#amanda does not have the money for a lawyer let's be real for a second

[dteamain]

i don't know how to let y'all know that just about the only thing that has happened is dream possibly issuing a cease-and-desist and amanda shutting the fuck up😭

[rosepetalsthings]

Regarding the Dtblr, Let👏🏾Your👏🏾Voice👏🏾Be👏🏾Heard👏🏾 Rant if you gotta, your followers gotchu

My followers trying to encourage me to be mean on main 😂

This is gonna get long and very stream of thought so gonna add a read more for once. This is a rant so it's mostly just gonna be my annoyance at everything. And the meanest I'm likely to get on this blog.

Look... I really really dislike how some of the old blogs left, and how they are perpetuating a lot of misinformation, and frankly a misinterpretation of what has actually happened. I can get leaving, but stop acting as if anything has been fucking confirmed as real. Or that her word is more reliable than dreams when both of them have, frankly, fuck all to show us.

The most she has is that Dream and her have communicated before. And the way people talk about it makes it sound as if dream went out of his way to go find her and message her. When literally every Instagram dm is dry as fuck and NEVER initiated by him.

Then if we go with snapchats are real, what do we have? Only a few saved convos, no context behind any of them, and messages that could be interpreted a whole number of ways depending on what the context we're missing is. And you cannot tell me that if you were introduced to the messages by themselves with no context, you would even slightly jump to sexting or grooming. Hell, she had to show a seperate screenshot of one of the compliments, which might I remind everyone we were just criticising the validity of taking a picture of a screenshot with your phone.

What does it take for some people to fucking think for a second about what is being presented to us??? Instead of flying right off the handle and immediately condemning everyone that doesn't come to the same worse case conclusion as you???? "Oh we left so everyone else must have too or there too busy defending dream" like fuck off. There's more nuance to what's happening then you care to admit or look into because you don't want to confront the idea of dream in your head, good or bad, with the real life human being.

And THEN you get the fuckers who outright believe just anything they hear because why not. "Oh but he confirmed the flirty messages!" Actually that was one of the things he said an outright statement on! And it was that he didn't!!

Or the person who somehow added an extra person to the mix, and then just fully believed without any critical thought that Amanda was telling the truth about dream deleting evidence and that's why she cant show us the proof she definitely has :( or definitely doesn't because she went between having hard evidence and nothing at all so fucking quickly. (At the same time can people stop acting as if everything she says clears dreams name???? Like as much as she isn't doing herself any favours there's nothing here that definitely proves she's lying, just that what she's presenting us deserves scrutiny)

Or fucking everything to do with the techno mermorial.

there are people so fucking convinced that they've pretty much stated that it doesn't actually matter how it shakes down legally, cause clearly he can just hire better lawyers then her and buy her to be quiet :( completely misrepresenting what's actually happening and how a court case (or settlement, which also is not this big evil thing. Most things don't reach a court). Like don't be so fucking close minded that you'll shut out anything presented to you because he has more money so clearly he's just bought everyone off

And then when confronted with the fact that they overeactted and behaved horribly they say "well I'm not defending a potential abuser and clearly my thing isn't as bad as that but I'm sorry I guess :/ "

Or the talk on "iT's NoT tHe AgE gAp It'S tHe PoWeR iMbAlAnCe" like okay then hope you were real fucking critical of purpled dating a fan then. Or is not actually about the power imbalance? Because power imbalances is not a fan and a cc talking??? Like if it's the potential age gap then just say it!!!!! Stop just saying power imbalance as if it's at all at play here from what we've been shown.

And like half of them won't even look into it more. That this is the reality they've settled with because it's easier to deal with posting breakup lyrics, and posts about how you can't trust men then to confront the fact that this isnt a black and white issue and at this point there is no hard line in the sand everyone must follow or else theyre a horrible person.

it is fine if you leave, it is fine if you think that messaging fans at all is bad (although maybe examine why you think that about this but for nothing else), or if you think that talking on snapchat is bad (which I really disagree with, but youre allowed your opinions), but don't act as if any more than that has been confirmed, or saying if you don't leave or if you remain neutral than you're clearly a bad person. Fuck off

[raywritesthings]

Bird in a Storm 6/17

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Tommy Merlyn, John Diggle, Malcolm Merlyn, Thea Queen, Roy Harper, Anastasia, Hank, Female OC Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: The confrontation between the Hood and SWAT on the roof of the Winick Building goes differently, altering the course of Laurel’s career, relationships and efforts to save her city forever, the shockwaves of such an altered path making themselves felt throughout her family and friends. *Can be read on my AO3, link is in bio*

Malcolm had never been interested in idle gossip, and even less so now that the Undertaking was nearly within sight. Only a few more months before Unidac was set to complete the earthquake machines. Then it would simply be a matter of setting them up beneath the Glades, to be triggered at his whim.

Even with his mind preoccupied, he’d hardly missed the hostage crisis involving his son’s girlfriend and the Hood last month. It had all been resolved before he had decided whether or not to involve himself, which was just as well. Miss Lance was a good person, driven by all the same ideals and passions Rebecca had had when she’d been alive. It would have been a shame to lose her so senselessly just as Rebecca had been lost.

It took far longer for the other rumors surrounding Laurel Lance to reach his ears. That she had been forced out of CNRI, that she and Tommy had separated. Considering her previous apartment had been Tommy’s last known address until recently, he thought it was high time he checked in on his son again.

Malcolm therefore found himself in the position of visiting the Verdant in the Glades. He never came out to this neighborhood if he could avoid it. Too many bad memories.

Tommy was standing behind the bar, his head buried in a binder with what looked like the finances. Malcolm felt the odd stirring of pride in his gut to see his son at work on something for once, and he hesitated to interrupt. But eventually, Tommy sensed the presence of another person — far too slow, really, he would have easily been dead if Malcolm had had those intentions — and looked up.

“Dad?”

“Hello, Tommy. I was wondering if you had some time tomorrow. I’d like to try catching up again, just the two of us. I know our last dinner didn’t exactly end well.”

Without the buffer of Laurel Lance between them, things could go that way just as easily. Then again, perhaps it was time they had a talk man to man.

Tommy hesitated. “What’s the catch?”

Malcolm held up both hands. “I promise, there’s no ulterior motive. I just heard you were going through a rough time. I thought maybe I could listen.”

His son considered him for a long moment. “Okay. I can get tomorrow evening.”

Malcolm smiled, and it was at least close to reaching his eyes. “Wonderful.”

The next night found the two of them sitting down to dinner. He’d picked somewhere with what would be considered American-style cuisine, if gourmet. Tommy had never had much tolerance for spices. He ordered a bottle of red for the table and thanks to a lack of small talk to begin with, they each had decided on their food fairly quickly as well.

“How’s, uh, the company?” His son asked eventually.

“Doing well as ever. I’m sorry your relationship ended.”

“Okay, cutting to the chase. Should’ve expected that.” Tommy set his wine glass down and shrugged. “We wanted different things, I guess. Or saw things differently. I don’t know.”

“And Laurel has left CNRI?”

“She had to. Said it was better for her clients, but I don’t see how. If a hooded killer is so important to them, I’m not sure why I’d bother.”

Malcolm paused, in thought and to allow the waitress to set their respective meals down. 

Tommy was bitter, of course, that he had been deemed less important to the lawyer than her work. It didn’t necessarily speak of any deep-rooted conviction. But there was the seed of an idea in there, a thought that had occurred to Malcolm himself in the years after Rebecca’s death.

“Sometimes,” he began carefully, “people look to outlandish solutions rather than solving their own problems. They believe the Hood is here to save them, but in reality, they’re no better off than they were before he started.”

Tommy was watching him, his head bobbing in an unconscious nod.

“In fact, they might even be worse off. There’s nearly been a gang war over the business with his temporary partner the Huntress.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Laurel mentioned that guy Vanch she had to shoot only got out of prison because of all that,” Tommy was eager to agree.

“I’m not surprised. The truth is, Tommy, one of the reasons I chose to close your mother’s clinic was because I was worried for the safety of the employees.”

This was a half-truth. He was reasonably sure the clinic would have been perfectly safe up until the Undertaking, but he wasn’t about to sacrifice hard-working doctors and nurses to it needlessly.

Tommy’s entire posture changed, less closed off. His expression was far more considering as well. “I hadn’t thought of that. You know, I’m hiring at the club now, and do you think — wow, look at me asking you for advice.”

Malcolm felt something in him warm. Perhaps it was his heart. “I’d be happy to give it.”

Tommy pushed a bite of steak around on his plate. “Well, do you think I should hire additional security?”

“It never hurts. Moira certainly did the right thing hiring that bodyguard for Oliver.”

“Well, she really cares about her kids,” Tommy said, only a little less pointed than usual.

Malcolm set down his knife and fork. This was the real test, and one he had brought on himself. “She does. I’ve always admired that in her, the same as I admired it in Robert. In fact, I’m forever in their debt for everything they did in raising you.”

Tommy was staring at him now, his food forgotten, hanging onto his every word. Malcolm suspected he’d been waiting to hear this for years. Perhaps decades.

“I haven’t been the best father to you, Tommy. Part of that, when you were older, was frustration on my part. I wanted you to take things more seriously. To see the mature young man in front of me now makes me happier than I have been in a long time.”

“Yeah.” Tommy didn’t quite manage a smile. “I guess you cutting me off really was for the best, huh?”

Malcolm glanced down. “You’ve succeeded in spite of my lack of support, Tommy, not because of it. And I couldn’t be prouder.”

He could tell Tommy didn’t know what to say. Neither of them were good at expressing themselves this way; where he covered it with either cordial restraint or coldness, Tommy deflected with humor. But his son didn’t do so now.

“Well, thank you. I’m still trying to be better than I was, in spite of everything.”

“Of course.” Heartbreak was doing Tommy good, if anything. It always did; it forced a person to decide what was truly worth fighting for.

Malcolm requested the check and was soon standing and buttoning his coat. “My office door is always open to you, Tommy.”

“Okay. Hey, and this was… good. I wouldn’t mind doing it again sometime.”

Malcolm smiled. “I feel the same.”

He left the restaurant in good spirits. Tommy had exceeded the expectations he’d settled on for him this past year. In time, he could well be a worthy successor. And after all, that was the goal.

Malcolm was not Ra’s al Ghul. He did not have a steady supply of the waters of Lazarus to keep his life going indefinitely. The world he was attempting to build would one day be inherited. Tommy, Oliver, Thea, Amanda — those children and more were the driving force behind everything he, Moira, Frank, and the other members of Tempest did. This plan twenty years in the making was for their benefit as well as the city’s, not that they knew it yet.

For that reason alone, it was time to bring Tommy back into the fold. He wanted to be close to his son upon the launch of the Undertaking. He wanted Tommy to know the loss of his mother would never be in vain. Her ideas of improvement in the Glades would soon be brought to fruition the only way Malcolm knew how: liquidation.

---

Thea hadn’t thought community service could get any worse. Sure, she’d complained and dragged her feet the whole way there the first couple of days, but she’d gotten used to the routine easily enough. And she’d honestly liked having the time to spend with Laurel, sort of woman-to-woman in a way she’d never really been with her mom.

Of course, then Laurel had gotten fired. That’s when things really took a turn for the worse.

Thea drafted yet another email declining Anastasia’s services on a civil suit against Dagget Industries, the phrases and language used in these sorts of things nearly second nature to her now. The couple who wished to bring the suit was claiming that Dagget’s products had damaged their daughter’s skin and wanted money to cover her medical bills. It seemed open and shut to her, yet Anastasia had forwarded it along to her with the instruction to notify the family that CNRI would not be representing them.

In fact, Thea had three more of these kind of emails to draft before the end of the day. One against Stagg Industries and two against Nickels, a landlord in the Glades.

Seriously, they couldn’t even win a lawsuit against a guy who worked out of the Glades? Enough was enough.

Thea stood and made her way over to her new sponsor’s desk, clearing her throat to get the other woman’s attention since she was busy scrolling through her phone.

“Hey, you finish those emails?” Anastasia asked her in a bored tone.

“Not quite. I was wondering if you wanted me to write any approval emails today or if we’re just going to continue doing nothing like the rest of this week.”

“Laurel really got to you before she was sent packing, huh?”

Thea bristled at her sponsor’s amused tone. “So what if she did?”

The other woman set aside her phone and leaned forward. “Let me offer you some free legal advice, kid. Pick your battles.”

“Okay,” Thea said slowly.

Anastasia sighed. “Here’s an example. Take the case against Dagget Industries. Dagget has the firm I usually work at on retainer, meaning we represent them in court on occasion. Meaning it would be very bad for the firm I usually work for if they are brought to court and lose, even over something as small as a little girl’s acne problems.”

“I’m pretty sure it was scarring,” Thea felt the need to point out.

“Whatever. The point is, my firm could lose Dagget as a client, which would mean a lot of money walking out the door and probably leading to layoffs. Considering I’m on sabbatical already and would be the one responsible in this hypothetical situation, you can see what kind of position that might leave me in.”

Thea was silent.

Anastasia seemed to take that as permission to continue anyway. “Now I still want to have some friends at my firm once I leave this sabbatical behind me, not to mention a job, so I’m going to be very careful which battles I pick. You understand me?”

“Yeah, think so.” Thea backed away and went to her desk. It had taken everything in her to keep the sarcasm from leaking into her tone.

This sucked. Sure, she hadn’t wanted to be an office gopher when she’d first started out here, but at least when Laurel had been her sponsor she had felt like the little things she was being asked to do would eventually add up to something. What was going to happen to all the people they were turning down? Wasn’t this like their last resort?

She still didn’t fully understand why Laurel had chosen to step down, or what good the Hood was for in these cases. Maybe if Thea could show her friend that the slack was not being picked up in her absence, she’d reconsider her decision and come back. Things could go back to normal.

With that in mind, while she waited just inside CNRI’s doors for Ollie and Mr. Diggle, Thea put in a call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Laurel, it’s me.”

“Thea? How’ve you been?”

She could hear some cars rushing by in the background on Laurel’s end of the line. The other woman was out somewhere then.

“I’m good. Well, mostly. Is this a good time to talk?”

“You caught me on the way to the gym,” her friend told her. “So I can give you about fifteen minutes.”

That probably wasn’t going to be enough to deliver her argument. And she thought she could see the car arriving anyway.

“Then could we meet up sometime, say tomorrow? I get a lunch.”

“Uh, I think — yeah, I’ve got that day off. Did you know where you wanted to meet? There’s a food cart that does good wraps about a block and a half from CNRI.”

“That sounds good.”

“Yeah. I’ve missed Hank’s food,” the older woman admitted. That sounded even better. Maybe Thea could lure her back to the office with the promise of more wraps. She’d be totally fine buying.

The horn beeped outside. Mr. Diggle must have thought she couldn’t see them.

“Okay, great, I’ll see you at 12:30!” Thea hung up and rushed out to the car.

Oliver was waiting in the backseat for her. “You busy today?”

Thea couldn’t hold in a snort. “Hardly. But I’m hoping that’s gonna change soon.”

If he heard her confident tone, he didn’t choose to comment. That was just fine. Thea wanted to keep her plans to herself for now. Once everything was okay again, then Ollie could know.

And he would owe her big time for sure

---

To say Laurel had been surprised when Thea had reached out was an understatement. She’d assumed her younger friend would want nothing to do with her after the Hood’s visit to Mrs. Queen. But she’d missed her a lot and wasn’t about to turn down the opportunity to catch up.

She left her house early the next day. CNRI would be a bit of a walk, and she didn’t exactly have it timed down to the minute. 

“Laurel, hey!” She turned at the call to find Anita standing by the back of her and Jerome’s place. She was pinning up a white cord. “You headed to work?”

“No, just meeting a friend.”

“Great. Think you could help me hang this line up for a minute?”

Laurel walked along the path and met her neighbor. “Sure. What’s it for?”

“Laundry. Just tie it around that loop Jerome nailed to the fence post. You see it?”

Laurel nodded and took the other end across the yard, tying it as Anita asked so that the line was taut. “I didn’t know they let you air dry in our neighborhood.”

Anita pulled a face. “It’s not a hundred percent legal, but it saves on the bills. Just make sure your lines are down every first of the month when the landlord inspects.”

“Ah, gotcha.” She headed back over to her neighbor so they weren’t discussing criminal activity so loudly. “Ordinances can be a pain sometimes.”

“Yeah, it’s not just the cost,” Anita said. She began taking things out of a basket she had sitting by her feet and hanging them. “The dryer messes with my embroidery, you know?”

“You do your own embroidery?”

“Mm-hm,” Anita nodded. ��Avó taught me. That’s granny,” she added for Laurel’s benefit. Her neighbor held up a shirt that had a flower pattern all along the v-neck collar.

“That’s really nice.”

“I could show you sometime. Sewing and stuff, too. I know it sounds like girl stuff, but you’d be amazed how much it saves.”

“Yeah, I’d like that.” Laurel smiled as she kept studying the flowers. Pam would probably love something like that. Maybe on an apron.

“Well, I won’t keep you longer from your friend. Thanks for the help!”

“It was no problem.” Laurel went back down to the sidewalk and began her walk, at a faster pace to make up some of the time. Fortunately, Thea was only just getting out of the building as she drew up alongside it. Laurel hung back by the side rather than go up to the door. She wasn’t sure she wanted anyone catching sight of her in the sneakers and old jeans she’d thrifted.

Thea spotted her and hurried over in a cute little pea coat and purse. Laurel felt herself smiling already.

“Hey!” Thea stopped short of a hug, something they hadn’t really done since after the Gambit. “Thanks for coming out here.”

“It was no problem.” She shoved her hands in the pockets of her jacket. “So, wraps?”

Laurel led the way over to the food cart, Thea walking in step with her.

“Laurel, hey!” Hank greeted with a surprise smile. “Your usual?”

“Make it two, Hank. And I’m paying,” she added to Thea. Her friend started to protest, but Laurel was already handing the money over. Hank didn’t take cards, and she doubted Thea carried much in small bills anyway.

They took the wraps and started walking.

“How’s your community service going?”

“One hour at a time,” Thea answered. She sounded almost as unenthused as when she’d first started, and Laurel frowned.

“Is something wrong?”

“Yeah. It’s Anastasia. She’s not doing anything.”

Laurel had had some worries about that. The woman had made it very clear she wasn’t at CNRI by much choice and would be counting down the days when she went back to her corporate firm. “You mean she’s not taking cases?”

“All she’s agreed to take on are some civil suits involving individuals and not corporations, and a few name change petitions.”

“Well, those are important,” Laurel pointed out. “For a lot of people, it means all the difference to have the name they truly want recognized.”

“Yeah, okay,” Thea admitted. “But we could be doing way more. Maybe if you were there?”

Laurel sighed. She should have expected something like this. “Thea, I was fired. I can’t exactly walk back through the door whenever I want.”

“Well, could you still say the thing they wanted to hear about the Hood?”

Laurel shook her head. “I was serious about that, Thea. I’m not going to denounce him to make a few corporate executives more comfortable. You know, if it weren’t for the Hood people like Sommers who hired the Triad to attack me would still be out there. That dealer who made Vertigo would be, too.”

Thea’s face scrunched up in thought. “I mean, okay, the Hood stops some bad people. But he also attacked mom and took you hostage. If you want to say he’s doing some good, fine, but he seems to be going about it in the wrong way.”

Laurel sighed. “I don’t agree with every action he’s taken, but it’s hard to know what kind of choices you have to make in the heat of the moment.”

Thea shrugged. “Agree to disagree. So—”

Whatever Thea had been about to say was cut off when a boy in a red hoodie knocked into her friend and grabbed the expensive purse hanging from her arm. Laurel could curse herself; she should have never let Thea come meet her out here looking this rich.

“Hey!”

The boy kept running, and without even thinking Laurel took off after him. Enough was enough.

A package wrapped in foil whizzed past her head and missed the boy — Thea had thrown one of the sandwiches. They were closing in fast on a fence blocking off the end of the street. But the thief jumped off some boards against the wall and started to climb. Laurel grabbed a handhold around the iron pole and leveraged herself up to snag his ankle before he could get over the top.

He struggled, leg swinging wildly. “Let go!”

“Give it back first!”

He kicked out with his other foot unexpectedly and caught her nose. Laurel felt and heard something crack, but there wasn’t immediate pain. Instead the shock caused her to yank sharply on his leg, sending first him and then herself toppling off the fence to the ground.

The bite of concrete was harsh on her hands and the side of her face, and the landing left her winded. Not as much as the would-be thief who was sprawled on his back while the purse sat a few feet away.

Thea’s heeled boots clopping against the pavement announced her arrival, and Laurel watched her bend down to scoop up her stolen property. “I’ll take that.”

“Have it. Jesus,” the boy groaned.

Laurel sat up and started to push herself off the ground, wincing at her skinned hands.

“Laurel, oh my God!” Thea gasped. “You’re bleeding!”

She reached up to touch her nose — or tried to, but winced at the slightest brush of her fingertips. “It probably looks worse than it is.” She looked down at the boy, who had tucked one of his arms in towards his chest. “What about you?”

He glared up at her. “I’m fine.”

“Is it your wrist?”

“It’s nothing.”

“Laurel, we have to get you to a hospital,” Thea insisted.

She pulled a face and then winced when that hurt. “I don’t have health insurance anymore, Thea. I’ll just try and make a splint at home.” Or maybe call John and ask for his help.

But Thea shook her head. “No way. I can cover it. We’ll go to one of those clinics — don’t the Merlyns have one in the Glades?”

“Uh, no. At least, I think it’s closing soon. Glades Memorial would be better.” Laurel said. It’d be just her life for Tommy to find out she’d wound up a patient in his mother’s clinic because of a scuffle in the street. And she wasn’t sure if Mr. Merlyn had gotten his way about those closing papers.

She looked down at the boy again and sighed, reaching down to haul him up by his good arm.

“I don’t need help,” he spat.

“You need that wrist looked at. Come on. I’ll cover you.”

“Thought you didn’t have the money.”

She didn’t even flinch at his biting tone, much less rise to it. “I broke the wrist, I buy the cast. Let’s go.”

Thea eyed the boy uncertainly for a moment, but walked along on her other side.

“What’s your name?”

“Roy,” he answered after a pause.

“Well Roy, I’m Laurel.”

---

Roy didn’t really know what to make of the situation he’d found himself in. But that was always the risk when committing a crime, he guessed.

At least there weren’t any cops. Yet.

The two women brought him along with them to Glades Memorial and sure enough he got his wrist looked at.

“It’s a sprain, fortunately,” the doctor told him. “You’re going to want to rest it.”

Sure, like she thought he had the money to sit around doing nothing for a while. At least she gave him some pain meds to go with her advice. Those would be more useful; he could get a pretty good price for them.

Roy sat out in a hallway. The younger girl, Thea Queen as it turned out, stood a few feet away, arms crossed and glancing at him occasionally. He kept his expression sullen. Who was she to judge him when she’d never had to work an honest day of her life either?

A door down the hall opened, admitting the third member of their group. Laurel, he thought she was called.

“Good news, my nose isn’t broken.”

When he looked up, the woman was wearing a sort of splint over it.

“Lucky you.”

“How about your wrist?”

“Sprained.”

“Well, that’s manageable at least. So, Roy, let’s talk.” She pulled the other chair over closer and sat in it. “Why’d you try to steal my friend’s purse?”

He rolled his eyes. “Why do you think? I need money.”

“Your paycheck not enough?”

Roy looked away.

“You don’t have a paycheck,” Laurel guessed. “What’s stopping you from getting a job, Roy? You’re young, fairly strong by the looks of it.”

“What, so I should be out there breaking my back on hard labor?”

“Better than breaking it stealing,” Thea Queen snarked. He scowled at her.

“Look, Roy, I don’t think you’re someone who steals for the thrill of it, or to get rich,” said Laurel. “I think you’re just trying to make ends meet.” Under her tougher getup, she sounded just as well-meaning and patronizing as the social workers that had visited him every so often growing up.

“Yeah, well I’ve found a way to make them meet. Lot easier than trying to get hired with a rap sheet, unless you know somewhere.”

Laurel turned to her friend, a meaningful look on her face. Thea Queen stared back. “Seriously?” She gave a huff. “Fine. My brother’s club is hiring. I could put in a word for you.”

“Because I want to go to work for the rich and powerful in this city? Clean up their vomit and piss for them? No thanks.” Roy stood and made to walk out.

Laurel’s chair scraped back and hit the wall with a sharp bang, and the next thing he knew she was hauling him back around by his good arm.

“You think you’re proving it to someone just because you have an attitude and know how to take whatever you want? You think you’re better than the rich who steal from people in this neighborhood just because you’re from here?” Her look was piercing, and he found himself taking a step back. “No one is going to fix the system for you, Roy. You can either be part of the solution or part of the problem, and if you’re going to take the easy route then I think you can drop the sanctimonious crap.”

“She’s probably got twenty other purses just like that at home!”

“Then keep it.”

They both froze as the bag landed at their feet.

“You’re right. I don’t need it,” Thea Queen stated. “So if you want my money instead of someone else’s in the Glades, I’d rather you take it.”

Something churned unpleasantly in his gut. “I don’t need your charity.”

“No, you’d rather just steal from me instead.” She scoffed and started walking away. Laurel backed up a couple of steps as well, face impassive. Roy looked down at the purse and his beat up sneakers.

He scooped it up and jogged down the hall, pushing it into the younger girl’s arms. “Here,” he said gruffly.

She looked at him with wide eyes, and he swallowed once. Then Roy turned and shoved his good hand in his pocket, shouldering his way out of Glades Memorial.

He’d be damned if he owed them anything. Already bad enough he was feeling guilty. Why should he care about making things better in the Glades? Nobody else did.

Did they?

[hbwbyniall]

I'll give you some wiggle room! 1, 20, or 48 please :)

Sorry for the waiting, I wrote this at 3 am so :) don’t trust me :)

It’s game night and the boys are at his place. Harry is not there yet but he can tell from the dozens of texts they keep sending in the group chat even though they know he is in a meeting right now making his phone vibrate for last ten minutes, so he turns it off the second he feels his boss eyes in the back of his neck of the fifth time.

It’s late, he’s very much aware of that but this is his first real job after college, he knew it would be hard being an associate in one of the most prestigious law firms of London. He’s been working for it since he started his internship two years ago, making copies, getting coffee and doing errands for almost every lawyer in the office, he met people in the Courthouse and the DA office, he earned his place and his desk as an associate, he studied his ass off in Law School and got good recommendations from teachers to get the internship in Kingsley&Foley, he was the first to arrive and the last one to leave and he never let work interfere with his grades so he could assure a job right after finishing college, which he did. Now the only thing left is to make a name of his own and to do that he needs to work.

Someday it will be me worthy, all of this, the late nights and early mornings; having to put up with pretentious, arrogant and narcissists attorneys that don’t even bother to learn his name of handle him things properly; having to prove himself every second passing and the excess of caffeine that only leaves him exhausted every single day when he gets home. He just hopes that one day all this tiredness will disappear and he’ll have one second to breath, people in his professional circle will respect him and clients will haunt him down, not the other way around.

It’s not like he’s a complete newbie, he has won some cases for the firm, every case that’s been handed to him actually, not very complicated ones, but still, he can handle child support and injuries cases, he’s good at it, but he doesn’t stand out for it. He’s trying, like he’s doing it right now, trying to talk in the middle of four seniors discussing a case and other three associates. They’re eating Chinese and even if he only wants to get home to watch Louis beat everyone in FIFA and then doing a fuss about it eating pizza or some other garbage, he’s too hungry to not pick up the box in front of him.

Harry keeps watching his phone and now they’re sending pictures and it makes him sad because he misses his friends and he hates being an adult. He remembers his conversations with Niall after graduation, when they decided to move in together, find a small apartment and then see what life has for them and Harry warn him, about the late nights and early mornings and Niall just smiled, because that’s him, that’s how he deals with problems, as they go, so he kissed him and made Harry relax for a second to look into his blue eyes and reminded him the reason he fell in love with him after the first week of the first year of university.    

He just wants Niall to be happy and he’s so scared of him getting tired of bored of these situations, it’s been eight months and Harry has come home to find him sleeping almost every night and has to get up before he wakes up, like they’re in some kind of love affair and not a six-year-old committed relationship. Harry wants to save money, he wants a bigger flat in the nice part of town, a bigger tv, some trips and then the ring, he wants stability before he proposes, he saw what the lack of money did to his parents’ marriage and he doesn’t want that or him and Niall, and he knows they’re not his parents, Niall has told him that numerous times, but the feeling stills there.

If he could, he would buy Niall themoon, the stars and the entire night sky.

And that’s when it hits him.

“The airs!” Harry screams, making everyone turn to seem him, standing up from his chair, holding the chopsticks in one hand and the noodles and chicken in the other hand, looking like a mad man in the middle of the night.

“Excuse me?” Asks Ronald Weiser, one of the seniors of the firm.

Harry looks around him and clears his head, leaving the food over the table and cleaning his hands on his pants.

“I think we should buy the airs,” he repeats, loud and clear, proud of the idea plotting in his head.

“If we could buy the Strike Industries airs, we wouldn’t be here,” Amanda Byres replies, not even lifting his eyes from her papers to look at him.

“I’m not talking about Strike’s airs but the Nicholson’s building behind,” and now he has his attention again but this time, they’re curious.

“They’re owned by the Robinson Construction firm, they won’t sell.” He hears Connor say, another associate next to him but he doesn’t have time to hate him right now as he does daily because he’s looking for a piece of paper everyone dismissed since the meeting started almost four hours ago.

“Not anymore,” Harry says, putting the paper over the table, right at the center so the attorneys in front of him could see it. “They sold two days ago to Burdon, they want to take the building down.”

The room in quiet for a couple of seconds before everyone stands up and starts giving directions and orders, picking up phones to make calls and yell to the other side of the line.

“Styles?” he looks up to Michael Bennett, his direct boss, he has a cocky smile on his face, like he just won something, “you can go home, get some rest.”

Well, that’s very thoughtful considering is almost eleven on a Thursday night, but Harry doesn’t complain, he picks up his briefcase and leaves the conference room before they could change their minds.

*

When he gets home and opens his door, he feels the entire day hitting him like a truck and his eyes almost close the second he leaves his briefcase on the floor and his keys in the table next to the door. He walks through the hallway only to find Liam and Louis sitting in the floor with a big bowl of popcorn watching a sappy movie as Niall lays all by himself in the couch, looking at his phone the whole time, he must’ve won FIFA this time.

Harry doesn’t say anything, he just melts into the sofa, taking Niall by surprise and dropping his phone in Louis’ face, making him yell and make a fuss. He hears Liam greeting him and asking him about his day, only to get a snarl as an answer. Harry hides his face into Niall’s neck and feels his finger caress his hair, letting a little whimper leave his lips.

“Did you just make that noise?” Louis’ voice is a numb noise in the back of his mind right now, so he just ignores him and dragging Niall into his arms, protecting him from the popcorn that is thrown to them.

“I missed you,” Harry whispers loud enough for everyone in a small place to hear, he kisses his neck and closes his eyes, letting himself rest since he woke up that morning.

Niall laughs, stroking his hair again, lulling him to sleep. “We’ve become the clingy couple that you used to complain about.”

Harry nods, holding him closer. “To be honest, I love those couples,” he says, smiling, “I was just trying to seem cool for the first few dates.”

“I know.” Niall pulls out to see Harry’s face for a second and leave a little kiss on his lips.

“Can you two shut up?” Louis says, “I’m enjoying this crap.”

[oscopelabs]

Elvis, Truelove and the Stolen Boy: The Tragic Machismo of Nick Cassavetes’ ‘Alpha Dog’ by Amy Nicholson

[Last year, Musings paid homage to Produced and Abandoned: The Best Films You’ve Never Seen, a review anthology from the National Society of Film Critics that championed studio orphans from the ‘70s and ‘80s. In the days before the Internet, young cinephiles like myself relied on reference books and anthologies to lead us to films we might not have discovered otherwise. Released in 1990, Produced and Abandoned was a foundational piece of work, introducing me to such wonders as Cutter’s Way, Lost in America, High Tide, Choose Me, Housekeeping, and Fat City. (You can find the full list of entries here.) Our first round of Produced and Abandoned essays included Angelica Jade Bastién on By the Sea, Mike D’Angelo on The Counselor, Judy Berman on Velvet Goldmine, and Keith Phipps on O.C. and Stiggs. Today, Musings concludes our month-long round of essays about tarnished gems, in the hope they’ll get a second look. Or, more likely, a first. —Scott Tobias, editor.]

A decade before the presidency that elevated insults like “betacuck” and “soyboy” into political discourse, Nick Cassavetes made Alpha Dog, a cautionary tragedy about masculinity that audiences ignored. Time for a reappraisal. Alpha Dog is about a real murder. Over a three-day weekend in August of 2000, 15-year-old Zach Mazursky—in reality, named Nicholas Markowitz—is kidnapped and killed by the posse of 20-year-old San Fernando Valley drug dealer Johnny Truelove (Emile Hirsch) with a grudge against Zach’s older brother. No one thought the boy would die, not his main babysitter Frankie (Justin Timberlake), not the girls invited to party with “Stolen Boy,” and not even the boy himself, played with naive perfection by Anton Yelchin, who played video games and pounded beers assuming that his new captor-friends would eventually take him home.

Cassavetes’ daughter went to the same high school as Nicholas Markowitz. The murderers were neighborhood kids and he wanted to understand how fortunate sons with their whole lives ahead of them wound up in prison. The trigger man, Ryan Hoyt—“Elvis” in the film—had never even gotten a speeding ticket. Prosecutor Ron Zonen hoped the publicity around Alpha Dog would help the public spot the real-life Johnny, named Jesse James Hollywood, who was still on the lam despite being one of America’s Most Wanted. So the lawyers gave Cassavetes access to everything: crime scene photos, trial transcripts, psychological profiles, police reports, and their permission to contact the criminals and their parents. Cassavetes even took his actors to meet their counterparts, driving Justin Timberlake to a maximum security prison to get the vibe of the actual Frankie, and introducing Sharon Stone to Nicholas Markowitz’s mother, a broken woman who attempted suicide a dozen times in the years after her son's death.

Alpha Dog, pronounced Cassavetes, was “95 percent accurate.” Which was part of why it got buried, thanks to Jesse James Hollywood’s arrest just weeks after the film wrapped. Cassavetes hastily wrote a new ending to the movie, but his problems were just beginning. Hollywood’s lawyers insisted Alpha Dog would prevent their client from getting a fair trial, and used the threat of a mistrial to force Zonen off the case. “I don't know what Zonen was thinking, handing over the files,” gloated Hollywood’s defense team. “It was stupid.”

The publicity, and the delays, dragged out the pain for Markowitz’s family, especially when they heard Cassavetes had paid Hollywood’s father an, er, consulting fee. “Where is the justice in that?” asked the victim's brother. “This just goes on and on, and I’m spending my whole life in a courtroom.”

The film, too, was pushed back a year from its Sundance premiere. Despite casting a visionary young ensemble—Alpha Dog was my own introduction to Yelchin, Ben Foster, Olivia Wilde, Amanda Seyfried, Amber Heard, and the realization that Timberlake, that kid from N*SYNC, could actually act—no one noticed when it slid into theaters in January of 2007. It wasn’t just the bad press. It was that audiences couldn’t get past that Cassavetes’ last film was The Notebook. No way could the guy behind the biggest romantic weepy of a generation make something raw and cool.

But he had. Alpha Dog is a stunning movie about machismo and fate, two tag-team traits that destroy lives. Think Oedipus convincing himself he can outwit the oracle of Delphi. But Sophocles’ Oedipus telegraphs its intentions, elbowing the audience to see the end at the beginning. Greeks sitting down in 405 BC knew they were watching a tale that came full circle. Every step Oedipus takes away from his patricidal destiny just moves him closer to it.

If you map Alpha Dog’s script, instead of a loop, it looks like a horizontal line that plummets off a cliff. For most of its running time, Alpha Dog could pass for a coming-of-age flick where a sheltered kid with an over-protective mom (Sharon Stone) taps into his own self-confidence, right up until the scene where he tumbles into his own grave. Audiences who’d missed the news articles about the case weren’t clued into the climax. Cassavetes doesn’t offer any hints or flash-forwards, not even an ominous “based-on-a-true-story.” (The film might have been more successful if he had.) Instead, he lulls you into joining the kegger, watching Zach crack open beer after beer as though he expects to live forever. “There’s a movie sensibility that the film doesn’t conform to,” said Cassavetes. “You don’t watch this film. You endure it.”

As Zach, his eyes red-rimmed from bong rips, not tears, is shuttled between party dens and wealthy homes, he’s given several chances to escape. He’s even revealed to be a Tae Kwan Do blackbelt who can jokingly flip his captor-buddy Frankie (Justin Timberlake) into a bathtub. But Zach stays put—he doesn’t want to get his big brother Jake (Ben Foster) in more trouble, not realizing that Johnny is too busy making nervous phone calls to his lawyer and his aggro father Sonny (Bruce Willis) to get around to asking Jake for the $1200 in ransom money.

Zach’s death is disorienting, almost as if Psycho's Marion Crane got murdered in the second-to-last reel. In a minivan en route to his execution, he innocently tells Frankie he wants learn to play guitar. “It bugs me that I don’t know how to do anything,” he sighs. Meanwhile Johnny assures his dad that there’s no need to call off the killing. “These guys are such fuck-ups, nothing's gonna happen,” he shrugs, a rare example of cross-cutting that defuses tension in order to make the shock of the gunfire even worse. Up until the last second—even after Frankie binds him with duct tape—a sobbing Zach still can’t believe Frankie would hurt him, and honestly, Frankie can’t believe it himself. And Yelchin’s own early death makes you ache for him to get a happy ending, which Cassavetes dangles just out of reach.

This is how evil happens, says Cassavetes. Masterminds are rare. Instead, people like Frankie can be basically good, but can also be panicky and passive and selfish. Shoving Zach in Johnny’s van was an idiotic impulse by upper middle-class kids, who flipped out when they realized the snatching could get them a lifetime sentence. There’s no honor or glory in the violence. Johnny, the cowardly ringleader, talks tough, but orders his most craven friend, Elvis (Shawn Hatosy), to pull the trigger while he and his girlfriend Angela (Olivia Wilde) get drunk on margaritas. And after the murder, one side effect is that Johnny can’t get an erection. When Angela tries to get Johnny in the mood in their hideout motel, the walls close in on him, suffocating the mood.  

Away from his boys, Johnny is weak. Surrounded by them, he's the king. Alpha Dog sets up a culture of animalistic dominance. Johnny’s rental house is basically a primate cage at the zoo, only decorated with weight benches and Scarface posters. All of Johnny’s boys jockey to be his favorite and tear each other down in order to bump up their own rank. Kindness is weakness. When a fellow dealer with the ridiculous nickname Bobby 911 cruises by to negotiate a sale, he snarls at a guy who vouches for him: “You don’t need to tell him I’m good for it, man!”

Elvis, the future shooter, is the lowest member of the pack. He can’t ease into the group without Johnny ordering him to go pick up his pit-bull's poop in the backyard. Why do they pick on Elvis? He owes Johnny a bit of money, but the source of the scorn is simply group think. No one wants to be nice to the outcast, and Elvis is just too sincere to be taken seriously. When Elvis offers to get Johnny a beer, the guys tease him for being in love with Johnny. When he says sure, he does care about Johnny, they twist words into a gay panic joke. Elvis can’t win—they won’t let him—so he literally kills to prove his worth, and winds up sentenced to death row, where the real boy, just 21 at the time of the shooting, remains today. Another life wasted.

Cassavetes humanizes the killers because he wants us to understand how their micro decisions add up to murder. Not just the gunmen. Everyone’s a little to blame. The kids who got drunk with “Stolen Boy” and didn’t call the police. The girls who told Zach that being kidnapped made him sexy. Even Zach’s older step-brother Jake, an addict with a twitchy temper who escalates his war with Johnny to a fatal breaking point. Neither boy will back down over a $1200 debt, and there’s an awful split screen call when Johnny dials Jake intending to bring Zach home, but Jake is so boiling over with anger, his Bugs Bunny voice shrieking with outrage, that Johnny just hangs up the phone.

The opening credits, a montage of the cast’s own old home videos, underline that these were young and happy children—the kind of kids people point to as examples of the suburban American ideal. Over a treacly cover of “Somewhere Over the Rainbow,” we watch these real life boys being cultured to be brave: riding bikes, falling off dive-boards, running around with toy guns, going through the rituals of young manhood, from bar mitzvahs to karate lessons. Yelchin—recognizably dark-eyed and solemn even as a toddler—grins wearing plastic vampire teeth.

It takes another ten minutes for Yelchin’s character to sneak into the film sideways in a profile shot eating dinner with his parents, played by Sharon Stone and David Thornton. His Zach is barely even visible as brash Jake barges into the scene to beg for money. They say no, Jake stomps out, and Zach finally makes himself seen when he runs after his brother, begging to go anywhere less suffocating. Zach’s mom loves him so much that she watches him sleep. “I’m not fucking eight!” he yelps. He’s 15—practically a man, in his own imagination—and desperate to get away, even if it means mimicking Jake, a Jewish kid who’s so scrambled that he has a Hebrew tattoo on his clavicle and a swastika inked on his back. Jake starts to say that he wishes his own mom cared about him that much, but as soon as he gets vulnerable, he spins the moment into a joke. “Boo for me,” Jake grins, and takes another swig of beer.

“You could say it’s about drugs or guns or disaffected youth, but this whole thing is about parenting,” grunts Bruce Willis’ Sonny Truelove. “It’s about taking care of your children. You take care of yours, I take care of mine.” He’s half-right—his parenting is half to blame. Sonny and his best friend Cosmo (Harry Dean Stanton) taught Johnny to bully his friends. Cosmo, looking haggard and hollow, mocks Johnny for having one girlfriend. “You gotta plow some fucking fields,” he bellows. “Men are not supposed to be monopolous!” Not that “monopolous” is a real word, and not that Cosmo fends off women himself, except in his own big talk.

Cosmo and Sonny’s own posturing gradually emerges as being more dangerous than Johnny’s because it's more integrated into society. They’re the type of creeps who rewrite the rulebook to suit them, and attack journalists who try to tell the truth. When a fictitious documentarian asks Sonny about his son's drug connections, the father shrugs, “Did he sell a little weed? Sure.” But when the interviewer presses him further, Sonny snaps, “I’m a taxpayer and I’m a citizen and you are a jerk-off.”

Cassavetes, of course, understands growing up with a father who left a giant footprint to fill. His father, John Cassavetes, the writer-director of Shadows and Faces and A Woman Under the Influence, was one of the major pioneers of independent cinema. He died when Nick was 30, before his son attempted to take up his legacy. “We never really talked film theory,” said Cassavetes. “My experience with my dad was more along the lines of how to be a man, how to be yourself, how to free yourself from what society tells you to do, how to release yourself as an artist.”

It makes sense that Cassavetes would make his own ambitious, and maddeningly singular film. And perhaps it even makes sense to him that fate has yet to give him the reward he’s earned. Alpha Dog deserves to be acknowledged as one of the most incisive examinations of machismo and the banality of evil. But like his fumbling criminals, he knows he’s not really in charge of his life. Admitted Cassavetes, “I'm not smart enough to really have a master plan for my career.”

[p-redux]

From Anon...

Hi Anon, yeah I really want to steer away from any Puff talk...1. because I don’t want to give her the attention she’s craving. 2. I don’t want to discuss any behind the scenes legal dealings going on. BUT I decided to post what you sent me via separate Submission because anyone foolish enough to continue to believe that Puff is anything but a HUGE CON ARTIST, should know they are being manipulated. Let’s look at the screencaps you sent me... 

The screencap above that Anon sent me of this “Eileen” person Puffy insists is me is ludicrous in how OBVIOUS it is that it’s Puffy trying to “sound” like me. So let me tell you what’s really going on. Puffy “created” Eileen as an excuse to go after me. Puffy IS Eileen. Let me elucidate. After Cait got engaged to Tony, it became clear that I had been telling the truth, and Puffy had been lying to her minions. Puffy’s ego couldn’t handle that, so she had to make me pay. Enter Eileen. Eileen has sent Puffy abusive messages, taunting her, calling her names, generally being vile. Eileen has gone as far as accusing Puffy of lying about her husband dying. Eileen took it one step further by supposedly trying to hack into Puffy’s Wordpress blog. Puffy carefully built a case against Eileen as being this horrible troll that was harassing her and trying to destroy her happiness. Burn that bitch! After getting her minions all riled up, Puff “conveniently” throws out that “Eileen has to be Purv.” Burn that bitch! Once Puff got her minions fired up, and convinced Eileen is me, then she presented her GoFundMe campaign asking people for money to hire a private investigator to find out my real identity, and “finally” get rid of me. Her minions weren’t smart enough to slow down, think, and realize they were being manipulated. 

So, let’s be logical for a second. 1. My source info that Tony was Cait’s boyfriend all these years was proven to be correct--it has been confirmed by Cait herself that she is engaged to Tony, so why would I need to go after Puffy NOW? I “won.” It’s over. Puffy is irrelevant. What do I have to be angry about with her? Why would I go after her NOW? Think about it--it makes NO sense. Puff is the one who should be mad at me now, not the other way around. And obviously she is...very, very mad. Mad enough to create an alter ego (Eileen) she can use to galvanize people into a witch hunt against me, and make some money in the process. Doh. 2. If, hypothetically, and inexplicably, I decided I wanted to “taunt” Puffy, why would I do it with a sock account, such as Eileen, when I’ve had NO problems calling people out as ME, for four years, including Puffy in the past. If I wanted to go to Puff’s blog and call her out, I would have, and my user name would have been Purv, so she would KNOW it was me. I would WANT her to know it was me. Again, me being “Eileen,” makes no sense. 3. Puffy knew she had “lost,” she knew she looked like a fool for selling the “Stella assures me Sam and Cait are a couple” bullshit, she needed an excuse to go after me now, especially since I had totally forgotten about her and never talked about her anymore. Enter Eileen. Eileen is the perfect scapegoat. Eileen is the catalyst to galvanize Puff’s troops against me again. Eileen is a bitch, Eileen sounds like Purv, Eileen is so horrible she even goes after Puff’s dead husband (another ridiculous thing for Puff to have tried given that I lost my dad a little over a year ago. I would NEVER mock Puff over her husband’s death. I now feel the pain of losing a love one, no way would I ever go there now with anyone, not even Puff), Eileen has no limits, she even tried to hack Puff’s blog, Eileen is evil and must be destroyed...”hey, guess what, Eileen must be Purv.” Burn that bitch! Are you people seeing the Machiavellian level of manipulation here on Puff’s part? Pretty brilliant actually...but only if you’re stupid. 

So, yes, 60 stupid people did not figure out they were being manipulated by Puffy and gave her money for her GoFundMe fund against me. I’m posting this so that they see just how foolish they were...and in the hopes that anyone else reading this realizes they are being duped...BIG TIME.  I am NOT Eileen. I don’t need to be Eileen. I can go call out Puff or anyone else as ME, and I have, many many times. Eileen IS Puffy pretending to be me to get people so upset that they want to go after me. MAKE NO MISTAKE ABOUT THAT. And by creating Eileen, Puffy successfully riled up the troops, and managed to con 60 people out of their hard earned money. 

What will the money those poor fools contributed get them? Nothing that isn’t already known. 1. Puffy and other Extreme Shippers have ALREADY posted the info of the person (Scilla) they think is me. So Puffy’s Private Investigator (BTW, I wouldn’t put it past her to forge documents and there is NO PI) will simply “find” info Puffy ALREADY has and she’ll repost it for your guys. I really hope she does that actually, because the second she does, I will post screencaps of Puffy and other ES having ALREADY posted all the SAME info in the past. And then you’ll know for sure you wasted your money. There will be NOTHING Puffy will say her PI found that will be any different than the info she has already posted. Not one thing. And guess what? She found that info on the Internet for free. Waste of money #1. 2. Since the info Puffy will be posting will NOT be MY real info, having posted it won’t get rid of me. Post all of Scilla’s info. It won’t have one effect on ME, because I am not her. I will still be here blogging. So you won’t be getting rid of me. Waste of money #2. 3. If on the off chance, Puffy’s PI does find the real me and she posts my info a.) I will press charges against her, against Amanda, the co-owner of her blog (because Amanda revealed her identity publicly my lawyer and I have ALL her info already. And I’m sure Puff will have no problem letting Amanda take the fall for her. And she will); b.) even if Puff posts MY ACTUAL identity, it will not make me leave. I will still be here blogging NO MATTER WHAT Puffy reveals. Here for the duration. Waste of money #3. 4. No matter what happens, or how much money you give Puff on GFM, it will not make Cait and Sam be a couple in real life. Waste of money #4.

So there you have it folks, I can’t wait to see what else “Eileen” says to Puffy. Psst, Puffster, if you really want to sound like me use the words FACTS, TRUTH, and REALITY in all caps a few times in the messages you send to yourself. Memo to you: NO ONE except the fools who follow you is buying it. The jig is up. PUFF IS EILEEN.

PS. I love how Puff says part of her “proof” that Eileen is me is that Eileen talks about sex and I’m the ONLY other person ever in the four years of the Outlander fandom to ever talk about sex. WHAT?! hahahahahaha. *facepalm* Go take a gander around at the thousands of Outlander fans and see the rampant discussion of sex and the objectification of Sam, Tobias, Rik, Cait, and others on the show. In fact, you need to look no further than your own shippers to see all the gifs of Sam/Jamie sucking on Cait/Claire’s boobs, and talking about how Sam’s “favorite place is between Cait’s legs” etc., etc., etc.,. C’mon, I can’t believe Puff would literally say I’m the only one who has ever talked about sex as “proof” I’m Eileen. It is SO laughable I’m still laughing about it. Cuckoo for Cocoa Puff. Lord. 

[theliterateape]

Hope Idiotic | Part II

By David Himmel

 Hope Idiotic is a serialized novel. Catch each new part every week on Monday and Thursday.

MOONLIGHTING AS A DRUNKARD, Chuck Keller was the assistant manager of the communications department at palm gaming, the largest hotel and casino company in Las Vegas and the world. After Chuck graduated from Nevada State, he was hired as the news editor for Valley Life, the alternative weekly rag, where I worked as the A&E editor. But he jumped ship to work at Palm when the Journal, the larger daily paper, bought the weekly. He was also the editor of the radically libertarian magazine, Liberty.

Chuck not only held influence in a variety of Las Vegas circles, but he was able to keep his writer friends employed. On the day that Lou quit the radio gig to pursue a writing career and more financially beneficial opportunities, he called his friend Chuck for a job. Thanks to a small sexual-abuse–related firing, a position in the Communications Department had just opened up, and Chuck ushered his pal through the hiring process. Chuck and Lou had met earlier and became fast friends in college while working at the student newspaper. I was also a beneficiary of Chuck’s employ. A few months after the Valley Life buyout, I traded my press pass for a corporate ID card at Palm and, like Lou eventually would, worked as a communications specialist. And though Chuck was younger than both of us (Lou only by a year, me by four), Chuck was our boss twice over — at Palm and at Liberty.

The day gig in Corporate America was no one’s dream job. But it provided us with steady salaries and allowed us to freelance for nearly every magazine and alt-rag in town. Our office was small, buried in the bowels of Palm Gaming’s oldest and grandest property, the Tigris. Because of the office’s location to the back loading docks, it was often used to shuttle big-name performers into the property and to bust hookers off the property. Our department’s supervisor was usually absent, busy grooming herself to move upstairs into the corporate offices and, therefore, spent most of her time with her nose gently placed upon the casino president’s asshole, her lips firmly puckered.

There was always plenty of work to be done since the department handled all internal communications for four Palm properties. But our daily responsibilities were so mundane that Lou and I would often spend Monday through Wednesday freelancing before completing the week’s casino work — hitting all deadlines — on Thursday and Friday.

“Okay, so here’s the headline: New Carpet on Casino Floor, but You Still Have Cancer.” 

In addition to double-dipping while on the Palm Gaming clock, we were able to take extended drinking lunches, most often at Cuba Café a few blocks away from our office. We were so charming and such frequents, that the staff often comped their beer. This only encouraged more drinking before heading back to work — not that we needed sharp minds for what those afternoons in the Communications Department required.

“Lou. Neal. My office,” Chuck said one afternoon after getting back from Cuba Café.

“Christ, we smell like a fucking brewery,” Lou complained.

“Now, I don’t want a revolt on my hands,” Chuck teased.

“What worker-drone task do you have for us now, fearless leader?” I asked.

“Lou, I need you to take the camera up to the casino floor and snap photographs of the new carpet. Neal, I need you to host the employee karaoke competition in the employee dining room today.”

“Why does he get to host the karaoke?” Lou asked. “I was the disk jockey. I’m a goddamn stand-up comic. Let him take pictures of the carpet.”

“Nope. You’re better with the camera than he is,” Chuck said.

“Plus, I have a PhD in English,” I added. Yep. Dr. Neal Harding. My education was a laughable reminder that I was not at the career level that I should have been. I fancied myself a real writer — to one day be a well-respected professor of the written word. I had paid a fair chunk of my dues. I had already published one collection of poetry and recently, the unauthorized biography of the world-famous local synth-rock band, The Riots. The band had just released its second album, and my book could not have been better timed for hypersonic success. Or so I hoped. “When my book becomes a national best-seller, all of this will be behind us. I’ll take you guys with me wherever I go. But for now, Lou, you have carpet to photograph. And I’m going to listen to fat housekeepers sing Shania Twain.”

“Fuck,” Lou said. “Why am I taking pictures of the carpet?”

“Because they installed new carpet on the casino floor,” Chuck said.

“And?”

“And the bosses want us to do a story for the newsletter about the carpet. So the employees know the company is investing in itself.”

“Didn’t Neal just write a story about employee health benefits being reduced?”

“Yes,” Chuck laughed.

“Okay, so here’s the headline: New Carpet on Casino Floor, but You Still Have Cancer.” 

✶

LOU FELT LIKE AN IDIOT AS HE POINTED THE CAMERA AT HIS FEET AND PRESSED THE SHUTTER BUTTON. He tried making the photos more appealing. He walked to the busiest part of the casino and got into a prone position, careful not to wrinkle his tie and blazer. He shot at angles that made it obvious that photographed feet belonged to a dealer or were clearly the shoes of a cocktail waitress. True to his compulsive style, he never half-assed anything. Those pictures of the carpet were going to be the best goddamn carpet pictures the world had ever known.

“Excuse me. What in the hell are you doing?” A grizzled man in a dark suit with a Tigris name tag was standing over Lou. He could have been security, but without the standard earpiece, Lou figured he was a floor manager or pit boss.

“I’m taking photos of the carpet,” Lou said, realizing how dumb it sounded.

“It’s against casino policy and Nevada state law to snap photographs without permission. Stand up, son.”

Lou did. “I know. Look…” He caught the name on the tag. “John, I’m Lou Bergman. I work down in communications, and I have to take pictures of the carpet.” Lou handed him a business card from his blazer breast pocket. John looked it over and handed it back to Lou, accompanied with a face that acknowledged the absurd assignment. “Tell me about it,” Lou admitted.

“Why are you taking pictures of the carpet?”

“Because they just installed it.” He gestured like a showroom model. “All throughout the casino.”

John looked at his feet and around as if he’d not noticed the change. “And?”

“And corporate wants you to know it’s investing back into the property and its employees.”

“Didn’t they just cut our benefits?”

“They did. I just have to take photos to go alongside a story in the next issue of The River. “What’s The River?”

“It’s the quarterly employee newsletter.”

“I’ve worked here for 26 years, and I’ve never heard of it.”

“We usually work pretty hard on it.”

“I’m not going to lie to you, kid. This is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard of. Go ahead, take your pictures.”

“Thanks, John. The sooner I finish this, the sooner we can both put this behind us. And I’ll be sure to personally hand deliver a copy of the River to you when the story breaks.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

Lou returned to his desk, took in the remaining beer buzz and sifted through the hi-res images of carpet in what could only be characterized as psychedelic diarrhea.

✶

WE HAD STEADY WOMEN IN OUR LIVES.

Chuck and Lexi Albert were high school sweethearts. She moved to Las Vegas to be with Chuck immediately after earning her MBA from Morrill University in Indiana. She was on the fast track to a successful career as a hospital administrator and worked at one of Las Vegas’ most prestigious medical centers.

Lou and Michelle Kaminski had been great friends since college. She moved to Chicago to become a lawyer and they remained friends and kept in touch. And then, whenever Michelle was here visiting her parents, they would see one another, and without intent, they just seemed to fall in love.

It was — like love so often is — without any warning or planning. They first kissed in December, followed by daily talks through emails and phone calls, and it all just cascaded from then on. Lou had been to see her once in late February; now it was early April, and things had grown quite serious.

Michelle had arrived in town the same afternoon as the carpet photo shoot. Chuck, Lexi, Lou and Michelle met for dinner that night at Bella’s. My wife Natalie and I joined them. Unless I had to cover a story for one of the rags or watch some metal band play a tiny smoke-filled bar for the music column I held onto at Valley Life, I rarely ventured out after dark, like I said. But Michelle’s arrival in town was a special occasion, and this was the first time Natalie and I were meeting her. It was also the first time we hired a babysitter and left our infant son Stephen at home.

“What an amazing view,” Michelle said, as the six of us were seated next to a window showcasing a panoramic view of the valley.  “Do you think Stephen is okay, Neal?” said Natalie.

“I left the babysitter with beer money and a loaded revolver. I’m sure he’s fine,” I said. Natalie looked at me, acknowledging my attempt at being cute. She disapproved of the effort. The talk, therefore, pivoted to a more vanilla tone.

“How old is Stephen?” asked Michelle.

“Almost a year,” said Natalie.

“And this is your first night away from him?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Let’s not talk about babies,” I interjected. “Michelle, welcome back to the Neon Dream. How long are you in town?”

“Four days. Until Monday. My friend Amanda is getting married in June, so we’re here for her bachelorette party.”

 “Are you the maid of honor?” Lexi asked.

“I’m a bridesmaid but am also planning the entire weekend for all 25 girls. Since I’m from Vegas, it made sense for me to do all of the planning. But it was not easy. Ask Lou. He had to hear all about it.”

“Whatever happens, all those girls are bitches,” Lou said. Michelle smiled at him, pleased with his well-rehearsed response. The rest of us laughed, knowing his statement was more her projection than his actual opinion.

“Thanks again for hooking us up with passes to Rouge tomorrow night, Chuck,” said Michelle. Rouge was the newest club on the Strip, and he had to manipulate a few favors to get 25 girls in on a Friday night. Once Lou assured him that all of the girls were at least moderately good-looking, Chuck was happy to oblige. “So…” she said, looking at Chuck and Lexi. “When are you two finally getting married?”

Lou took his girlfriend’s hand. “Let’s not get too personal before the first drink, Michelle.”

“Oh, come on. They’ve been together since what, high school? I think it’s a perfectly fair question.”

Lexi blushed. Chuck fidgeted in his chair. I laughed. Natalie looked out the window in an effort to be distracted. No one wanted to face Michelle’s question. Because if there’s anything more uncomfortable in the world than putting a couple on the spot by asking them the marriage question point blank, you’d be hard pressed to find it. And all of us — well, all of us but Michelle ��� understood that that question at that moment brought with it an extra special kind of discomfort. The subject of marriage had been a major talking point between Chuck and Lexi. She wanted to get married. He wasn’t ready.

Even if Michelle had known the sensitive nature of the query, it likely wouldn’t have stopped her from asking anyway because to a woman in her late twenties in a new, happy, healthy relationship with her best guy friend, it’s a perfectly legitimate, noninvasive question. From her point of view, getting married is the only thing that mattered.

“After knowing each other for so long, it’s about time,” Michelle said. Then she turned to Lou and looked into his eyes, smiled knowingly and said, “Don’t you think?”

He forced a smile back at her. For the first time since things took off with Michelle, he felt a twinge of panic.

Part I