. Like it hasn`t really happened”

“Do you still care about her?”

“I`m…I`m not sure”

They now both stared foreward. For the next moment, Sam put the cigar in his mouth, stood up, and went to his car without saying goodbye. Greg couldn`t imagine it. He had lost Liz, and now he wasn`t sure if he had lost his son. It felt wrong, but he indulged his desire to ash his cigar, which had gone out in the long pauses of his conversation. He leaned over the chair to the rug, made two little eyes, and pondered what kind of face he should make. Had everything happened the way he thought, maybe it would have been happy. Had he really and truly regretted his decision, it would have been sad. All he could accomplish was a long, straight, simple stroke along the pattern.

There is a kind of surreal nature to the inside of Spencer’s bedroom. The junglewood timbers and the two hundred year old stonework of the roof are the first things he lays eyes on in the morning. When he gets up and looks around, there is a computer, and a primitive modern plumbing system jammed into the old washroom. The space felt hijacked by modern amenities and the ever demanding creature comforts of a technological generation. As Spencer rises, he is careful to have a steady hand as he shaves with the straight razor he bought at the old market when he got off the boat, appalled by the apparent lack of multiple blade technology. While it had been six months since then, and his aim had improved, not a week would go by before he would give himself a solid nick on the jaw, and he would be reminded of this embaressment when the salt of the sea was splashed in his barely visible wound.

He was always a hard working kid, who quickly got over the whole “up ‘for dawn” moans and groans that were associated with being a professional fisherman. It took a particular kind of talent to get in his fishing overalls and his graphite grey hoodie, make a decent pot of coffee in the five dollar French press he had to work with, and head down to the docks in time, all with only three lights in the house.

While it was dark in his house, when Spencer began to walk the streets is when his childhood fears really began to resurface. At least at night the darkness was always dulled by the sound of music and the songs of drunken tourists. This early in the morning, most everyone who was out the night before was holed up somewhere, or was enigmatically dumped in a gutter, resulting in more than one occasion when he would accidentally kick one. The resulting groan would scare the hell out of Spencer, sending him nervously jogging down the street for a moment, before he looked back and saw a tattered figure slowly shift on the ground. The sight gave him no relief, but he endured.

The morning air in the town of Tileo had a bitter, metallic tang to it, which began to mix with the smell of dead or dying fish and sea air as he approached the docks.

“soon… it’ll be cinnamon… flour… rye” Spencer said to himself, panting as he shuffled towards the docks.

Rook was always the first to greet the crew as they arrived. He didn’t wake up any earlier than the rest of them, he just slept in a little house by the dock where they docked the boat, always fiddling with a lobster trap or studying the weather reports when Spencer walked down the dock and jumped on the boat.

“early as always” Rook slurred, not taking his eyes off the monitor.

“I thought we established that you liked that kind of thing” Spencer slurred back, stacking the fixed traps on the back of the boat.

“I do, but one day that enthusiasm will kill you”

“trust me man, if the money weren’t good, I wouldn’t be so enthusiastic” Spencer replied, standing up to put his gloves on and give a cordial wave to Trip as he jumped on the boat, only a few minutes later than Spencer.

“Hey Trip how`s it going?” Spencer asked, in the way he had been for the past four months. It seemed too sarcastic, too obnoxious to say “good morning”. There was an unspoken pact agreed upon by all the crew members to avoid the phrase in general.

Trip gave Spencer a hearty pat on the back, and leaned over to help him drag in rope.

“Feel good enough to make some money…shit it`s colder than a witchs’ teat today”

Spencer was proud that he taught Trip that phrase.

About fifteen minutes later, Margo appeared, quickly plodding towards the boat, hood up, her hands shoved in the pockets of her hoodie.

Ironically, she was the sunniest of the crew, typically buying something for the whole gang so they wouldn`t have to fish on empty stomachs. Today, it was a plastic netted bag of oranges.

“Thanks darlin’” Rook muttered, catching the orange as she tossed one to each of the crew.

A few more moments were spent organizing the tackle and throwing overall straps over shoulders, and then Rook gave the word to cast off.

The rhythm of work had become as automatic and unconscious as breathing to even Spencer. It went as followed. See bouy. Throw hook. Drag up trap. Empty trap into tank. Either stack the trap, or throw it back. Really the only person who had to actually think about their job was Rook, scanning the computer screen, and his paper maps, trying to find his traps and direct the crew which traps could wait, and which traps to pull in.

Due to the constant, straining mononteny, conversations between the crew would be running, and incoherent as they haul in their catch. Despite how this description sounds, they did not suffer at all under this strenuous labor. When each lobster dumped in the tank essentialy was another five bucks in each of the crew`s pockets, they had very little reason to complain. This kind of money, fishing easy waters, attracted drifters and shills, old hands and young hopefuls alike. The beauty of most of these fishing boats based off Costa Marco was that hiring and firing, well that was all at the captain`s discretion, weeding out all the lowlifes who didn`t meet the island`s “exacting” standards. The territorial government of the islands was almost non-existent, which led to virtually no enforcement of labor laws. Rightly so, because the fishermen of Costa Marco lived under a non-verbal, contractual agreement. To work hard, not to piss anyone off, and to enjoy life once in a while. If you were the wrong kind of personality, the wrong kind of person, hell even if the captain thought your fashion sense was abhorrent, all of these things were grounds for firing. The result? A tightly knit community of hand-picked fishing boats and their captains. Now it would be obvious to discover that most boats had some unfair preferences for their crews, locals picking locals, Hispanics picking Hispanics, black captains picking black crews, all of this was rampant and obvious, but nobody complained. It was more like a friendly competition, to see who, or what kind of person could really bring in the most cash. Which really befuddled Spencer, who finally decided Trip might not be offended if he asked Rook why he brought on Trip.

“Hey…Hey Rook?” Spencer asked, panting as he bent over to throw a trap in the water.

Rook looked up from his monitors quickly, obviously bored with his task as the weather seemed to be pretty much dead for the day

“What`s up Spence?”

“I`ve been working on this boat for a while now and…”

“Yeah?”

“I know how things are around here…Ah let me cut to the chase”

“Spit it out man” Rook asked, laughing a little at Spencer`s awkwardness.

“I`m just wondering why you brought on Trip…I mean, I know he`s a good fisherman and all, and a really nice guy, but…From what I see that isn`t what most people do around here”

Trip looked up from the back of the boat while spencer was asking his question, shrugging his shoulders and smiling, as if he couldn`t help just being an awesome guy, but his mood became serious when Spencer finished, his gaze turning to Rook.

Rook paused and stroked his salt and pepper beard, taking a quick glance at Margo, and then returning to his thoughts

“You said it yourself. Great fisherman, great guy. What else could I ask for?”

“Yeah Good point good point…” Spencer became nervous, as he now looked like a flaming racist.

“Oh don`t go shaking in your boots now Spence. I know you meant well” Trip piped up, grinning at Spencer, empathetic to his existential plight.

Spencer smiled nervously and shook his head, sighing as he bent back down to throw another trap.

Margo, largely oblivious to this whole exchange, staring off into the ocean, readied the last hook for the morning. Throwing it with impressive accuracy, a skill that was acquired over years of experience, and thankfully carried over to horseshoes. The effects of her habit were unpredictable at best. Sometimes she would be warm and sunny, optimistic and happy with the disposition of freshly poured chamomile tea. Other times, it was exactly as a hangover should be, a writhing, seething pain in her gut and a pounding in her head that always drove her to the point of swearing off the stuff for good, and made her despise every ray of sunlight or moment of attention thrown her way. Today however, was a great day. She had long figured out the exact formula for warding off these hangovers, that being exactly seven and a half hours of sleep, with two cups of coffee and half a lemon before leaving for work. That recipe always perked her right up as she made her own stroll down to the docks. It was that state of contentment, a lack of bereavement, that was almost better than getting high itself. In this kind of condition, she was really and truly just a fisherman on an exotic island.

As the crew halted work for the lunch break, huddling over the canvas covered interior of the boat as the midday sun bore down on them, Margo decided to make a tactical move. For almost a year and a half, she would always turn over a plastic bucket and sit between the two fiberglass benches that ran the length of the covered section of the boat. Rook would wheel around his chair in the cabin, opening the door to talk to the rest of the crew, Trip would sprawl himself out along the right bench, and Spencer would sit, with a hunched posture, nervously leaning against one of the polls holding up the canvas on the end of the left bench toward`s the captain`s cabin. In this fantastic mood she was in, she decided to sit directly next to Spencer. Within a far closer proximity than could be deemed permissible between coworkers or aquaintences. A single hand length, to be exact.

Spencer, munching away at a chicken wrap he had constructed himself, tried to play off the gravity of such a maneuver. Surely her bucket was no longer suitable for sitting, after all a rather rotten lobster did explode near the bottom. No amount of bleach could…

Never mind that tragedy! This wasn’t some kind of middle school panic attack he should be thrown into. Enough fanticising. Just…talk.

Thankfully, Rook broke the slow silent munching between the four of them.

“You know Spence, you were a little right about earlier”

“About what” He calmly,, yet nervously responded.

“About how it was unusual I took on Trip”

“Oh yeah?” Spencer calmly replied.

“You see… there is a story attached to his being here”

Trip rolled his eyes and scoffed, laying back on the bench in amusement.

“About oh I`d say coming on six years ago, I was just a lowlife truck driver, travelling the mainland for no other reason than sheer boredom.”

Spencer was relieved this appeared to be a happy story, as was indicated by Trip`s relaxed posture, and apparent annoyance for hearing this story-

“Close to a dozen times you`ve told this story old man” Trip piped up packing away his belongings, quickly trying to get back to work

“Oh ho ho not so fast there man, and that`s an order…I`m telling the story and you`re going to like it” Rook commanded, pointing one of his thick, calloused fingers at Trip.

Trip dramatically slumped his shoulders, and plopped back on the bench with a grin on his face, and his hands covering his cheeks.

“You see, one day down by Orlando, after hauling a whole bed full of toilet paper, I decided that I had had enough of that shit…”

There was a long pause, when nobody would appreciate his-

“Woooooooow” Margo said

“I know right?” Rook grinned, chuckled to himself a bit, and moved on.

“I just parked the truck by the beach, and took some time to weigh my options. After a long while of just watching the um…sunset…yeah the sunset”

“Huh” Margo sarcastically snorted, fully aware of his “admirations”

“As I was saying” Rook continued,

“All of the sudden, this crazy sonofabitch just runs a ground, right on the beach, out of nowhere, clinging to the steering wheel like Ahab”

Trip now began to nervously recoil, smiling and giving one or two laughs as the story continued

“Me being the only one there who wasn`t passed out, who actually knew what was going on there, I ran over to check out what was going on”

“Ran?” Trip asked with the foxy smile that dressed his sarcasm.

“Shut up asshole I`m telling the story. How about when you tell it you can say I flopped like a seal and dragged myself across the beach ok? Christ”

The crew now laughed in unison at Rook`s flustered anger, so much so that even he couldn`t keep a straight face.

Stopping himself to guffaw every now and then, he proceeded,

“So…heh, this guy is just like…completely out of it, absolutely dead tired, and I ask him, “Hey man are you okay?”, and heh heh, this guy just said, “I`m going to be a…Father!””

Spencer laughed the loudest, Margo only laughing because his was so infectious. She had heard this story a couple times before, but she didn`t want to seem too distant.

“I know! With the dramatic pause and everything!... Jesus Christ that was so damn funny, but let me tell you, I didn’t let him know that!”

Rook settled himself, and resumed in more technical terms, talking with his hands as he described the next part of the story.

“So Trip here was hungover something fierce, and judging by the bottle in his hand, he was trying to drink his way out of it. That didn`t really help his situation, because he was almost three feet on shore at that point, and nobody else seemed to give enough of a damn to help. At that point, only a few people had whipped out their phones to take pictures of it”

“You know I`m really disappointed that I don`t get to tell this story, because I`m sure someone must`ve called the cops” Trip added, partly shameful that he was drunk, alone, at sea, which is something every fisherman knows is incredibly dangerous.

“Well they only called the cops after I pulled the next stunt…so I got the idea to just unhitch my truck, and just… push him out to sea”

“No way!” spencer interjected, amazed that such a thing could even be accomplished. He remembered a time when the whole family was on leave, and the car his parents rented to go to the beach almost got stuck in the sand. Should`ve known better.

“Yes way, so I deflated my tires a bit, and after twenty minutes of that, I just drove out and over, and ever so slowly, pushed him out to sea. Now I had either neglected to tell him, or maybe he just forgot that I was going to do this, so he was just freaking out this whole time just screaming, “what are you doing you crazy white man!”

Rook had attempted to impersonate Trip`s accent in that last part, which got a good laugh out of the whole crew.

“So once I had got him free, I got a little thought in my head, and I just said “Hey, fuck it” and I jumped on the boat with him”

“That`s fuckin insane man” Spencer replied, noticing Margo almost hanging on his shoulder, the heat of her overworked body warming his right arm, just barely out of reach.

“Two days later, a few angry calls with the truck company and the bank, and here I am…you see that house on the end of the dock used to be Trip`s old dive, but I bought it for a pretty sum from him, and paid for most of the boat. And that my scrawny friend, is how a low down truck driver became the captain of a lobster boat. Fun story eh?”

Work continued as normally as it does on a Saturday in the sea. The only thing that changed really about the routine is that on this particular Saturday, Rook demanded that they all go bowling at the only lanes in town, which for reasons…disappointingly within comprehension, was called, “The Long Dock”.

Nobody in the crew actually had a car, because really, there wasn`t a need. Besides, the only thing you could buy on the island were old steel shipping containers with wheels, or whatever passed for drivable in the pool of old Chevrolets or Cadillac’s imported back in the 80s. Only a small, select few of wealthy CEO`s camped out on the far side of the island actually had new, even nice cars, but they rarely mixed with the gentiles of Tileo. Why would they? The cobblestone streets were so awfully maintained that you could lose a toddler in the gaps. For the Crew though, they wouldn`t have it any other way. People like Rook and Margo grew up hating rich guys and their million dollar carbon-coated palaces. The real fun of Tileo was just walking the streets, brushing up against the occasional sweaty islander, weaving and winding through the historical pathways and not so new infrastructure. It was an organic experience, which began to clash at the bowling alley.

You see, the only really well developed, actually paved road that ran through the outskirts of town, went by the alley. All of that roadwork and development had happened during the nickel mining boom back in the 80s, which “The Long Dock” truly reflected. Gaudy neon lighting, stale, pale concrete walls, and brushed steel and glass doors that looked like the rust was finally getting to them. In the parking lot, the dichotomy was clearly noticeable. On the right side of the doors, there were Maseratis, Porches, Mclarens, so on and so forth. On the left, were the old Ford trucks, the beamers, and even the occasional indian motorcycle.

The inside of the alley was equally divided, hell there were even separate counters on each side. Over the last five years or so, the rich guys and their heirs began to notice something about their collective of mansions and resorts they called Keith`s Bay. What a god awful name it had, and how tasteless all their neighbors were. Each one would try to one up the other, adding an infinity pool or a twelve story New England lighthouse. Between the upper-middle class tourists and sheltered trust fund kids, a few of the residents formed a small clique, the only clique that ever ducked out of town for more than twenty minutes to go into the jungle and “focus their chi” with the maid. These ten or twelve guys were a bunch of savvy internet millionaires, old coal mine owners, and fast food moguls that felt that because they went to the bowling alley twice a week, they were the “real islanders”, and the rest of the whiney losers that just hung out in town were inferior to them.

Of course the locals and others like the crew had some disdain for these guys. Not that they were rich, but that:

“They really just fuck with the way everyone is around here. I`ve been to that stupid fucking “Douche Bay” man. All it is, is a bunch of huge, white buildings…and I`m not a racist or anything Spence, but the whole place is just filled with Asians who don`t speak a lick of English”

“I think they`re Koreans man” Spence added, trying to break up Trip`s angry monologue with some analysis as they picked out their balls.

Spence always chose a purple ball. He didn`t know why. He didn’t care. It`s just a habit like any other. But for some reason, he felt pissed that the guys from Douche Bay had monopolized the rack that the balls were on. No matter. He`d just use an orange ball. Fuckers.

“What difference does it make? Asians are Asians man” Trip continued, waiting for his turn, as Rook, as a rule, always went first.

“Hey man, you`re telling me you`re not racist, but that`s kinda racist to say. What would you think if I said hey, “Blacks are Blacks”. It just completely disregards the individual differences between the different groups, and believe me, they make the distinction” Spencer argued.

“Well at least I look different than a guy from the Bronx or a guy straight out of Darfur. They all look like they`re all coming out of the same iphone factory” Trip grunted, tossing his first ball.

“Shit…a seven ten split” he muttered

Rook and Margo laughed a little, and Spencer lightened up.

“I don`t think the bowling gods appreciated that comment” Spencer said, waiting for Trip to attempt a spare.

“Well whatever the fuck I think about Asians, the fact of the matter is that they`re being treated like slaves. They all live in these shitty condos and its like, fuck, why don`t they just build a bunkhouse and chain`em to the floor at night. They can`t leave, they all eat at the one Chinese-“

“Korean” Margo jokingly interrupted

“Fuck you Mo” Trip scoffed in an embaressed, high pitched laugh

Rook chimed in, grabbing the sides of his eyes to squint them, “Don`t you mean Fook yuu?”

Margo and Spencer mimmiked the captain, prancing around Trip, squinting their eyes and professing their love for ramen noodles. Trip`s unwarranted distrust of Asians was often the subject of teasing.

After three games of heated competition between the four, Rook emerged as the winner, by only three points over Trip.

“A truly worthy opponent...well now my wrist`s sore. Who wants a drink?” Rook bellowed.

“Not me man, it`s already midnight, I`ve gotta get home” Trip trailed off, laying his ball back on the rack

Chapter Two: Sour Shots

The greatest part about the jungles of Costa Marco was that nobody seemed to be there. At least, that was the best part to Greg. Propped up against a tree stump, balancing a tin of coffee on a rock next to the humble cooking fire, he took stock of his provisions, seeing just how long he could stay in the mountains.

“Another week maybe. So long as I don`t mind eating rice and tuna for the last few days” he muttered to himself, hoisting himself up and sliding on his poncho

It had been several months since he kicked Liz out. Or at least, that`s how everyone seemed to take stock of it. What Sam or the coven of witches Liz called friends thought about him didn’t matter He cared more about how many pairs of dry socks he had in his bag.

“It`s a midlife crisis” they`d say.

“He was always kind of an asshole”

“You deserved better anyway”

After it all went down, he was barraged with calls from her friends, who either berated him, or acted as mediators for negotiations. That was how he got the money to take some time off. Climbing around the tight path of a mountain trail, he began to rant, as he always would when he was positive he was alone. The trees and the snakes were the only ones who seemed to listen anyway.

“She sold the fucking café…bet it was for a vacation with a little peurto rican guy” he grunted, hoping over a log

“At least she gave me half. Fucking half…goddamn I hate her. Every opportunity she got to tell me to fuck myself, she took it. Then she pisses and moans about being lonely…ha…never was a problem before I met you…”

This kind of therapy could go either way for Greg at this point. He would either put a machete through a tree, or he`d end up laying on a rock, calmly listening to the rustling of wild boars in the bushes.

He had the money to do these kind of things now. Early retirement was treating him well. But overall, he wasn`t satisfied.

At least, not until he put together the perfect storm of simplistic material satisfaction.

“Ok Greg…just like the little seniorita in Kipp`s Cove taught you”

He had stopped at the peak of the lush mountain cliff, sluffing off his pack and setting Tequila`s little wooden cage to the side, under the shade of a leafy bush. Pulling a couple of limes and a tin cup out of his pockets, he began to ruminate on his recent bar-hopping adventures. Greg was a real people person, a man of culture. It was also his personal belief, that the best way to understand a people and their ways was to drink what they drank, the way they drank it.

“And the Venezuelans are bitter socialists” he said, as he spat out the strange concoction he conducted from memory

Watching the acrid liquid drip down the rock as the afternoon sun braized his skin suddenly gave him a bout of existential dread. This wasn’t the life he wanted to live. This wasn`t anywhere near where he wanted to be at his age. Farting around on a tropical island with a lizard, divorced, unemployed, pickling himself with every latin beverage under the sun.

“Christ…Pete`s a goddamned English professor. Josh has what- seven kids?” he muttered to himself, taking stock of the accomplisments of his old college friends.

“And I mean, Fred smoked so much weed we thought he`d lose a chromosome. Now he`s making six figures with a tire company”.

Greg`s morose self pity turned to anger, and then to a calm, quite acceptance. There was a reason he went on these hikes. To disconnect himself from that kind of anxiety and appreciate his surroundings, slowly mellowing his mood with a neat burbon and Cuban cigar, allowing the breeze to massage his lurid eyes.

“Regardless…there needs to be a change” he said, swaying the bottle over to Tequila`s bowl, giving him a few more drops.

“Nothing major. The last thing I need is to go back to the states. They`d probably institutionalize me the second I got off the plane”

Greg chuckled to himself, feeling the handle of his machete gouging into his side as he took another swig.

“I need a simple job. A simple job, that makes me feel fulfilled *swig* as a man”

By this time, the horizon was dark with storm clouds and an evening sunset coming on, creating a molasses enamel on all the rocks on the shore. In the distance, Greg could see the ships coming in, bobbing gently on the calm ocean glass. Soon, fantasies of being out on the open ocean fishing the ocean`s bounty danced across his addled brain.

“what a wonderful profession. Where being a drunk shrew is actually a virtue”

Or so he thought

That night, a storm did indeed roll over the island. It was fierce, for sure, but not fierce enough to stop the festivities from continuing inside one of the many lively dive bars. There were even a few fishermen playing a rather extreme drinking game. If you flinched at a lightening strike, you drank. As you could probably guess, Spencer wasn`t doing too well.

“Look at him, still shaking like a leaf even three shots in!” Trip scolded

It was true. Spencer was in fact, visibly nervous. Not neccesarily because the thunder and lightening were beginning to sear the masts of every boat in the harbor, but because the alcohol was beginning to convince him that now was the time confront Margo about his feelings. Rook, sporting an even longer salt and pepper beard, could see from the head of the table at the back of the sour smelling shack that the kid was going to make a big mistake. And, maybe, a small part of him was feeling territorial.

Placing his big paw of a left hand on spencer`s chest, he saved him

“ Boy, stay down. Look at these hands” he gargled, slamming a beer down in his right hand

At that moment, a flash and rumble, but not a single quiver from those beastly mitts.

Spencer was forced to try and get ahold of the reigns of his depth perception. Standing felt like something he was disinterested, the sullen and aged booth he sat at becoming fuzzy to the touch. Suddenly the seven or maybe only five shots he had downed had caught up to him all at once, and he wasn`t going to have any more, or else risk an incident like last month where Trip had ruined strawberries for him forever.

Margo was far more sober, but certaintly not by choice. Nobody else had noticed but she had only finished half of her glass of light beer from the tap that may as well have been creek water given its quality and the horrifically poorly washed glass it came in. Her interests were growing more and more desperate with every joke or story she had to smirk and gesticulate her way through. The only thing keeping her from picking up her chair and using it to fight her way through the packed cigar box of a dive bar she was crammed in to get home and get her shit was the face that the storm outside could put a two by four through her chest at any minute. Death might be preferable to having to pan across the bar one more time to see the well exposed crack of Captain Stug`s ass trying to escape his cargo shorts at the bar. Stug was too old of a salt for anyone that wasn`t the bartender to tell him what to do, so on his ass marched outward as stug got more and more drunk. Christ. It was like watching a seal clubbing on national geographic. Could’ve been hilarious if it wasn’t so hard to watch.

“10 bucks I get this quarter in there” Rook said, holding the silver coin between his calloused index finger and thumb. Margo noticed that the whole table had been staring like she did. Spencer saw that others in the room were either giving Stug a wide berth, or sizing up their own marksmanship competitions.

Looking to find some immature joy, Margo joined in.

“I`ll fucking take that. You haven`t thrown a hook since I came on, doubt you could hit an ass crack at twenty paces” Margo joked. The others would have laughed if they weren`t all pushed to their respective limits. Margo and Rook slammed down what their bleary eyes perceived to be ten dollars a piece on the stained wood table, then Rook sized up his target. In one majestic, fluid motion the quarter left his hand, flying straight and true over the bar counter, tapping between bottles of whatever the hell Cesar could stack behind him.

“gat..damnint” Rook grumbled, shuffling back into his seat as Margo swabbed her hand across the table, scooping up the crumpled dollars. She didn`t care. She needed to go home.

The taste in her mouth was like she`d threw up a flower shop. She hated it she hated it she hated it. The heat and the sweat and the air and the smell the smell the smell. Too many people too many things, eyes, sandels, fucking stray cats every fucking five fucking feet in this tiny fucking block on this tiny fucking island. Home. She needed to get home.

Margo suddenly, abandoning any kind of formal convention, stood up and walked out of the bar, the wind and rain whipping momentarily like a jack in the box as she opened and closed the door behind her. Spencer was too out of it to do anything, but others were slightly alarmed. A few, tired of waiting, tried to follow her out but were blown back by healthy gusts of wind. Spencer was worried. And he wondered why she would leave like that.

“Should we call the cops? No way she makes it out there!” he yelled to Trip and Rook

“Cops are busy enough, wouldn`t risk it. Woman`s always been skittish. Her house ain`t far so I wouldn`t worry too much. Either of you wanna hear about the time I got held up by a biker gang?” Rook largely brushed off Spencer`s distress, motioning to a waitress for more whatever would occupy his time. This grew into what could only be a fruitless and flirtatious conversation.

Spencer turned to Trip for some sympathy.

“ Are you just going to sit back and let this happen?”

“ If anything man she`s got the right idea. I`ve gotta go check on my family at some point tonight. The whipping I`ll get if I`m not back by midnight oof” Trip joked.

No one was taking him seriously, which would have made Spencer feel uneasy if he were more sober, but like any young guy with a background like his, he was curious.

“well I`m going” Spencer said, gathering his wallet and finishing his drink. He put up his hood on his rubber coat, bracing himself for his excursion. Before he left, Trip followed behind him with his own boat issued rubber coat, and the two of them turned to give a gruff but well understood farewell to Rook, who was far more comfortable wading out the whole storm and then some in the back of that bar.

“I think you`re crazy boy” Trip said to Spencer.

“But good luck anyway. I`ll see you whenever Rook says its safe to work again” Trip said, putting his hand on Spencer`s shoulder, then opening the door, fighting the wind walking towards his home on the shore.

Spencer couldn`t believe it, but the wind felt rather calm as he walked towards margo`s home. It was almost as if all the old geezers and shop owners were just trying to find an excuse to drink, or at least jumped on a better excuse than most. As he crossed the street past the more tourist focused bar with its stained colonial white walls, a gust of wind picked him up off his feet and tossed him on the cobblestone street, with every attempt to fight the gust and stand up just resulting in him being rolled another five feet down the street. This dance lasted for what felt like an eternity, until he crawled behind an old chocolate shop to get out of the wind.

“Sweet jesus…how the hell did Margo do in this?”

Clinging hand over hand to the railings on the storefronts, Margo finally reached the trail that led to her home. All that it took was a run over a fairly wide patch of open ground to the start of the trail. Her mind wandered to the swaying of the trees in the violent wind, how small she felt as she watched a hundred trees move like dogs on a beach playing with a ball. Digging in her heels and thinking only of the sweet relief behind a mere hundred or so yards of woods. Thinking only of relief, of calm, of the comfort that awaited her so close in the present, her body moved like she was all tendon. Her desperation drove her arms and legs to precisely and intensely grip the trees and earth, when she stumbled, to nearly fling herself towards her front door. Her body slammed against the wood door like it was a queen sized bed with silk sheets. Before she could process anything else she was inside, and feet guiding her unconsciously to the drawer she kept her stash. Clean clean finally clean. Cold and clear and free free from fat hairy yellow toothed bastards.

Sweet Christ. How did she ever go any longer than a day without this?

Spencer wasn`t sure if she had made it home. The wind was getting worse and worse and there was no way

#my writing

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