#also yes penny will be an absolute menace on the roads

[socialitesleuth]

The tension in the library was palpable. Penelope had sat herself far enough away from the crowd of guests so they couldn't hear her conversation. It hadn't been entirely purposeful at first but Penelope was glad of it upon hearing the latest update.

It provided little comfort. Outside, Penelope's well kept, neatly arranged gardens battled against the thunderous winds of the storm. Inside, Penelope herself was beginning to battle the rising tide of fury as she considered the implications of what John had been relaying.

"Stolen or escaped... I'm not sure which outcome I'd prefer." Penelope mumbles, half to herself but loud enough for John to hear. "Would Thunderbird One be able to fly through a storm like this? I know Scott is a mighty fine pilot, but I wouldn't want him to risk himself, or the ship, if it wasn't safe enough. The same goes for you too."

John's suggestion of bringing himself down was ludicrous, and Penelope had to agree with EOS's attempt to question the sensibility of the idea, but she knows that look. She knows that grin, and she knows there would be very little point in arguing a case against it if her only argument was because she thought it wasn't safe.

But, with Parker still busy tending to the guests, Penelope figures there's little alternative she'd be able to find. After all, going out completely alone on the wild goose chase would be just as dangerous an idea as John's was. It would undeniably be better for the two of them to brave the storm together. Forget strength in numbers; Penelope's current concern regarded safety.

Her eyes find the spider-web crack, stark against the pristine condition of the inner frames of the window. How long would it be before the glass took another hit? How long until the storm damaged more of the manor, possibly worse?

Depending on how long the rogue drone could sustain itself, it could be hours before the storm is over. They had to act, and they had to act fast.

"Are you absolutely certain you can make it down without putting yourself in too much danger?" It mattered little that John had already given her those reassurances; Penelope would be concerned until his feet were firmly set on the ground — which she realises was now a definite actuality. The drone had to be found and so the word 'no' was no longer an option.

She stands from her seat, dusts off her skirt and heads over to Parker and the gathered crowd. Parker's initially hesitant but understandable once Penelope explains the situation and plan. Once she's adequately reassured him, she leaves the library and ascends one of the manor's staircases — if they're going storm chasing, appropriate attire would be needed.

As she walks, Penelope offers John a nod; a go-ahead for their plan. "Alright, but be careful! When you're Earthside, meet me at the garages. I'll bring the car around."

Garden Party Gale [RP]

@socialitesleuth:

"This is Britain." Penelope contemplates, though even she isn't entirely convinced by her own conclusion herself. "The weather can change here at the drop of a hat." She eyes up the downpour through the windows. It's becoming heavier with each passing minute. The pellets of water hit the glass loudly and Penelope wonders for a moment if the rain has since turned to hail. Sure, British weather could be unpredictable, but John was right to express his concerns. This didn't seem normal. A quick thought of the local farmers and landowners distracts her momentarily. With such a heavy storm, and with it occurring so suddenly, flooding was all the more likely. Penelope makes a mental memo to check in with the locals once the situation has cleared. Depending on the scale of destruction, perhaps she and Parker could be of some assistance. "Then again," she reconsiders, with her attention fully back to the present situation, "when you put your suspicions like that, it is rather alarming." Penelope could remember the problems that had been caused by Fishler with his out-of-control drones. Despite the chaos that had ensued, the man hadn't been trying to wreak havoc. While she doubted Fischler would be fool enough to try that experiment again, she didn't rule him out entirely. The self-proclaimed visionary was always one best kept on watch. But if this freak storm was indeed due to some sort of interference, and it wasn't caused by Fishler, then who? Was this the result of another science experiment gone wrong, or was there something more sinister at play? If someone was deliberately causing such a storm with malicious intentions... Penelope cast the theories and questions from her mind and smiles cheerily, undisturbed as the howling gale outside rages on. "At least the report on the manor is a relief. Parker will be thrilled to hear there isn't much to worry about there." She'll save the news for later, however; she doesn't want to remind him of the worry he'd had. Her manicured nails, pristine and unchipped, swipe John's image to one side of her device before pulling up a secondary image. She processes the guest-list, making a couple of quick adjustments before sending the file over. "There, I've sent you the finalised version. The ones ticked off are those who are accounted for. The rest... I do hope they've managed to find shelter." The dimly glowing lights from the chandelier flicker. A few of the guests, still shaken by the storm, gasp. Thank goodness the Creighton-Ward Manor has a fair few backup generators. An evening trapped inside in the dark wasn't a promising prospect for anyone. "Thank you, John." Penelope isn't sure she's vocalises her gratitude yet. "For the warning, and for the assistance."

John hmms something a little noncommittal at her suggestion that English weather is just like this sometimes. He can hear the doubt in her voice, and the thickness of those black clouds - spilled across the perfect replica of the south on his HUD like black ink - clearly isn’t something he’s used to seeing come out of nowhere. As much as Thunderbird Five insists he’s not a meteorologist, his screens sure have experienced their fair share of extreme weather.

“You’re welcome.” John comments, offhand, like all this is just a regular Tuesday for him. Perhaps it is. He’s working his way through sending each member of Penelope’s guest list a polite message, with a link that will call Thunderbird Five directly if they are in need of assistance. He receives a few replies quickly, and is relieved to find they confirm the recipients safety. One couple at home. A man who'd turned around when he saw the clouds rolling in. A family with an older son who are stranded in their car, but they have parked up at a services, so aren't overly concerned. John flicks them a recommendation to get indoors, then turns his attention to Eos - who's waiting patiently up by his ear. 

“Eos? Any res-”

He’s interrupted as a gust of wind smashes a blur that vaguely resembles a tree branch hard against the glass of one of Penny's big arched windows. The Victorian pane cracks with a sharp, splintering snap, followed by a muffled thud as the branch falls to the ground outside. It’s probably lucky those Victorian panes have been reinforced to be bulletproof - the branch leaves a spider web of cracks, but no significant holes. It is loud enough to distract John though - the spaceman almost looking unsettled despite his reassurance of the building's structural soundness.

“I have located one metallic anomaly at the epicentre of the disturbance.” Eos, however, is unruffled, “It appears to be the same model as Fischer’s drones, but I have it on good authority the man is currently experimenting with his latest submersible in the Democratic Republic of the Congo. It seems unlikely he is responsible for this attack.”

It’s lucky John Tracy is not a swearing man, else the canned air of his Thunderbird might be turning blue around now.

“Someone’s stolen a drone?” John's biting his bottom lip red, “Or one’s gotten loose…?” He has remarkably little faith in the security of the GDFs impound for seized goods, having, perhaps accessed it’s systems once or twice to take a look at their inventory. He’d not put this stunt past an intern taking the machine out for a joyride. “I can dispatch Thunderbird One to you,” John tells Penny, “but it'll be forty minutes even at Mach 19...” His jaw tightens, “Though…” An idea occurs to him that his brothers would not like, and John's fingers curl then uncurl through his screens. “I'm currently geostationary over Portugal. I've been keeping an eye on a wildfire in the south but local crews seem to have it well in hand. It wouldn't take a lot of fuel to use the manoeuvring jets to position Five closer to you.”

“John.” Eos’ little voice is heavy with trepidation for him, “The wind speed-”

“I've done the math.” He reassures, having literally just completed the tensile strength calculation in his head, “I can get the space elevator down there within safe parameters." And there's the edge of a wild Tracy grin on him now, the likes of which Penelope hasn't seen much of since college. "I can rewire Eos’ mobile unit to disrupt electrical signals. I'll make it long range, but I'd still have to be a lot closer than anything above the Karman line. So... what do you say to chasing down a weather drone, Pen?”

[carryonsimoncarryonbaz]

BITE DOWN

A new hurt/comfort, isolation, Snowbaz sick fic that wouldn't leave my head and that I cranked out in the last 24 hours. 

Baz and Simon shelter in place in London during the pandemic but they are not aware SImon has been infected until he falls ill. Baz does the care taking as Simon descends into illness and then Baz has some very difficult moments to face and decisions to make. Angst with a happy ending.

*trigger warning from frank descriptions of severe pneumonia and respiratory illness*

BITE DOWN

Day 1

Simon

Penny left this morning. Her mum wanted her home once the shutdown order came through and with her uni having gone all online there wasn’t much point in her staying around.

Other than for me, that is.

She wanted to but I told her that’s daft. She should be with her family. I’d never choose to cross Mitali Bunce and there’s no reason for Penny to, not for this.

I’ll be fine. My classes are all online. I can buy what I need at the corner shop and the curry place is staying open.

And I’ve got Baz. He’s staying too. Spouted some rubbish about not wanting to possibly transmit something to his family, seeing as they’re half-isolated as it is, way out where they are.

And don’t I know it. I made that jog from the road to their place more than once. Isolated doesn’t do it justice. It’s remote.

But I also know that’s not the real reason he’s staying here. I know he’s staying for me, the sappy git.

I tried to make him go. Tried to convince him he should be with his family.

He’d turned his sea-grey eyes on me then and said, “I am with my family.”

There’s not much I could say in answer to that. Not with words that is. I practically knocked him off the sofa in my attempt to snog him senseless. He says things like that and I . . . well, fuck, it makes me believe it’s all been worth it. All that came before.

No, I know it’s worth it. I’d give up my magic again in a heartbeat to have what I’ve got with Baz. Give it all to the Humdrum, fight mutant vampires in the desert, deal with that fucking Lamb character—I’d go through it all over again for him. Every moment of it, to be where we are now.

Together. In love and able to say it. Out loud. To each other.

My therapy appointments are down to once a month now. Baz and I have one together every few months. I was surprised when he started seeing someone, a few months after we came back. After everything had finally settled down.

Fiona found him someone she trusted.

It made it easier for me to do it, once he started. Sometimes I wonder if that’s why he did it. But there’s never been a point in asking him that. It doesn’t serve a purpose. He wouldn’t have kept going if it wasn’t something he needed as well. So why he started doesn’t matter. All that matters is that he did.

And I did.

And we’re here now, better than we’ve ever been.

Well, other than this pandemic shit.

I don’t think it’s going to be as bad as they say. They’ve shut the whole damn country down. Hospitals and clinics at ready. I think it will take time, but it’ll pass.

It’s done a right number on all of our plans, I’ll say that.

Last year of uni for Baz and Penny. I basically fucked away my first year so I’m a bit behind, but still. We’re all moving forward, not looking back.

I hope this doesn’t fuck up Baz’s graduation. He’s top of his class here too, the swot. I want to see that. See him graduate.

I didn’t get to see him give his leavers speech at Watford.

Baz says he’s not fussed about graduation. What he’s fussed about is possibly having to cancel his graduation gift from his parents. They’ve sprung for a two-week vacation on the Continent for the both of us.

I’m part of the gift, it seems. Daphne came right out and said it like that, when they told Baz about it. I thought I was going to go up in flames right there and then.

It’s right embarrassing sometimes, the things she and Malcolm say. I call him Malcolm now, as if that doesn’t take the bloody cake. Took me long enough. (It’s still awkward as fuck, but he likes it so I try.)

It was bad enough when they assumed we were shagging and we weren’t. Yet.

Now they’re even less inhibited. Sending us away on romantic weekend trips. Buying us matching gifts. Asking us when we’re going to move in together (yes, we’ve talked about it) (probably this summer) (or we were planning to, before this bloody thing started) (just hadn’t told anyone but Penny yet.)

But this. This is like some wedding planner’s ideal honeymoon trip. Paris. Venice. Barcelona. The bloody Amalfi Coast.

It’s as if Daphne looked up every romantic location on Pinterest and added it to the itinerary.

Every bloody romantic proposal location, I mean.

That’s what it feels like to me.

Because I’d been thinking to ask him, after graduation. And I’ll be good god-damned if I don’t get to do it first.

Knowing Baz, he’d probably try to get the drop on me, just to be a competitive arse.

No, he wouldn’t actually. Not for this. He’d want me to be sure, he’d want to know I was the one who really wanted it.

And he’d want to see me try to set up something romantic. For him. He’s such a sappy git. I think he’d be just as thrilled if I did it in the Tesco car park as the Eiffel Tower at sunset.

Which is where I’m currently planning on asking, when I let myself think about it. Paris, that is, not the Tesco. Although last week it was a gondola in Venice. And by next week it may well be somewhere else.

It’s not as if I’ve bought a ring or anything yet. I was waiting a bit. Getting comfortable with the idea rather than just letting myself daydream about it.

Not that I’ll be getting any ring shopping done anytime soon.

Not even online, not with his meddlesome self looking over my shoulder when I’m on my laptop, now that he’s going to be here every minute, not just a few nights a week.

He’s here more than a few nights, to be honest, has been for a while. Unless he’s got a big paper or some sort of group project and I’m too much of a distraction.

Baz basically moved in at the start of the fall term. I mean, he still has his place in Camberwell. He’s just rarely there anymore. His clothes fill my closet, he’s got a colourful array of spare pants in the dresser, his toiletries on my sink and in my shower—not travel sized versions carried back and forth in his knapsack anymore.

There’re orderly pints of blood in the fridge and cold vampire feet in my bed every night.

I’m not complaining one bit. It’s taken us long enough to get here.

And so here we are, our coursework done for the day, curled up on my sofa watching Derry Girls again, my head resting on his shoulder.

I’m feeling all right. None of the symptoms they’re blathering on about in the news updates and emails from the uni health centre.

And Baz . . . well, he’s being Baz. Calm in the midst of the anxiety that’s overtaken the city. Meticulous about his personal hygiene and bloody annoying about mine.

Like now.

“Go wash your hands, Simon.”

“I just did, when I went to the loo a bit ago.”

“You just touched your nose. Wash them again.”

“Bloody hell, must you watch me every minute?”

“Not about to change my habits now, they’re ingrained.” He’s smiling, the prat.

“Don’t I know it.”

His eyebrow goes up. “Someone has to, you’re an absolute menace to cleanliness as a rule.”

“Piss off.”

But I love him for it, so I go and wash my hands. I know why he does it. I know it’s out of concern.

I’m being careful. I am.

I’ve not been out other than for a run, not since uni shut down. I mean other than to go to the corner shop for snacks a few days ago. And to the curry place for some samosas yesterday.

Baz has put a stop to all that now though. Said he’s doing the shopping and the food runs from now on. I watched him empty the shopping bags earlier—wouldn’t even let me help, the tosser. He’s stocked up on paracetamol, thermometer covers, zinc throat lozenges, throat syrup, and whatnot.

“Didn’t you get any crisps? I thought you were going to get more crisps?” We’re not going to make it long without crisps.

He just rolls his eyes at me. “We’ve got bags of them, Simon. We’ll be fine.”

Baz

I’m trying not to let on to Simon how worried I am.

I’ve seen the projections. It’s not looking good. This government has bollocksed the entire situation from the very start. Even my father is appalled at the Tories and has not been shy about saying so, which is unprecedented and not doing anything to dampen my anxiety about all this.

It’s end times when my father is to the point of vehemently condemning a Tory government.

I don’t know what Simon and Penelope were thinking. They’ve not stocked up on much other than toilet paper and crisps. I had to purchase the bare necessities today and it took me to two Tescos and one Boots to find any paracetamol.

I do know what Penelope was thinking—that a few well-cast spells would sort it.

She sorted Simon when I thought we’d lose him. I can understand her confidence but it’s wildly misplaced.

This isn’t like that.

This is, for lack of a better term, insidious. Fuck. I hate that word. I can’t use it and not think of the bloody Humdrum. That leads to thinking about the Mage and Simon’s magic and then I’m off on tangents that make me want to rage.

I know it’s been years now. I know he and I have both talked through it, with each other and with Simon’s therapist.

But at moments like this, in the middle of this fucking plague, all I can think about is how much easier this would be, how much safer, if Simon still had his magic. Not that it made him impervious to injuries or illnesses. It didn’t, I know that first hand, from all those nights he’d drag himself up the steps to our turret, bruised and battered and a bloody mess.

But he had a capacity to heal, to bounce back, without needing to be coated in spells. He’s not got that anymore.

But he acts like he still does.

Like he did in America. Like he’s acting now. Like somehow, he’s resistant to it all, that he can barrel through as he is and still come out relatively unscathed.

I’ve put a stop to all that. No more trips to the corner shop or the curry place. No unnecessary activities outside of the flat. None. I’ll be damned if we’ve made it this far only to have some rogue virus destroy it all.

I’m the one who’s impervious. I’m the one who will still be standing at the end of the day, when this is all over. And I want Simon at my side.

I need him to be.

He can content himself with sitting at home, on the sofa, watching the telly. I’ll even buy him some cider, if he’ll just bloody well stay inside.

Here I am, wishing that Simon Snow would just lie the fuck down on the sofa and not argue about it. Who would have thought we’d come to this? Crowley, the world is upside down.

At least now I get to lie down with him.

READ THE REST AT AO3! 

https://archiveofourown.org/works/23287240

[bubble-tea-bunny]

birdie

[pennywise x reader]

author’s note: watched the film a couple days ago and this idea came from out of nowhere. got to practice my penny characterization and a bit of my horror/dark fantasy writing. all that was new to me. hope you enjoy

word count: 2,156

There’s a bird singing this morning. The sound echoes through the dark and damp tunnels, travels along the surface of grimy water, bounces off bricks and metal grates and despite being far away from the Neibolt house, it resonates through the bottom of the well clear as day, bright and melodious and all together too happy.

Sinister eyes peak through a storm drain and find you walking your bike down the street next to a friend. His joke had made you laugh and the toothy grin is still plastered onto your face. It’s the sort of smile that reaches your eyes and makes your cheeks hurt if you hold it long enough. Pennywise watches until you’re out of sight, and all he can think about is the joy in your voice and the cheeriness in your gaze and how he wants nothing more than to crush that. He’s practically drooling at the idea, his own smile wide and evil and ominous. When’s the next time he’ll come across you, he wonders?

A child he’d eaten had died clutching a stuffed toy bird close to her chest, and it now rests in the ever growing pile of children’s toys in the sewer. It’s soiled and disgusting and it grabs Pennywise’s attention from where it sits at the bottom, next to a yellow raincoat. He picks it up, stares it down like it’s his latest meal and he’s a beast absolutely starving. And then he squeezes it, squeezes so hard his claws dig into his palm, until the small toy bursts and the stuffing leaks out, falling onto the floor. He laughs and laughs and laughs and it’s nothing short of demonic. When he opens his hand and what remains falls to the ground, it’s soundless.

That’s where he gets your nickname from.

You take the same route home from school every day, and every day Pennywise is at the same storm drain. Sometimes you’re with a friend walking down the street, other times you’re alone and on your bike, pace casual as you’re in no rush to do homework the moment you arrive at your house. When you drift along on those days by yourself, breeze rustling your hair and your clothes, it’s like you’re flying. He thinks about that a lot; it plays in his head like a short film. He wants to snatch you out from the sky, feel the way you struggle to escape, squirming and wiggling. And he’ll pretend to be hurt, ask “Doesn’t birdie want to play?” and smile in a sort of fiendish delight because you’re not going anywhere.

They say to never play with your food but the notion of rules doesn’t apply to Pennywise. He doesn’t make himself known to you right away. He’s there in brief flashes—out of the corner of your eye, over your shoulder when you look in the mirror. You ask your friends if they see what you see, what you swear you can see, but they respond no and secretly they’re worrying if you’re not getting enough sleep. They talk to each other in hushed voices even if you’re nowhere to be found, as if nervous you might walk around the corner any second. They speculate about your hallucinations and voice their worries because you’re never like this.

It’s driving you crazy and Pennywise loves it. Carnal excitement runs through his veins and swirls in his eyes and he’s baring his teeth because he’s getting hungrier by the day, but toying with you is just so fun. He’s in your dreams now too. You haven’t gotten a good night’s rest in a long while. Sometimes you wake up screaming and your mother rushes in and you cry and you cry and you cry. And you taste all the sweeter for it. The fear is wafting from you in wave after delicious wave and he hasn’t even formally introduced himself yet. He figures he’ll have to soon. A growling stomach is hard to ignore.

You’re alone when you bike past the Neibolt house one Friday afternoon, and you slow down when you see a red balloon in the middle of the road. You tilt your head as you observe it from a distance. There’s no weight attached to the string yet it stays right where it is, not floating away. You let out a shaky breath, wondering if this is also something you’re imagining. (You say this because your friends and family are convinced it really is just your imagination, so you go along with it since surely they must be right, there’s no way you could actually be seeing these things. But there’s a part of you deep down that knows it’s all real.)

The balloon starts to drift then, slowly, and your heart is beating faster because there’s no breeze that could be carrying it. You remain still, watching it float to the run-down house on the corner. Despite being conscious of the fact that heading after the balloon and venturing into the Neibolt house is the worst idea in the history of ideas, there’s a pull in your chest to go after it. And you want to fight it, you do. You grip the handlebars of your bike so tightly your knuckles turn white. But the red balloon is on the porch waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for you.

Thoughts of how badly this could go flitter through your head a mile a minute as you bike the short distance to the house, as you set your bike down on the dead grass and take hesitant steps up the walkway and the steps of rotting wood. You reach out and gently curl your fingers around the balloon string, and your breath hitches when it’s actually in your grip. You’re not imagining anything.

You bring your other hand up to the doorknob but don’t move for a second, considering just turning around and walking away and pretending none of this happened. But you glance up at the balloon floating above your head, and there’s no turning back. You twist the knob and push the door, and it creaks loudly after years of being unused. The interior is musty and old and gross and your nose scrunches at the smells that assault it. The floor boards squeak beneath your shoes no matter how lightly you try to step and you cringe because you’re thinking about the kinds of creatures you must be waking up with the noise you’re making.

There’s laughter echoing through the house and you freeze, eyes wide as you look around but see no one. Your fingers tighten around the balloon string, like it’s some sorry form of comfort. “H-Hello?” You meant to say this loudly, for the house is large, but it comes out as a half-whisper and your voice cracks. Your breaths are heavy and you feel yourself take one step back, and then another, and then you decide to leave, but the moment you turn, the door slams shut so hard it kicks up a breeze, dust flying, and you cough and swipe at the air and you feel tears pooling in your eyes because what the fuck have you gotten yourself into?

You twist back around and you see a clown ducking behind a corner: the same clown you’d been seeing for several miserable weeks. None of this is a dream or a hallucination and you just want to get out but you know if you try opening that door, it won’t budge. You’re stuck, and there’s nowhere else to go but farther in.

As you continue exploring, you still hear laughter, still see the clown popping in and out of your peripherals, playing with you. Your heart is beating so hard it’s difficult to breathe and you don’t know what this thing wants with you. You wonder if it could be reasoned with, but then you promptly disregard that idea. There’s no room for bargaining. The best you can do is beg is hope there’s even a tiny part of it that takes pity on you. Even that’s just wishful thinking.

“Does birdie like the balloon?”

You whip around quickly and see the clown standing on the far side of the room. Even from here you can tell he’s much taller than you are. His clothes are old and his hair is fiery and his grin is menacing and impossible to forget.

“Who are you?” you ask weakly. You feel like a mouse under the predatory gaze of a lion.

“I’m Pennywise the dancing clown!” He does a small dance and sounds jovial as he introduces himself, but it elicits no smile from you. You’re still frightened, he can tell. He repeats his question. “Does birdie like the balloon?”

“U-Um…” you whisper. “Yes. Yes, I like it very much, Pennywise.”

Pennywise’s smile widens, but then it begins to fade when he notices you’re not maintaining eye contact. You’re staring at the floor. “Do you want to leave?”

At his question, you look up. The desperation in your eyes gives you away immediately but you’re contemplating how to answer as if it makes a difference. “No!” you hurry to say before too much time goes by. “I want to stay.” You try to force a smile on your face, thinking that maybe, just maybe, if you play along, you can figure out a way to get out.

There’s a few seconds of silence, then Pennywise snarls, eyes flashing dangerously. “You’re lying.” He rushes towards you and you scream in terror, letting go of the balloon and running out of the room, searching desperately for an escape. But you can’t find any. The windows are sealed shut and the doors leading outside are locked. The sound of Pennywise’s laughter follows you, and at one point it feels like it’s coming from inside your head. You eventually end up in the study, panting and panicking because you know he’s close behind, and you watch in horror as the walls seem to bleed, crimson liquid pouring from them until the wallpaper is red. That… couldn’t be real, could it? But why wouldn’t it be? Everything else up until now had been real.

“There you are!”

Pennywise blocks the doorway and you twist around to look at him. You back up but trip over one of the tomes on the ground and fall. So you crawl backwards instead with every step the clown takes. Then you hit the wall, and there’s the feeling of warm blood sticking to your clothes and your hair but it doesn’t matter. Your eyes are glued to Pennywise as he comes to a stop in front of you and squats down so you’re face to face.

At the sight of your tears, he frowns in mock dejection. “Don’t cry, birdie. I thought you wanted to stay here and play with me.”

You don’t know if it’s exhaustion or fear that’s driving you to give the responses you do, because none of them seem to be the right one. “Please…” You swallow hard, trying to steady your breathing. “Please don’t call me that.”

Pennywise laughs and it’s piercing from this close. You flinch at the sound, not entirely sure if he’d reach for you, but he doesn’t. “Do you know why I call you birdie?”

You shake your head, not meeting his eyes. He moves closer and sets a hand on your cheek roughly to get you to look at him. His claws are extended and almost seem to dig into your head and you whimper. You can barely see him through the torrent of tears flooding your eyes. His tongue snakes out to lick at the salty tears on your cheek and you try to back away, but it’s useless because you’re against a wall and his grip is iron. His smile widens.

“The little tweets you make,” he explains matter-of-factly, as if he were talking about the weather. “Especially when you’re scared.”

He opens his mouth and a monstrous set of teeth extend from it and your eyes widen and you cry harder, repeating no no no in a pitiful plea, like your begging might actually do something. You scream when he latches onto your neck, canines piercing the skin and drawing blood. You’re kicking your feet and trying to push him away but he’s much stronger than you are. The last thing you see with hazy vision is a red balloon floating in the doorframe, completely still. (This one is a hallucination. But you’d never know that.)

You’ve stopped moving by the time Pennywise pulls away. Your blood coats his mouth and his claws are sticky but he’s eager to dive back in because this is a meal he’s been waiting a long time for. His little birdie tastes just as good as he’d imagined. Though he’ll admit, he’s going to miss hearing those wonderful chirps of pain.

[itsworn]

Think You’re Fast? This ’69 Dart Will Knock Your Lights Out!

The sport of drag racing and the world of hot rodding are in a constant state of movement and flux. What’s cool today may not be in a couple of years. Whatever the flavor of the week in terms of trendy body styles will likely be sold for pennies on the dollar down the road, but there are exceptions. Since the dawn of hot rodding, having the baddest car on your street made you the man. From the dawn of drag racing having the baddest car at the strip made you the man. When those two things converge and you can own both ends of the scene you go straight to hero level. In eastern Virginia, Ron Bookman is that guy and the 1969 Dart you see here is the reason. An absolutely brutal street car that evolved from humble beginnings to become one of the baddest grudge machines in the region, this 1,400hp street-driven monster bends people’s minds, plucks money from their wallets, and puts smiles on faces every time he cruises it down the street.

Ron Bookman was a motivated high school athlete who was playing ball for one of the best high schools in the state when he happened to accompany his brother to a night at the local hot rodding spot—an illicit street racing jump off point—more than 30 years ago. It was a night that changed his life forever. Ron laughed and told us, “I still see my old football coach around town and he always says, ‘Bookman, you could have been somebody!’” Football quickly disappeared from his life and an all-out obsession with cars and speed took over. “The way the noise from the cars was bouncing off the trees, the smell of the rubber and burning fuel, it was the coolest thing I had ever seen before.” The Dart came into his life in 1981 and Ron left it as a leaf-spring car, racing it with a warmed up iron-headed 383. At that time it went 11s and was both a bracket racer and a street cruiser. In the early 1990s the track Ron was racing at closed and with it went his passion for the Dart. He put the car away and went hunting and doing all manner of other stuff until his passion for speed and horsepower was rekindled by one of the most popular and iconic movements the automotive aftermarket has ever known.

“Around 1995 I started seeing all of these big-tire pro street cars and I just loved them,” Ron said. “They looked so cool and tough and the fat tire look was the in-thing at that point, so I took the car out, had an S&W back-half kit installed, bought my first set of aluminum heads, and had a Pro Street car that ran 10.20s and looked awesome.”

The car was very well known locally and actually appeared on the popular show PassTime where Ron ran 9.70s and had a very positive experience. “That was a nine-second car through the mufflers and on ET Streets,” Ron said. “Everything I have ever had or raced has been through the mufflers on a DOT-legal tire.” 2009 brought about an avalanche of changes that began with one simple request. “I asked my wife if I could build a motor exactly the way I wanted it, kind of go all-in,” Ron explained. “She said ‘yes’ and I was immediately looking at ProCharger setups, calling around to different engine builders and talking about combinations. A friend suggested I call Larry’s Engine and Marine in Tuscon, Arizona and it turns out that was the best decision I could have possibly made.” The settled-on combo was an Indy MAXX block-based 528ci wedge with the same 440-1 heads that Ron had owned forever, a ProCharger F-2 blower, and a C&S blow-through carb. “On the dyno at Larry’s shop with a set of small 2-inch primary headers the engine made more than 1,400 hp.”

It was around this very time that Ron’s wife became ill with cancer and caring for her took priority over messing with the car. “The engine stayed in the crate, basically,” Ron said. “I would go out there and roll it over to make sure things were still good, but my attention was on my wife.” In 2012 her health took a drastic turn for the worse and she told Ron that she wanted him to finish the car with the upgrades that he was hoping to do. Unfortunately she passed before the car was finished, but her blessing meant the world to Ron and he went after the car with gusto.

“When I originally brought the car to Don Williams at Virginia Rod Company I just wanted the cage to be updated and brought to 7.50 cert,” Ron said. “Before long, Don and I were talking about things like carbon fiber tubs and door panels, a tubular K-member up front, the Top Gun Pro Mod four-link, a parachute mount, a Fab 9 rear end housing, and more,” Ron said while laughing. “I finally said to Don that he needed to do it the way he wanted and I am glad I did that. The car works amazingly well because of the work he put into it.”

It was Williams who suggested intercooling the car in order to make it more street friendly. When on the road, Ron runs 93-octane pump gas and a more conservative timing curve than he does when running C16 on the drag strip. The intercooler’s ability to keep a handle on inlet temperature really helps to keep the engine happy on the highways, and with a 3.54 rear gear, this car does see plenty of cruising.

With the engine fitted into the freshened car, the chassis all sorted out, a set of custom made stepped headers, and an awesome oval pipe exhaust directing all of the noise and gasses out of the back of the car, the plan was to have the car quickly shot with some matte black paint and then tested before pulling the whole thing back down and a Viper Blue paint job applied. “We brought it to the painter and he thought that the car would look mean with the flat black body and some glossy black elements like the tail stripe, the engine bay, and all the plumbing,” Ron said.

The car debuted in July of 2014 and it didn’t take long for the black paint to become a permanent part of the Dart’s character. “We were at a car show and a kid walked up with his dad,” Ron said. “The kid had a Star Wars shirt on and he asked his father what kind of car mine was. The dad knew it was a Dart and the kid just said, ‘Dart Vader.’ The name stuck and there was no possibly way to change the paint after that.”

So what about the drag strip? Oh there’s plenty to talk about there. This car was not put together to simply look the part, it was built to run, and run it does. Being that Ron grudge races the car, he can be tight-lipped about some performance elements of the machine. We understand that because the whole point of grudge racing is to keep your cards close to the vest. He did spill a couple of beans though, “While I am not going to tell you what the car runs flat out, I can tell you that it has gone 8.02/174 after kicking the blower belt off during an early run,” Ron said while laughing. “The car is an animal. The way it pulls down the track is crazy. You look at the g-meter on the RacePak and at the end of a run when the car is in high gear it is pulling at least as hard as it was coming off the starting line. You can try and describe this stuff to people but until you experience it you’ll never understand what it feels like.”

Ron enjoys the grudge scene because there’s an element of showmanship to it as well as some mystery involved. There’s also that certain satisfaction that comes from eating a guy’s lunch and them making him pay you for it. “I had a guy in an S10 with a nitrous small-block that had the words ‘Grudge King’ on the back window ask me for a race pretty soon after the car had come out,” Ron said. “He told me that he did not believe I actually drove the car on the street and that it didn’t make the power people said it did. I took the race and told him I would cover the money that he wanted. Long story short, I never saw the guy and beat him by a few car lengths. When the guy was paying me he told me that he still did not believe it was street driven and I told him to buy me the gas to get home and he could watch!”

Eventually this car will see time at the strip with the clocks on but Ron’s going to continue to enjoy the grudge scene for now. In fact, he’s got races lined up through the spring and summer to go work the Dart out at. No-time, grudge-style racing is an insanely popular trend at the strip these days and when you see cars like this Dart running in those races you can understand why.

Just like the big guy in the corner of the club who waits for the trouble to come to him, so does Ron and his Dart. Also like the big guy in the corner, when that trouble shows up, he knows how to handle his business. This ProCharged, 1,400hp Dart is one bad Jose and if you are showing up to challenge him, make sure you wallet is full because you’ll need it.

If you’re feeling salty at a drag strip in the Mid-Atlantic or Southeast and decide to challenge Ron Bookman and his 1969 Dart to a grudge race, you better have two things. First, the money you’ll be paying him, and second, your pride in a bucket because that’s where it’ll land.

The plan was to test the car a little and then pull it apart for a rotisserie paint job but the flat black that was applied as a stop gap remains.

If there’s a more menacing sight than the back of this car cruising down the road we don’t know what it is. Ron cranks off an amazing amount of street miles in this thing and with some timing pulled out of the engine, it’s more than happy on 93-octane pump gas. Mean!

While it isn’t exactly luxury digs, it is a very well appointed interior in the Dart. Ron wanted the inside of the car to protect him with the addition of the 7.50 NHRA-legal cage, but he also wanted the fit and finish of carpet, a hand-stitched head liner, and the custom trimmed Kirkey seats.

That’s what 1,410 hp of F-2 ProCharger-equipped, 528ci Indy MAXX block-based Chrysler wedge looks like. This engine has been in the car for several years and Ron reports that it still leaks down at about 1-1.5 percent when he checks it. That’s after lots of street miles and drag strip passes.

Want to get your stuff down a drag strip? Here’s a simple recipe for fun: Take big Mickey Thompson Radials, add a Top Gun Pro Mod four-link suspension, Stanhuff coilovers, and a Fab 9 rear end housing, then throw 1,400 hp at it!

The neat contrast on this car is the fact that the exterior is flat black but the piping and underhood area is glossy. Who are we kidding, no one is looking at the paint. They are listenting to the blower wail and that big 528 thump through the oval tube exhaust! Who says blow-through carbs don’t have good manners?!

FAST FACTS

1969 Dodge Dart | Ron Bookman | Hampton, Virginia

ENGINE Type: 528ci Chrysler wedge big-block Bore x stroke: 4.38(bore) x 4.15 (stroke), 528 ci Block: aluminum Indy Maxx Rotating assembly: Callies Dragon Slayer crankshaft, GRP I-beam rods, Ross thermal-coated pistons Compression ratio: 8.25:! Cylinder heads: Indy 440-1 with porting and modifications done by Muscle Motorsports Camshaft: Racer Brown camshaft with .625 lift at .050-inch lift Valvetrain: 2.19 x 1.81 valves, Jesel belt drive, T&D 1.6 ratio rockers, K Motion valve springs, Manley pushrods, COMP Cams retainers and locks Induction: intercooled ProCharger F2 centrifugal supercharger, C&S Specialties aerosol billet blow-through carb with dual needle and seat bowls, Indy 400-14-3 single-plane with provision for 4500-series carb Fuel system: MagnaFuel 750-series electric fuel pump Exhaust: custom step headers 2 1/8 to 2 ¼ by Don Williams at Virginia Rod Company, Spintech oval mufflers, 10-inch merge collectors that dump ahead of rear axle Ignition: MSD Power Grid controls ignition Data Logging: RacePak V300 data logger Oiling system: Melling oil pump, Milodon swinging pickup, 9-quart Hamburger oil pan Cooling: CVR 55gpm water pump on stock aluminum Mopar housing, BeCool triple-pass aluminum radiator, custom VRC built shroud and dual 12-inch electric fans Fuel: gasoline on street and C16 at the drag strip Output: 1,410 hp Engine built by: Larry Peto at Larry’s Engine and Marine Tucson, Arizona Best e.t.: 8.02/174 (that he’ll admit to! Grudge racing demands some secrecy) Weight: 3,020 lbs without driver

DRIVETRAIN Transmission: ATI T400 SuperCase automatic, 9-inch ProTorque converter (4,500 rpm stall), B&M super cooler with electric fan Driveshaft: 4-inch aluminum driveshaft by Inland Empire Driveline Rearend: Moser Fab 9 rear axle, Strange aluminum center section, 3.54 gears, spool

CHASSIS Front suspension: Riley Motorsports AlterKtion K-frame, Viking coilovers Rear suspension: Top Gun Pro Mod four-link, McAmis anti-roll bar, Stanhuff coilover shocks Steering: McAmis rack and pinion steering system Brakes: Strange race disc brakes on all four corners Chassis: NHRA 7.50 certified roll cage built by Don Williams and Bobby Starcher of VRC

PAINT & INTERIOR Color: Southern Polyurethane Satin Painter: Tim’s customs; York County, Virginia Interior: Kirkey race seats with custom trimming and cushioning, custom adjustable shifter, Grant 633 steering wheel, RacePak dash, custom carpet, hand-stitched headliner Interior work by Kirk’s Upholstry in Hampton, Virginia

WHEELS & TIRES Wheels: Billet Specialties 4.5×15 (front), Billet Specialties double bead lock 15×15 (rear) Tires: Mickey Thompson front runners 26×4.5×15; Mickey Thompson ET Street R 32×14.5×15 (rear)

Special thanks: Ron wants to thank Don Williams of Virginia Rod Company, Larry Peto of Larry’s engine and Marine, Tim Lucento of Tim’s Customs, and Gary Harris along with everyone else who contributed to this car’s build.

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