#and Golf Cart Industry

[mohitbisresearch]

The Europe electric ATV, UTV, and golf cart market (excluding U.K.) is projected to reach $1,298.5 million by 2032 from $212.3 million in 2023, growing at a CAGR of 22.29% during the forecast period 2023-2032.

[untilthenexttee]

Zero Friction To Introduce Wheel Pro STRIDE, its New Electric Golf Bag with Smart Follow Technology

Zero Friction To Introduce Wheel Pro STRIDE, its New Electric Golf Bag with Smart Follow Technology

OAKBROOK TERRACE, IL (January 9, 2021) – At the upcoming PGA Merchandise Zero Friction, LLC will unveil the Wheel Pro STRIDE golf bag, a first of its kind light weight, autonomous electric golf bag packed with tons of features for today’s golfer. “It is like having your own private caddy that can essentially travel anywhere in the world with you,” said Zero Friction Founder and President John…

[seat-safety-switch]

Mini-golf is something I've spoken about many times, at great risk to my own life. In my town, you see, the mini-golf industry is represented by an extremely powerful lobby. That's why we have approximately three "courses" for every hundred people, the highest ratio in the world. Why am I against it? No golf carts means no driving.

You might think it's silly to be opposed to mini golf purely on the basis that I don't get to drive a little electric car around the property at irresponsible speeds. I'm sure you have strong opinions about things that I would consider silly, too. That makes you look like an asshole now, doesn't it?

Thing is, enjoying the great outdoors is best done with an open-air vehicle, gazing at the wonders of nature. And even if those wonders of nature have been artificially curated by the same groundskeeper who is now screaming at me for having driven across four sand traps and the country club, it still counts as calming.

Mini-golf? Too damn small. The mind rebels. Not natural, every sense screams, until you end up getting super mad and eject your putter into the parking lot on the 19th stroke on a "par 2" hole while some very patient toddlers wait behind you in line, not yet having been taught the concept of "play-thru," but perhaps also not wanting to pick a fight with a fully-grown adult who achieves apocalyptic rage levels when not operating a motor vehicle.

Now, I've worked out a sort of methadone solution here. Halfway house shit. Because I can't afford to play on the big expensive country club courses (it's sort of a Caddyshack situation, but mostly just the part where they hate me and everything I stand for) I'm stuck with mini-golf, and have to make my time at Al's Little Tee Big Fun and Ed's Big Fun Regular-Sized Balls as enjoyable as possible. That's why I brought a mini-golf-cart.

That's right. For just a few bucks on eBay, you too can avail yourself of a 1:24 scale golf cart that you can take out of your pocket and pretend to drive between the holes. Making vroom-vroom sounds is a little unrealistic for what is supposed to be a brushed-DC forklift motor, but you gotta do what makes you happy. The only downside is that this tiny plastic conveyance came from Playmobil, which almost certainly means it's going to explode in some kind of elaborate German mechanical failure soon. Like the poor guy in the parking lot last time whose GTI had a mini-golf putter get stuck in the windshield.

[vincentbriggs]

Hey there! I have a sort of random question. I just recently started working for an industrial sewing company(we make golf cart enclosures). The company recently went public and was bought by a man with a lot of money. He has asked us what we need to really streamline our process, like Lazer cutters and new machines. But we know nothing about those kind of machines. We sew on a couple of really old Pfaff fellas. So my question is, if you had carte blanche to buy an industrial machine, which would you pick?

Hope this is an okay place to ask this. I love your sewing! ❤️

Hm, I do not think I'm the right person to ask about that!

I do have a lot of experience using industrial machines, but only the ones made for clothing. Industrial machines tend to be very specific - at my current job there's one that just does straight stitch, and one that just does blind stitch hemming.

Presumably the kind of machines used for outdoor coverings would be different ones, made to take much thicker thread and fabric? I think a business that makes similarly Large things would be a better place to ask.

I haven't really noticed any difference in the industrial machines I've used. The one at my current job are from the Reliable corporation, the ones at my previous job were Juki, and I don't remember what the ones at college were. All of them are good and sturdy and have never given me any trouble.

I hope you can find someone who knows more about it!

[theitgirlnetwork]

What Are You Willing To Do?

Ch. 1 : Self-Restraint (Rafe has none)

Milan's Party Outfit

Note: Okay this took forever to come out and I'm sorry. Please let me know what you think. Also something to note, I have an OC who is the main love interest in my JJ story. She is present in this story, but the two stories don't intertwine. Just something for those of you who will read both. I hope you enjoy and I love interacting. I will accept (constructive) criticism. And feedback. Another note, Milan is a little more of a bimbo character than my other ones, she won't be fully lost and I refuse to make her childlike. She just likes to be in the wind and chose a man who handles stuff for her. Also she doesn't have a permanent face claim yet, so if you have any ideas for that, please message them to me! :) Thank you for giving my story a chance, and if you're reading any of my other stories, I hope to be posting more to have some reprieve from the state of the world. Thanks so much!

Warnings: Mentions of sexual conduct, strong language, drug use

“Let’s go, I don’t know why I have to wait for you, we’ve got things to handle today, you’re makin’ me late-”

“Yeah, Dad-” Rafe huffs, jogging his way down the steps, grabbing his jacket off of the coat rack in the foyer. “Well, Sara has been in my shit again so, maybe you could talk to her about that-”

“I don’t touch your shit, no one wants your shit, Rafe.”

“I can tell, you probably brought your bum ass pogue boyfriend in here too, he shouldn’t be in the damn house-”

“Rafe!” Ward’s voice booms, making Rafe’s eyes snap to his father’s obediently, mouth snapping shut. “Do you really think that it's productive for you to waste time arguing with your little sister when I just told you we need to get a move on?”

“Uh,” the younger man breathes heavily through his nose, clenching and unclenching his fists at his sides as he glares at his sister over his father’s shoulder. “No, sir.” 

“Alright then.” Ward rolls his eyes, nodding his head for his son to grab the bag on the ground and grab the car keys before turning to address his eldest daughter. “Need you to be home for dinner tonight. There’s a new family moving in a couple blocks over and we wanna make a good impression. That means no fighting,” the older man raises his eyebrows at his children, placing his bluetooth in his ear, “no boyfriends, Sarah,” Ward finishes with a rough pat on his son’s back, “no drugs. Get it? This could be big, Gregory Cabot is big in the oil industry and they might want to…settle here. If they do, we should be their first friends, understand?”

Rafe nods quietly, attentively hanging onto his father’s every word. Taking them in with an intensity that would satisfy any other dad. But not Ward Cameron. “Sarah, they’ve got twins about your age. Make sure you and Wheezie are cleaned up nicely. Rafe,” the 21 year old is met with his father’s rough hand smacking his cheek once, twice, under the guise of an affectionate pat. “Don’t fuck it up.”

“It’s like he uh, doesn’t get it, right? Like I do fuckin’ everything he asks, and I’m uh…I’m the fuck up.” Rafe stammers irritably before sending a powerful swing into the golf ball in front of him, watching it sail off into the distance. 

Topper and Kelce exchange looks as their friend grinds his teeth, grabbing a beer from their cart and taking a deep swig. He’d been ranting about this morning since they’d started on the course an hour ago. Apparently, his father’s comment had carried in Rafe’s mind all of the way through the brief errand down at the docks he’d accompanied him on, followed him to the country club and was going to last the entirety of their hang out. 

“Yeah man, I mean,” Topper begins, “I get it right? My mom’s always on some shit too. Like I screw up everything I do.”

“You do, Top.” Kelce chuckles, lining up for his swing.

Rafe nods along, taking another swig. “For real, like realistically, I do everything I’m supposed to, like I really step up and it’s fuckin’ bullshit that I’m still supposed to act like I’m his little bitch boy. I’m fully a man. I’m focused and shit. Because for real, Top, I feel like if Sarah asked you to come over right now you’d go runnin’ right?”

“Fuck you man.”

“Motherfucker knows I’m right.”

“Kelce?”

“I mean, Top, let’s be real.”

Topper rolls his tongue in his cheek irritably, turning red at his friend’s taunting, “Well, y’all are the ones who lost a girl to Maybank. Angel is glued to his broke ass.”

Rafe scoffs, picking his club back up and practicing his swing. “Yeah, fuck that, that was Kelce’s thing. Angel’s bad, but she’s more like the sister I wish Sarah’s annoying ass was.” 

“Sarah’s just like, young minded, she doesn’t know what she wants.”

Kelce laughs again as Rafe rolls his eyes, the two men switching spots as Rafe goes up for his turn again. “She knows, it’s just not you, man. Maybe that pogue just has better dick than you, Top…or did she ever let you fuck her?” Kelce laughs, turning his head to look up the hill at the juice bar at the edge of the course, squinting at something in the distance.

“Fuckin’ disgustin’.” Rafe huffs, swinging again, smirking as the ball goes directly into the hole, resting the club on his broad shoulder. “If you bitches weren’t so worried about chasing ass, maybe your game would be better.” The dirty blond brags, turning to see both of his friends now staring off into the distance. His jaw ticks in annoyance as he realizes that his friends had missed his impressive swing and ignored his bragging to stare at… “what the hell are you idiots looking at?”

When they don’t answer, Rafe decides to look for himself. The sight he sees is simultaneously exactly what he’s expecting and something he couldn’t have seen coming. 

Standing at the juice bar was possibly the sexiest little thing he’s seen in his 21 years of living. Sure, he’d expected to see a pretty girl. That’s just about the only thing that can get both Topper and Kelce to shut the fuck up for more than two seconds. Their eyes wide and mouths slightly agape, the two men didn’t hide their attraction at all. 

But Rafe, he was experiencing something else entirely. He’d thought she was fucking hot like they did, obviously. But this was a different kind of fine. She had to be new. There was no way that she would have evaded him by now. His cheek dimples slightly as he absently bites his lip a bit, watching the girl lean over the counter, her feet lifting slightly off of the ground, her tiny white skirt giving him a shot of the smooth skin that he couldn’t wait to get his hands on. Rafe’s eyes follow her every movement, like a predator stalking its prey. Intense blue drinking in the dark, shiny, barely shoulder length hair falls out from her hat as she lifts it from her head, smoothing her hand over it before placing her hat back on.

Come on, baby, turn around for me. Lemme see the rest of that body. Lemme see that face.

It’s as if she could hear him. Like she decided to move, position herself, just for his enjoyment, because she turns. She turns and pulls herself up onto one of the barstools with a hop, pulling her shades from her face and tucking them onto the front of her shirt. She’s far, but even with the distance, Rafe finds himself puffing out a breath of disbelief, drinking in her gorgeous features. Full, glossy lips, tinged red, big eyes and a sweet, absent expression.

Next thing Rafe knows he’s making his way up the grassy hill, ignoring the calls of his friends for him to wait up. 

“But, my parents are signing up for membership today.” 

“I’m sorry ma’am, but until you’re in the system you’ll have to pay with cash or card.”

Milan pouts and furrows her brows. She just wanted to have a quick refresher before she met up with her mother at the new house so she’d ridden over to the club with her father. She didn’t really think she’d need money. She never carries cash because she’s likely to lose it and she’d left her card in her red purse, but it didn’t match her outfit so she’d sent it ahead to the house. She could go ask her father for money, but he was in the club owner’s office talking shop and had instructed her to explore while he finished up. “But it’s hot out here.” she whines. 

Milan turns to her right and starts scanning the outdoor bar area, looking for someone who looked friendly enough to spot her until her dad came down and paid them back. She drums her manicured nails on the wood of the countertop, ignorant to the bartender rolling her eyes at the girl. 

Finally, her eye lands on a table with three guys that look fresh off of the golf course. They’re all dressed similarly and just like every other guy at the club. Polo shirt and khaki pants. Two of them wore hats. They looked like her friends from back home. But the third one, he’s the one who gives her pause. As soon as her eyes land on him his shoot over, locking on hers. She straightens her posture a bit under his gaze, offering a polite smile before doing what most normal people do when accidentally making eye contact with someone, looking away. Her bob length hair brushes her shoulder as she turns her head away, but she can’t help but feel someone was still watching her. She decides to turn her head back slowly, trying to be inconspicuous, only to find she’s right. The guy is still watching.

He wets his lip as he tilts his head. His eyes still trained on her as he uncrossed his muscular arms. A small, what seems to be a smile, rests on his lips as he drums his hands on the arms of the chair he’s sitting in, pushing out of the seat and making his way over. One of his friends making a comment about something being ‘fuckin’ unfair’.

Milan fully straightens, tucking her hands under her butt and whirling around to face the bar again as if she hadn’t just been staring back at him. She kicks her feet until she feels a presence behind her? Beside her?

She turns her head and looks up to find the same guy, caging her in, standing slightly behind her with one hand resting on the bar at her side, the other grabbing the bottom of her stool and turning her to face him fully. 

Seeing him up close she can see how cute he is. Pretty blue eyes, clear skin and pink lips. His jawline is sharp, his seemingly blond hair is buzzed short to his head, and a dimple is revealed in his cheek with his smug grin. He’s big too. Tall and muscular, his presence is all imposing, crowding her against the bar and giving her no choice but to accommodate him in her bubble. “Hey.” he says softly, his voice still a deep rumble. 

Milan finds herself mimicking his position, tilting her head to match his, placing her elbows behind her to rest on the bar leaning the same way he was. Missing his eyes dropping briefly to wear the fabric of her shirt strained against her breasts. “Hi.”

“So, you uh, you want a drink or somethin’?” he asks lowly.

“Um..” she shrugs sheepishly, lifting her shoulder in a noncommittal shrug. “I dunno.”

She does. That’s what she’s been trying to do for the last few minutes, but that was before the cute guy was towering over her, taking up her space. He furrows his brow for a second, a smile still on his face as he pushes up a little, whistling into the air, nodding his head for the bartender to come over.

The woman sees the man and immediately sweeps her hand over her hair, smoothing it out and prancing over. “Yeah, yes, hi Mr. Cameron.” She twirls the end of her ponytail, offering him a wide grin. “What can I get for you?”

“Yeah, Erica, get me and the boys some beers and, uh,” the man raises his eyebrows at Milan.

“Oh, Milan.” she smiles up at him prettily before looking back at a very annoyed Erica. “Can I have a peach refresher? Please?”

“She doesn’t have a membership account yet-” Erica starts only to pause when she realizes that the blond hadn’t glanced in her direction since calling her over.

“Then put her shit on mine. Want anything else, sweetheart?” he asks, a heavy hand resting on Milan’s lower back.

“No, I think I’m okay.” she hums, lifting her chin as the bartender rolls her eyes and strolls away. “Thank you, by the way, for covering me. My father will pay you back when he’s done with his meeting.”

The mention of her father has the man recoiling a little, retreating his hand from her with his smile dropping slightly. “Don’t uh, worry about it, aight? So, Milan, how, uh, how old are you anyway?”

Milan works an even wider eyed look on her face, perching herself on the edge of the stool and swinging her legs. “15, how old are you, Mr. Cameron?”

His eyes widen and he takes a large step back, smoothing his and over his jaw, looking away briefly before looking back at her. “No shit? I uh…I’m-”

“Cute.” Milan giggles, hitting his arm lightly, pulling back when she feels the muscles that are barely concealed by the stereotypical polo that he’s wearing. “‘M 20, Mr. Cameron.”

“Rafe.” he says firmly. Milan straightens again when she feels his imposing presence once again, the heavy hand back at her back, spreading warmth up her spine. 

“Rafe.” she repeats.

“Good.” Rafe praises. Milan shifts in her seat at his approval, furrowing her eyebrows in confusion at the feeling she gets from the praise. “You, uh, new around here, or…”

“Yeah, I’m new, just settling in.”

“Right, yeah, and uh…your family just left you all alone, that doesn’t seem fair.” He offers her a small pout that Milan fails to recognize as patronizing. “Wanna join me and the boys?”

“Sur-”

The sound of a glass slamming down on the bartop startles the girl, the splashing of her drink leading her to scoot back, bumping into Rafe’s hard chest. “Three beers and a refresher.” Erica sneers. Milan checks her outfit for juice stains while Rafe tosses a tip onto the bar, an unimpressed look on his face.

“That shit’s not cute.”

Both girls whip their heads to look up at him, a hard look of disapproval has Erica huffing and storming away after snatching the tip from the counter. As quickly as it appeared, the look is gone when Rafe refocuses his attention on the girl directly in front of him.

Milan finds herself smiling again as the man mumbles a short, ‘you’re good’ under his breath as he scans her clothes for any evidence of a spill. Just as she’s going to agree to join them she receives a text from her father. Time to go. “I’d love to, but my father is ready to leave, it’s been a long day for him, I don’t wanna keep him waiting.”

“Nah, we wouldn’t want that.” Rafe offers Milan a hand, helping her hop down from the stool and passing her the drink. “Go on, sweetheart. I’ll see you around.”

As Milan walks away perkily all she can think about is the cute guy she met at the country club. Turning back once to wave her fingers at him and being met with a crooked smile and a nod of the head she flounces off to find her dad. 

And sharp blue eyes follow her skirt the whole way.

The muscle working in Rafe’s jaw is doing overtime as he cocks his head to the side, staring blankly at the wall trying to temper the rage boiling in his stomach as Ward carries on screaming in his face. 

Apparently if he didn’t have anything better to be doing, he should have been shadowing his father today instead of golfing.

Apparently he was a dickhead for even thinking he’d be sitting at one of the seats at the end of the table because that’s where the head of the house sits and he doesn’t run shit but his mouth. 

Apparently he was a poor excuse of a man for not knowing why Sarah was late and Wheezie’s dress wasn’t perfectly ironed, because how the women in the house look and act is a reflection of him and more importantly, Ward. 

So Rafe stood there. And he ate that shit. Nodded quietly, eyes squinted, internalizing every slight, every insult, and making note.

He counted every book on the bookshelf in his father’s office until he felt his jaw being gripped and forced over to face Ward. Then, he started counting the wrinkles on his face. 

The verbal lashing didn’t end until Sarah came barreling in, her straps to her dress barely on and her hair combed for fucking once since getting with that fuckin’ bum. But Ward softens. He redirects his attention to tell his daughter she’s beautiful and thank her for coming. And then he points a warning finger in Rafe’s face before storming out of the room.

“Where the hell were you?” he asks his sister through gritted teeth. 

Sarah rolls her eyes, pushing past him. “Don’t have to answer to you, Rafe.”

It takes everything in him not to put his fist through a wall.

So, yeah, one could say he’s a little on edge. Sitting on his father’s right because the guest of honor, Mr. Cabot deserves the seat on the left, that’s where food gets served first. Rose sat on the opposite end, where the second host sits which will also place her closest to where Mrs. Cabot will likely be. Ward is at the head because where the fuck else would he be? And Rafe is in the seat on the right. The seat where the food will get served last. The seat where the youngest in the family is supposed to fuckin’ sit which anyone who has any kind of knowledge of etiquette would know. Which Rafe knows because he’s proactive and he fuckin’ learned it. Because he knows every aspect of running a household, not that Ward would acknowledge it. 

He needs a fuckin’ bump. 

Or a blunt. 

What the fuck ever the wine ain’t cuttin’ it. 

But Ward is watching him like a hawk and clearly won’t tolerate him disappearing to find some peace no matter how brief and slick he is about it. 

So instead, Rafe’s leg jumps under the table. And his fingers drum on top of it. And he works his jaw irritably.

“You need a nicotine patch or something?” Wheezie asks, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“C-could you actually shut the fuck up for one second?” 

“You’re such a jerk, Rafe, she’s a kid, Jesus.” Sarah huffs. “When’s this family supposed to be coming anyway?” 

“Asking that repetitively is not going to make them get here faster.” Rose groans, rubbing her temples. “Honey-”

“They’re here,” Ward calls, retreating from the door, snapping his fingers and pointing toward the sitting room for Rafe to get four scotches ready, and sitting in the seat in the corner of the room. “Ladies?”

“We’re going.” Wheezie whines, following behind Rose into the kitchen and carrying in the dinner that they were pretending Rose and Sarah made as Sarah goes to the foyer to wait for the bell to ring. “But this little routine we have is really sexist.”

“Don’t screw this up.” Ward sneers under his breath, as he takes his glass from Rafe.

“Dad-”

The ring of the doorbell has everyone falling into their roles. It all starts without a hitch. Sarah pulls the door open with a bright smile and sickeningly sweet greeting. Rafe tries to tune in to the fake conversation his father started with him when they heard the footsteps in their home multiply. 

“Oh! I’m a mess, nice to meet you, I’m Rose, please come in. Sweetheart, why don’t you go with Sarah and Louisa while I show your father to the sitting room. Then us girls can really get to know each other.” Rose plays her part easily, her heels clacking against the floor, the sound getting closer as she chatters away to what should only be the couple and their son now that she’s dumped the girl off with Sarah. “Your daughter is just beautiful, really, you’re going to have to watch her on this island.”

She says that to everyone. 9/10 it's a lie. 

“Your daughters are gorgeous too. You must have your hands full.”

Sounds like Mrs. Cabot knows the game too, usually people don’t get a word in while Rose is running her lines.

“We keep our eyes peeled, but our girls just aren’t doing the dating scene yet.” No, Sarah’s too busy laying on her back for dirty pogues to date someone worth mentioning. A little money doesn’t change status. “Ward, darling, our guests are here.”

And that’s our cue. 

Like they’ve done many times before the two men stand, Rafe watches his father’s movements carefully, making sure to always stand tall, and one step behind him. Ward takes 2 steps, Rafe takes 1. 

The man entering the room behind Rose was tall. Only a little shorter than Rafe. Broad and appearing stern. He guides his wife in by her waist and Rafe quickly looks away from the older woman. She’s attractive, and if it was him, the last thing Rafe would want is his potential business partner’s son eyeing down his wife. The man holds out his large hand to Ward first, the two of them shaking firmly. “Gregory Cabot.” 

“Ward Cameron, good to meet you.” Ward gestures behind him for Rafe to enter stage left. “And this is my son…”

“Rafe, uh Rafe Cameron, nice to meet you, sir. Ma’am.” he says, shaking Gregory’s hand and squeezing the appropriate amount. A craft he’d perfected during the early days of doing these. 

“Good shake son.”

The comment has Rafe standing at his full height, biting back an accomplished smirk as his dad glances back at him with a look of approval. 

“Handsome young man, too.” the older woman hums. 

“Thank you, ma’am.” Rafe offers her a polite smile to appease his father. 

It’s all a part of the game. This little back and forth. It breaks the ice, and Rafe is the sacrificial lamb for it everytime. Gregory would say:

“Don’t be tryin’ to seal my wife there, boy.”

Pause for laughter. 

Then Rafe would say something like, “if I was a couple years older I might give you some competition, sir.”

To which everyone would laugh and Ward would swat him with strength that varies depending on how the interaction goes. 

Rafe has this little dance down to a science. 

It was going well. Really, it was exactly how it should be, and going quickly too. Rafe was desperate to get this part over with so they could handle business, make some money, and he could celebrate by going to a party he’d heard about earlier. 

But then she came in. And suddenly this was something entirely new.

“Dad, I’m gonna go to a party with Sarah after dinner. Can I have some money?” 

There she is. Her shapely body draped in a silky green dress with pretty pink roses, her manicured fingers already outstretched toward her father. Glossed, rose petal lips pursed as she waits for the bills to be placed in her hand. 

Milan. Rafe forces his eyes away from her, feeling two warring feelings flood his body as he wills himself to keep his eyes on her father instead.

“Without Milo?” Gregory asks. 

Milan rolls her eyes to the ceiling, huffing and crossing her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts upward and causing Rafe to work his jaw lightly. “‘M grown, Dad.”

Ward would never tolerate that tone…neither would I.

“We’re in a new place, your brother’s away on business-” Rafe can immediately feel his father’s eyes burning holes into the side of his head. 

Milan’s eyes slide shut as she takes a deep breath, retracting fully and turning to leave the room. She was so caught up she didn’t even notice Rafe. It aggravated him. Spoiled. She’s spoiled. 

I can fix that. 

Eventually they get dinner started and it’s like the interaction hadn’t happened. Milan sat through the dinner and acted her role accordingly. She introduced herself to his father, which clearly had impressed Ward. She made her obligatory conversation points, but mostly chatted with the other women at the table. When Rafe pulled out her chair, she smiled at him prettily but aside from that, gave him no indication that she recognized him from earlier. 

Rafe tries to focus on talking shop with his dad and Gregory, but his eyes keep wandering back to Milan’s mouth on her spoon and the little hums that leave her mouth. 

The damn ice cream ain’t that fuckin’ good.

“Uh, yeah, I’ve been trackin’ the macro model for crude oil and uh, I, I’d wanna know more.”

“That’s great son, yeah, it takes time, but it seems like you're on track, maybe I could put you in contact with one of my buddies that does the numbers for me, then you can run them with your dad and I.” 

Rafe’s on fuckin’ fire. He’s killin’ this shit, and he’ll be deep in those Cabot pockets in no time. But all he could think about is the man’s pretty little princess perched on her chair a couple seats down, pouting as Sarah raves about how fun this party is going to be to Milan and Wheezie.

None of my fuckin’ business. 

“Sounds really cool, Sarah.” the girl smiles behind the metal spoon, sighing wistfully. 

Don’t do this shit man, Ward’s gonna kill you.

Her final sigh and last scoop of vanilla ice cream being spooned into her mouth through plump glossy lips is what does it.

Fuckin’ weak, Cameron. Over some pussy?

“Uh, Gregory, I’m goin’ to this party too. I’m takin’ Sarah, there’s no reason why I can’t keep an eye out for Milan too.” 

If looks could fuckin’ kill. 

Ward is staring Rafe down with a look that would have a weaker man retracting his offer immediately, but the bright smile that plastered across Milan’s face made Rafe stand his ground. 

Gregory is simply pensive. His eyes flick between his daughter and the Cameron siblings. “How old did you say you were again?”

“21, sir.” 

Gregory’s brows furrow as he looks Rafe over again, before turning to Ward. “Reminds me of my boy. Protective over his sister and her friends. Good stuff, Cameron.” He turns back to Rafe with a menacing look on his face. “Back like I sent her, Rafe.” 

“Of course, Gregory.” 

The older man couldn’t have known what he just allowed.

“Fuck, Sarah, how long does it take?”

“I didn’t even want to ride with you, Rafe, John B. could’ve picked up me and Milan-”

“Yeah, well, her dad put me in charge of her safety, Sarah, and actually, Dad put me in charge of yours, so-”

“Oh my God, don’t act like…like you’re doing some noble thing, okay? I know why you offered to take us, cause you leave me all the time-” 

“You don’t know shit, alright, Sarah?” Rafe groans, backing out of his spot and turning out of their street.

“I know plenty, and I know you’re tryin’ to fuck Milan.”

“So what?”

“So what?” Sarah tosses her hair angrily, shifting in the passenger seat. “So, you’re fucking nuts, and she’s actually a nice girl. So, Dad’s doing business with her dad, that’s so what, Rafe.”

“I like, genuinely don’t need you telling me shit about shit Sarah, like for real.” 

“I really hope her brother is fucking huge, so he can kick your ass.”

Rafe snorts, slowing the car down a little and turning down the music as he pulls into the Cabot’s neighborhood. “Yeah, maybe right? Cause God knows your little pogue bitches have tried and failed.”

“You’re an asshole.”

“Yeah, love you too, sis.” Rafe looks at the large house found at the address that Gregory had given him and unbuckles his seatbelt. “Get in the back seat.”

“Are you serious-”

“Back seat, Sarah, Jesus!” He huffs, slamming the car door and making his way up the walkway, stopping on the freshly laid cobblestone when the heavy, double wooden doors swing open. 

“Bye, Dad, I’ll see you later!” 

If Rafe had thought the dress Milan had on earlier was something, this skimpy number she trots out in would test any man. The girl absently twirls in her outfit. It’s a white two piece set consisting of a long, see-through skirt, barely hiding her white bikini bottoms and matching cropped top. His eyes trail along the dips in her waist, catching on the dimples on her back before finding the matching ones on her cheeks. All he could think is how perfectly his thumbs would fit in both sets of dimples. “Hi, Rafe.” 

He tilts his head back, openly staring down at her appreciatively. “Don’t you look cute.” 

With the shy smile that overtakes her face he all but expects the girl to melt under his gaze. Rafe is pleasantly surprised when she lifts her shoulder before brushing past him to make her way toward the car. “Thank you, I know.”

He chuckles to himself as the heels of her sandals clack on the cobblestone and stop just before the passenger door. Milan purses her lips without even considering touching the handle, rocking on her feet and swinging her purse absently as she waits patiently for him to come open it, just smiling when Sarah calls from inside the vehicle, ‘it’s unlocked.’

Rafe doesn’t know what moves him. Normally, he left girls to hoist themselves into his car as he hopped in himself on the driver’s side. But he could tell, this girl didn’t even conceive that she should be the one to open the door. No, she expected him to help. To care of it. And used her pretty little grin as his payment once he gets the picture and pulls the door open and offers her his hand to settle her into the seat. “You uh, you comfortable?”

She’d already pulled down the mirror and was reapplying the lipgloss Rafe was determined to taste, humming absently to herself. “Hm? Oh, yeah.” 

Not a thought behind those pretty eyes, huh?

I like that.

Milan watches out of the window as they pass by trees and grassy nooks. String lights twinkling as they ride by, people selling produce on the side of the road. The salty smell of water in the air through the open window. She could see Sarah in the backseat, smiling to herself as she texted on her phone. Milan’s own phone lights up as she receives the girl’s message. The two of them had really gotten along when they met at dinner earlier. She wasn’t expecting the blonde girl to be so kind and welcoming. The entire family had been really kind. Wheezie was a cute kid and Rose seemed like every other tired housewife in their world. A little fake, but ultimately harmless. Ward seemed strict like her dad. He seemed to grit his teeth angrily at almost everything his family said, only to offer a wide smile when her own dad seemed pleased, or at the least unbothered. 

And Rafe. Rafe was…cute. Hot, he’s hot. He’s handsome and tall, and can talk to her dad about all that business shit she didn’t give a shit to try and understand. And he’s attracted to her. Milan can tell. His eyes were shooting between their fathers and her the whole dinner. She felt the intensity of them even as she reapplied her lip gloss, as she chatted with his sister, when she’d taken a selfie as she leaned against the headrest, posing both for the camera and him. 

But for some reason he’s wound so tight. As hot as it is, it can’t be healthy how frequently that muscle in his jaw jumps, keeping in rhythm with the bounce of his leg and the drumming on his fingers. Milan’s eyes flick across his movements and her lips part as she considers asking him if he was okay. Her voice catches in her throat when sharp, blue lands on deep brown and his brows raise as if he were asking a sarcastic ‘yes?’ When she shrugs lightly, smiling in return, he sends her a smirk before turning his gaze back to the road, peeling off at the light and turning up the music playing on the speaker to drown out his sister’s chatting. 

Milan blinks at the heat she feels on her face and refocuses on her phone, opening her messages from Sarah. 

Sorry about my brother. He’s a dick. When we get to the party you can hang with me. :)

The party was apparently at some house on the beach. Young adults were filling the walls of the building, spilling out onto the sand and grass. The music booms in the night air, and the smells of salt and weed fills their lungs.

Sarah pulls Milan along, their arms looped together as she guides her away from Rafe as quickly as possible. The man is clearly disinterested in following, offering Milan a brush on the shoulder before stalking off toward the back of the house, calls of his name in greeting following his arrival. 

“Oh okay, yeah, my friends are in the kitchen, c’mon.” Sarah tugs her the rest of the way, leading Milan to the dark kitchen over to a crowd of people. She recognizes one of the guys as the guy on Sarah’s phone. John B. she said his name was. Apparently, normally, Sarah stays with him at his house but Ward had asked her to come around today to meet with Milan’s family, and she did it because they were trying to ‘rebuild their family’. “Hi.”

John B. turns to her immediately, a grin spreading on his face as he pulls Sarah to him, effectively separating her and Milan. “Hi, baby.”

His loud blond friend with his arms draped around a pretty girl with brown skin peaks his head out from behind them, pausing mid story, and drunkenly causing his girl to stumble with him. The girl follows his gaze and offers her a kind smile, pushing the blond by his face, laughing at whatever he’s mumbling in her ear. “Hi,” she calls over the music. “I’m Angel. This drunk dumbass is JJ.” She huffs, as he gives Milan a wide grin and nod before guiding Angel’s face back to his.

The tall guy next to him is flanked by a shorter light skinned girl and a girl pouring shots, laughing with Sarah, calling her a lightweight with a thick accent. “Cleo. You want one?”

“Yeah, I’ll take a shot.” Milan shrugs. Her eyes squeeze shut as the liquid slides down her throat, burning it and her mouth. She shakes her head, before letting the warm feeling spread in her belly. A hand on her elbow grabs her attention and has her looking over her shoulder. 

“Come dance with me.” 

It’s some random guy, already tugging her toward the crowd of moving bodies, not waiting for her reply. “Oh, no thanks.” Milan plants her feet, stumbling a little against his pulling. 

“C’mon, you don’t like to dance?”

“No, I just don’t want to dance with you.” Milan chirps, glancing down at her nails to make sure he hadn’t made her accidentally knock a gem off. She watches as the guy’s face shifts from shock to a deep frown. He roughly releases her arm and storms off. She takes a couple steps back to where Sarah and her group are standing, seeing all of the couples wrapped into each other. The light skinned girl reaches her hand across the island counter to get her attention.

“You good? I was about to make my way over. The guys on this island are entitled assholes.” 

“Yeah, that’s guys everywhere. It’s never the cute ones that come to you, huh?”

“Nah, it’s generally the creeps and losers who feel bold.” The girl laughs. “I’m Kie, Kiara.” 

“Milan. Do you feel like dancing?” 

Kiara shrugs, mumbling a ‘why not’ glancing back at her own friends before taking Milan’s hand and leading her toward the sea of people dancing. Milan twirls Kie as they step onto the makeshift dance floor smiling as they begin dancing together. The two girls take turns spinning each other, holding each other’s hips and guiding their dance. Milan can feel several pairs of eyes on them as they rock against each other, the base of the drum in her ears and chest. But her eyes only searched for one set in particular. She allows Kiara to turn her and flips her hair out of her face. And then they are. Steely blue. 

Rafe blows smoke from his nose before licking his thumb, flicking through the stack of cash Kelce had just shoved into his hand. “Aight.” He nods, reaching his jacket pocket and producing a small bag of coke. He’d been giving Sarah and Milan space. For one, because he genuinely does not give a fuck what his hoe ass sister does. If she doesn’t give a fuck about the Cameron name then she could take that dirty pogue’s. On Milan’s end, Rafe was exercising self-restraint. He knows that now that they’re away from their families it wouldn’t take long for him to crack. She’d looked fucking gorgeous earlier that day, and even more so at dinner. Now that they were at a party, and he could take a fuckin’ second to breathe outside of Ward’s scrutiny…he’d break eventually. He was relying Sarah to keep her busy and away from him so he didn’t end up fucking her and fucking up the deal their fathers were trying to work out. 

“What the fuck? That’s it?”

Rafe’s brows furrow as he looks at his friend. “Yeah, you fuckin’ druggy, told you I needed to go see my supplier. Your fiend ass didn’t wanna fuckin’ wait, so take it.” 

“Shit.” Kelce scratches his head, scooping out some of the white powder and leaning forward on the couch to line it up on the coffee table. “Hey, that’s the girl from before right? At the club?”

Rafe looks up to find Milan across from him in the other room. He watches as she twirls and rolls her hips against Kiara’s. Her shiny dark hair bouncing from shoulder to shoulder and her pretty lips mouth along to the song that’s blasting throughout the house. He runs his thumb over his bottom lip as he watches her movements, completely unaware of the group of girls trying to flirt with him and offer him a bump on the couch next to him.

When they lock eyes her smile grows even brighter and his own becomes wolfish. Her movements become even more daring, she dips low, arching her back before coming back up quickly, flipping her hair and rolling her full body. Her hands cover Kiara’s on her hips as she puts on a show for him.  

Rafe chuckles darkly under his breath as he drinks her in, sitting back against the couch comfortably as if he’d paid for this little performance.

It all ends too quickly.

The song changes and Kiara leans into Milan’s ear, murmuring something and making a smoke motion before heading toward the sliding door in the kitchen. The girl is gone for like a few fucking seconds before the fuckin’ loser bastards that had been lurking around them pounce on Milan. Crowding her, trying to usher her into a dance. 

She pushes up onto her tiptoes, looking over some guy’s shoulder to regain eye contact with Rafe, an offer in her eyes as she motions him over with her finger. 

Shaking his head and smirking, Rafe pats his knee, challenging her. He cocks his head slightly to the side when she gently shakes her own head, and gestures for him to come to her with a single finger.

“Rafeeee, you got anymore?” A whiny voice calls to him. 

Right. He was supposed to be moving weight. Damn girl is distracting him. “Uh, yeah, I’m low right now, so I’ve only got baggies, aight?” 

“That’s fine,” the girl says flirtily. He rolls his eyes as he feels her hand on his knee. “You have discounts for pretty girls?”

His eyes drag back over to Milan and his jaw immediately clenches. She’s still facing him, but this time she had someone decidedly less acceptable in Rafe’s eyes clutching her. He watches as some prick who he used to play league basketball with when they were fuckhead teenagers basically nutting on Milan’s back. Rafe’s lip curls as he watches the girl dance for this guy. He couldn’t even think of his fucking name. Milan catches his eyes again, looking at him through her pretty lashes, shrugging absently. Seemingly completely unbothered by the goddamn loser basically humping her like a dog. Rafe feels his head swim dangerously and his stomach turn as he watches weak hands trail along her perfect body. Her brow quirks at him once before she turns in the guys arms, turning her back on Rafe. 

“Rafe?” The girl to his side looks at him questioningly, briefly trying to follow his gaze with her drug-addled brain, giving up and leaning on him again. 

“Uh, right, I’ll give it up for $200.” 

The girl’s eyes widen as she looks back at her friends who gesture for her to try again. She smiles at Rafe and tilts her head toward him. “Um, how much if we can hang out a little upstairs after?” 

“Oh shit.” Kelce chuckles, sniffing and wiping his nose. 

Rafe rolls his eyes. He’s so used to girls offering to sleep with him or suck his dick for drugs. Usually they at least ask him to give it to them for free, this girl was gonna fuck him for a discount. He rarely takes advantage of it, on doing it if he was trying to hit anyway. Really, he doesn’t have to exchange free drugs for getting his dick wet. Fuckin’ look at him.  

Right now, he wasn’t really in the mood for random pussy. Not when he literally can’t fucking see Milan in his line of sight anymore. And that fucking idiot that was grinding his dick on her was fucking gone too. He needed to look for her ASAP. “You got the $200 or what?”

The girl huffs and digs in her purse, dropping the money in his extended hand and snatching the bag off the table, grumbling ‘asshole’ under her breath as she and her friends stumble outside. 

As soon as Rafe pockets money he goes to shoot off of the couch to hunt Milan down, only to be stopped before he can fully stand. 

“Is that cocaine?” 

Milan’s sweet voice puts him on red alert. Rafe settles back into his seat and looks at her. She’s staring down at the table worriedly, wrapping her arms around herself as she stands in the doorway. “Was that guy a friend of yours?”

“You didn’t wanna dance.” she pouts.

“Okay?”

“And I wanted to dance.”

Brat. “So you, uh, just dance with some random dick instead?” He asks, giving her a disappointed look and relishing in the way she shifts under his gaze. 

Interestingly enough, even with his glare, she doesn’t back down, pursing her own lips and sitting on the arm of the couch. “Jeez, you’re strict, I feel bad for Sarah. Is that cocaine?”

“Yeah, I just provide a little party favor for my friends here and there. What, you want a bump?” He starts to test her limits, resting a large, warm hand on her thigh, feeling her through the thin fabric of her skirt. Careful not to move and startle her. 

“I don’t do coke. D’you?” 

It’s her wide-eyed look. The dimpled frown as she glances back down to the white substance on the table. She gives herself away to him easily. Milan is a good girl. She’s just a good girl who knows she’s pretty. That’s what the whole dance was about. She was being cute. That’s what she does. But she’s not really about shit. Daddy’s girl with a protective older brother. Two dragons guarding their little princess. Never had anyone tell her no and mean it. If Rafe used the logic in his brain, he would know, he’s too much. What he expects of the girls he hooks up with. God forbid dates. He’d turn this pretty little thing out. He should be nice, and leave her alone. 

But Rafe isn’t a nice guy. Not really.

“‘Course not, can’t get high on my own supply.” He smoothes a thumb over her knee. “Don’t worry, Princess, it can’t jump off the table and get you.”

Kelce snorts and Milan’s brows furrow. Rafe whips his head around to his friend, nudging him sharply and sending him a silent message. “Oh, uh, I’m gonna get another drink. I’ll be back.” Rafe sends him another look. “Or I won’t.”

As soon as Kelce gets up, Rafe scoots over on the couch, holding one of Milan’s hands and guiding her onto it with him. “That was one of your friends from earlier right? At the country club?” 

“Yeah, Kelce, he’s a fuckin’ idiot.” He says absently, reaching over and grabbing the blunt he’d abandoned when he’d started dealing, re-lighting it. “You don’t smoke weed either, huh?”

Milan shrugs, scooting closer. “I just don’t know how to do it by myself.” 

God she’s just fuckin’ perfect isn’t she? Rafe hangs his head, letting out an exasperated laugh. It’s like she was sent as a test. She’s already bad as shit, she’s just sitting here, damn near in his lap with her big fuck-me eyes and wide-open personality. She knows she’s sexy and that’s just about it. But her dad let her go because he was supposed to be responsible. That’s big money on the table, and Ward would fuckin’ kill him if he was distracted by the opportunity to hit on the literal oil baron’s daughter. “Figures, pretty thing like you can’t do anything by herself. What, you need me to light it for you?”

“I’ve only ever had someone shotgun it for me.” She says.

Rafe’s hand is at the back of her head, fist in her hair before he can even realize what he’s doing. He pulls her close, tugging her against him and halting right before she hits his lips. He brings the blunt to his own lips, inhaling the smoke before leaning even closer, drunk on the way she’s looking at him. “Yeah?”

When she gasps out a breath, offering him a little nod, already puckering her plump, lips for him.

Fuck it. Rafe thinks. 

He could be a responsible man for his dad tomorrow.

[the-name-is-z]

SKELETONS | ch. 41

daryl dixon x f!oc

masterlist

a03 link

Summary: Iris, Daryl and Beth continue on their journey, slowly finding ways to agree with one another. Iris and Beth quickly find a way to entertain themselves. Warnings/Information: AMC's The Walking Dead OC Insert | 18+ Advised | strangers to lovers; the slowest of slow burns; gore; angst; horror; humour; m/f; arguments; discussions of drinking; drinking moonshine (homemade fermented alcohol, potentially dangerous); excessive strain on mental health (could be said about the whole series, but it feels relevant here as I'm looking for warnings to tag)

Chapter 41 - Bonding

They broke through another tree line and found themselves on a golfing green, a beige golf cart overturned in the middle. A small country club house sat waiting just down the fairway, taunting them with its four walls and the beckoning temptation of alcohol. 

“Golfers like to booze it up, right?” Beth asked. Iris raised an eyebrow. Stale pretentious golf beer? Ugh… Daryl didn’t answer, his gaze glued across the green to the six walkers headed their way.

“We’ll find out.” Iris replied. They trudged across the overgrown fairway to the country club house, the sign out front reading Pine Vista. They stopped at the landing outside the front door, a walker leaning against the railing. It looked almost like a halloween decoration, but the smell indicated otherwise.

“Might be people inside.” Beth murmured. Iris nodded. They walked up the steps, Daryl stooping to frisk the walker for anything useful while Beth yanked on the doors. The windowpanes rattled loudly as she did, newspaper preventing them from seeing through to any walkers or survivors that might be there. It seemed empty enough. Iris looked back, frowning at the walkers that chased them ever so slowly across the fairway. There were about twelve now. 

“Let’s see if theres a back door.” Iris suggested. They strolled around the side of the building, finding a second set of doors almost hidden by the overgrown shrubbery. Daryl grabbed a stray golf club that had been abandoned on the walkway, intending to use it as a crowbar. He put a finger to his lips as he tested the door. It was open and unlocked.

“Come on.” He whispered as the snarls of walkers drew nearer. They ducked inside, the house appearing like some survivors had already stayed there at some point. Newspapers, sheets and strips of fabric covered all windows, sleeping bags and survival supplies intermingled with the old luxury furniture that must have been there originally. There were stacks of furniture piled in front of a few doors, and a few bodies in the corner. They didn’t move.

As they went in further, Iris realized the place was a damn pig sty. There was shit everywhere, just stuff. Things. And a soft snarl rang out, drawing their gaze to three walkers, hanging from two ropes around their necks. Iris cringed at the state of things. This was not a nice place to be. More bodies, bloodstains. They were lucky there weren’t more walkers. Daryl knelt to the ground, picking up a woman’s backpack, jewelry, pearls and cash strewn around it on the floor. He gathered it, stuffing the bag full.

“What are you doing?” Iris asked, frowning. He looked up, opening his mouth only to be interrupted by the walkers from before catching up to them. They slammed into the door from outside, the golf club the only thing keeping them from being cannibalized by the undead. Daryl shrugged the backpack on and they hurried through a pair of doors at the end of the room into a hallway. 

They continued onward into what seemed to be the kitchen, industrial equipment and old food materials strewn about. Beth got out her flashlight and her knife, beginning her hunt for booze while Daryl and Iris peered around for any nonperishable foods. It was mostly garbage. Pans clanged softly from the other room, followed by a ghoulish grunt and a small shriek from Beth. Iris ran over, hauling the walker off of her before putting an end to it. She held a tall green bottle in her hand, which she smashed over the head of a second walker, using the sharp end of the glass to stab into its face. Iris lamented over the wasted wine, finishing the walker off quickly.

“Thanks for the help.” Beth murmured, breathing heavily. Iris hummed in response, heading down a flight of spiral stairs going into the basement. There was broken glass all over the place, a toppled trophy case blocking their path. They clambered underneath, Daryl taking the time to right a fallen grandfather clock. They emerged into a gift shop, polo shirts and khaki shorts galore. Daryl stuffed his pockets full of matchbooks while the girls perused the available clothing. Iris would always take what she could get, but she definitely drew the line at frilly pink cardigans. Beth helped herself. 

Iris meandered over to Daryl, pausing to admire the disemboweled and cut-in-half torso of a random woman. She was stripped down to her bra, gold jewelry dripping off of her. One of her earrings had been ripped off and used to tack a piece of paper to her sternum, reading Rich Bitch. Daryl pulled a cinnamon stick out of his pocket, stolen from the kitchen upstairs, turning to look at it too. Beth came to see what they were staring at, now wearing a yellow button down and white cardigan.

“Help me take her down.” Beth muttered, trying to cover the walker up with its sweater. 

“It don’t matter. She’s dead.” Daryl grunted. Beth scowled at him.

“It does matter.” She insisted. He huffed, ripping a blanket from the wall of souvenirs and wrapping it around the walker, covering her face. That seemed to satisfy Beth enough that they could keep moving. Back into the hallway, past the clock. It chose that time precisely to gong loudly, chiming three o’clock. Iris grunted, Daryl motioning for them to leave it. Which would have been appropriate, had the loud noise not called walkers from every room in the basement toward them.

They rushed through the hallway, finding themselves in a large open room with wood-panelled lockers. With the open space, Daryl and Iris turned, facing the walkers as they came, two on seven. With one left, Daryl moved forward, picking up a golf club and beating the ever living shit out of the walker until it collapsed. 

Even on the floor, half groaning, Daryl continued to whack at him. He wasn’t aiming for the head, grunting as the blood began to spatter all over him. Iris let him take his anger out on the thing. After a week of wandering through the woods, he was entitled to show a little fury. Beth came forward to get him to stop, but with one final swing to the head, Daryl lobbed the insides of its brain directly into her path, blood and gore splashing all over her new shirt. He said nothing, panting as she unbuttoned the cardigan and left it on the floor with a scowl.

They moved onward, turning one final corner before reaching a large ornate, a stained-glass window illuminating the long bar top. Scattered tables and chairs, a pool table. Fanciest bar Iris had ever seen. The room was littered with bottles and broken glasses, but there was bound to be something left. After all that.

“We made it.” Beth said gleefully, setting down her bag before turning to Iris and Daryl. “I know you think this is stupid. And it probably is. But I don’t care. All I wanted to do today was lay down and cry, but we don’t get to do that. So beat up on walkers if that makes you feel better. I need to do this.”

She turned into the room and Iris watched as she climbed behind the counter, searching for something. Daryl found himself a table, pulling a metal bowl out from somewhere, and using the butt of his crossbow to smash a frame on the wall.

“Did you have to break the glass?” Beth asked, annoyed. 

“No. Did you have your drink yet?” Daryl retorted, pulling the paper from the frame and folding it.

“No. But I found this. Peach schnapps.” Beth replied, putting a bottle on the countertop and finding herself a clean barstool. “Is it good?” She asked. Iris snorted loudly, covering her mouth.

“Sorry.” She said, pressing her lips together to try not to laugh. Peach schnapps? 

“No.” Daryl said flatly. Beth’s nostrils flared in frustration, watching him wander over to the pool table and test the weight of the balls in his hand before moving to the dartboard and taking the darts. 

“Well it’s the only thing left.” She snapped. Iris went over, putting a hand on her shoulder.

“Sorry, kiddo.” Iris said, smiling softly. She found a clean-ish teacup, wiping it out with a rag before handing it over. 

“Who needs a glass?” Beth murmured, grabbing the bottle by the neck. Iris chuckled lightly. Daryl ignored both of them, throwing the darts into a large picture frame. Each dart perfectly found the faces of the country club’s founders, making Iris roll her eyes. 

Beth sat still for a moment, holding the bottle as her face contorted. She began to cry softly before burying her face in Iris’ shoulder. Iris pat her back, letting her cry. She understood. Daryl stormed over, grabbing the bottle and throwing it at the wall, the glass shattering as the liquid dripped to the ground.

“Ain't gonna have your first drink be no damned peach schnapps.” Daryl grunted. Beth sniffled, looking up at the remains of her plan. Iris smiled softly, rubbing her back.

“C’mon, kid. Let’s find you some whiskey or something.” Iris said quietly, wiggling her eyebrows. Beth huffed a laugh, shaking her head as she wiped her tears. 

“Come on.” Daryl called, jerking his chin at the open back door. Iris kept the tone lighter as they moved back into the woods, chatting idly with Beth about whatever kept their minds off of things. The topic of conversation eventually drifted to boys. 

“So have you ever had a boyfriend?” Beth asked. Iris chuckled.

“Yeah. Never any good ones, though. And I never brought any home to my dad. He was dangerous even when he didn’t have a weapon on hand.” She replied. She looked down at Beth, who walked with her hands idly in her pockets. “Was Jimmy your first?”

“Second.” Beth corrected, humming. She smiled to herself. “He and Zach were complete opposites.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen.” Iris laughed. “You think you want one thing, and then decide on a dime that you want something different. My last boyfriend, well… honestly, he was a lot like Shane.” Beth sputtered, her eyes wide. Iris didn’t miss the casual glance Daryl snuck over his shoulder either. 

“Shane? Like, that Shane?” Beth asked.

“Yep.” Iris whistled. “Real militant, hardcore, good boy. We broke up after he called me ‘mom’ once. It was after we’d been kissing. A lot.”

“Ugh.” Beth replied, scrunching her nose. “Gross.”

“I’ll say.” Iris laughed again. 

“I never really saw anything happening with Zach.” Beth mused. 

“Oh?”

“He was really into his car. Too much.” Beth explained. Iris chuckled.

“Well, we crashed it somewhere on the highway, so…” Daryl trailed off, Beth giggling. 

“He was a good kid.” Iris said, somewhat sadly. Beth nodded, pondering.

“I have a guess.” She stated. “Motorcycle mechanic.”

“Huh?” Daryl asked.

“That’s my guess. For what you were doing before the turn. Did Zach ever guess that one?” Beth asked.

“Nope. But that was my gig, not his.” Iris replied with a grin.

“It don’t matter.” Daryl grunted. “Hasn’t mattered for a long time.”

“It’s just what people talk about.” Beth sighed. “You know, to feel normal.”

“Yeah, well, that never felt normal to me.” He grumbled. They pulled out of the forest, Daryl leading them up a small dirt path to a cabin. “Found this place with Michonne.”

“I was expecting a liquor store.” Beth stated, making a face.

“No, this is better.” Daryl replied, jogging up to the cabin. They walked around to the back, Daryl peering in the windows before opening the door to a shed. He pulled out a crate, loading it with various bottles and jars of clear liquid. Iris blanched, feeling her stomach turn in anticipation. 

“What’s that?” Beth asked.

“Moonshine.” Daryl answered, handing her the crate. He led them into the house, checking the bedroom briefly before clearing off the table. He found Beth a glass, cracking open one of the jars and pouring out two fingers’ worth. “Now that’s a real first drink right there.” Beth paused, staring down at it. “What’s the matter?”

“Nothing…” She started, huffing. “It’s just… my dad always said bad moonshine can make you go blind.”

“Ain’t nothing worth seeing out there anymore anyway.” Daryl grunted. Iris rolled her eyes, putting her hand on Beth’s shoulder.

“You’ll be fine. That’s mostly prohibition bullshit but folks that live out here usually know how to do it right.” She assured, offering a wink. Beth huffed, picking up the glass and taking a tentative sip. Her face twisted up in disgust, putting the glass back down.

“That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever tasted.” She murmured.

“Should be. It’s like drinking peroxide.” Iris grumbled, taking a whiff of the jar and recoiling. Beth went back in for more, finishing the glass.

“Second round’s better.” She stated, reaching for the jar. 

“Slow down.” Daryl advised.

“These ones are for you two.” She declared, pouring out two more glasses.

“I’m good.” Daryl shook his head.

“Why not?” Beth asked, frowning.

“Someone’s gotta keep watch.” He answered. She scoffed.

“So, what? You’re like my chaperones now?”

“Just drink lots of water.” He grunted, walking past them both.

“Yes, Mr. Dixon.” Beth replied in a sing-song voice, mocking him. Iris said nothing, taking a small sip from her glass. Ugh. Beth was right. It was disgusting.

They relaxed into it as Daryl began walker-proofing the house, Beth moving over to the couch and looting through the pile of things belonging to whoever lived there. Iris plopped herself down on the couch, sighing. Beth snorted, pulling something out from behind the sofa.

“Who’d walk into a store and come out with this?” She asked. Iris opened one eye to see a hot pink ceramic pot holder, shaped like a bra. The plant inside was long dead, the rest of the pot filled entirely with cigarette butts. Daryl looked over his shoulder from the window.

“My dad, that’s who.” He replied. Iris snickered, shaking her head. “Oh, he was a dumbass. Used to set those up on top of the TV set, use them as target practice.”

“He shot things inside your house?” Beth asked, wide-eyed.

“It was just a bunch of junk anyways.” He shrugged. “That’s how I knew what this place was. That shed out there? My dad had a place just like this. That’s your dumpster chair. That’s for sitting in your drawers all summer, drinking.” He said, pointing to the chair across the room filled with junk. “Got your fancy buckets for spitting chaw in after your old lady tells you to stop smoking. You got your internet.” He held up a newspaper. Iris grinned, rolling her eyes. A walker snarled from outside and Daryl peered through the window. “Just one of ‘em.”

“Should we get it?” Beth asked.

“If he keeps making too much noise, yeah.” Daryl nodded.

“Well, if we’re gonna be trapped again, we might as well make the best of it.” Beth decided, grabbing another jar of moonshine. She held it out toward him. “Unless you’re too busy chaperoning, Mr. Dixon.”

“Hell. Might as well make the best of it.” He echoed, grabbing the jar. Iris smirked as he plunked down on the sofa beside her, crossing his legs. “Home sweet home.” He murmured, saluting the jar before taking a swig.

-

TAGLIST:

@heidiland05

@ryoujoking

@catlalice

@maxinehufflepuffprincess

@lowkeyhottho

@fadingpalacebonkpsychic

[ivan-fyodorovich-k]

In the summer of 2015, back when he was still talking to traitorous reporters like me, I spent extended stretches with Donald Trump. He was in the early phase of his first campaign for president, though he had quickly made himself the inescapable figure of that race—as he would in pretty much every Republican contest since. We would hop around his various clubs, buildings, holding rooms, limos, planes, golf carts, and mob scenes, Trump disgorging his usual bluster, slander, flattery, and obvious lies. The diatribes were exhausting and disjointed. But I was struck by one theme that Trump kept pounding on over and over: that he was used to dealing with “brutal, vicious killers”—by which he meant his fellow ruthless operators in showbiz, real estate, casinos, and other big-boy industries. In contrast, he told me, politicians are saps and weaklings. “I will roll over them,” he boasted, referring to the flaccid field of Republican challengers he was about to debate at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library that September. They were “puppets,” “not strong people.” He welcomed their contempt, he told me, because that would make his turning them into supplicants all the more humiliating. “They might speak badly about me now, but they won’t later,” Trump said. They like to say they are “public servants,” he added, his voice dripping with derision at the word servant. But they would eventually submit to him and fear him. They would “evolve,” as they say in politics. “It will be very easy; I can make them evolve,” Trump told me. “They will evolve.” Like most people who’d been around politics for a while, I was dubious. And wrong. They evolved. “I’ve never seen anything like it,” Trump told me the following spring, as he was completing his romp to the 2016 nomination. We were talking on the phone, and Trump had just wrapped up a rally in Anaheim, California. Former Texas Governor Rick Perry had recently endorsed him, despite dismissing Trump earlier as a “cancer on conservatism” and “a barking carnival act.” “He made a statement saying something like I’m ‘the smartest guy ever to run for office,’ ” Trump told me (Perry didn’t say exactly that, but close). “How do you get from ‘cancer on the party’ to that? I get it, I get it; it’s how politicians are. But I couldn’t do that.” Trump accepted Perry’s support, and then promptly taunted him. “He was going [around] saying the worst things about me!” Trump said at the Anaheim rally. “I have never seen people able to pivot like politicians.” “It’s happening with all of them,” Trump said. “Lindsey Graham just called and was very nice … even though he used to say the worst things.” (Graham had called Trump, among other not-nice things, “a race-baiting, xenophobic religious bigot” and “a kook.”) Soon enough, the last holdouts would come around too. “It’s just so easy, how they do that,” Trump said. As went individual Republican politicians, so went the party. Reince Priebus, the chair of the Republican National Committee in 2016, would become frustrated with Trump over his obvious scorn for his organization. Still, Priebus would gamely try to assure me that the GOP was shaped not by one man but rather by a set of traditions, principles, and conservative ideals. “The party defines the party,” Priebus kept telling me. After Trump won the nomination in 2016, “The party defines the party” became a familiar feckless refrain among the GOP’s putative leaders. House Speaker Paul Ryan vowed to me that he would “protect conservatism from being disfigured.” Senate Majority Leader Mitch McConnell told the radio host Hugh Hewitt that “Trump is not going to change the institution,” referring to the GOP. “He’s not going to change the basic philosophy of the party.” In retrospect, this was hilarious.

[gaast]

The video game industry is worth more than the film and music industries combined and I swear the only monographs that deal critically with games are those in game studies fields. You're about as likely to see a monograph do a close reading on a film as a book, and yet other narrative media tend to be underrepresented.

This isn't to say that because video games have so much economic value that they therefore must have value to critical theory and attendant discourses, but rather I think it demonstrates the very odd position that video games are in. Frankly, they're still seen as vulgar, and certainly too much so to merit critical treatment. This is a failure of scholarship. Pong, for example, was one of the first commercially successful video games, and it acted as something of a stand-in for table tennis. The arcade cabinet made table tennis more accessible to the public, who would otherwise require enough space, bodily ability, and access to a table (typically requiring wealth) to engage with the sport.

There's a tendency in some critical modalities to view sports and games as reproductions of capitalist imperatives to compete, win, and reign supreme. It's a rather reductive view of play that in many cases puts the cart before the horse. As esports leagues have shown, we played games against each other long before capitalists exploited our joy as labor.

In any case, Pong made more accessible certain physical modes of play that could very easily be impossible for the average American consumer to enjoy in 1971. Indeed, most sport is inaccessible, whether because of space (golf, association football), equipment (gridiron football), or the physical ability necessary to complete the basics of its play (hockey). The joys of playing table tennis were thus democratized in the arcade.

Sports sims developed over time but never lost their popularity. Titles like Tennis, Baseball, Tecmo Bowl, and Duck Hunt eventually gave rise to Punch-Out!!, which, uniquely among these examples, carried the implicit themes that made motion-picture successes like Rocky so indelible: the underdog can overcome seemingly insurmountable odds. Even a short king from the Bronx can defeat heavyweight boxing legend Mike Tyson with the right combination of skill, luck, and determination.

Interestingly, Punch-Out!!'s successful application of narrative technique didn't reframe the sports sim as a potential vehicle for narrative. Titles like Street Fighter II became successful less because they featured characters whose stories compelled audiences but rather because the technical achievements available in them hewed closer to the ideal of sport in general. By this I mean that I believe audiences, particularly sportswatching audiences, understand better than television executives that the hope for every game watched is that the game itself will be elegant and beautiful according to the specific sport. You don't have to be a fan of either team to enjoy a well-played Super Bowl because the art created on the field is universally appreciable so long as you can recognize the specific ways that gridiron football creates that beauty.

In this way we can recognize that narrative isn't a requirement of sports sims because, while individual sports seasons are enhanced by the narratives surrounding them, even in a vacuum these games can produce art in and of themselves. As such, it makes sense that licensing agreements would be made with sports leagues for permission to use their teams' and players' names and likenesses for their game products, as it is easier to make a beautiful game out of professionals at the highest, most difficult settings of their sports than it would be for amateur equivalents.

This is not to say that such considerations are necessarily consciously in mind when players purchase a sports sim. Rather, players enter into the basic contract that these games offer: play me, and you will have fun.

I also suggest that having a ludic sandbox available to them can help players engage with their favorite teams in a low-stakes way, thus offering numerous benefits to them perhaps better described in an essay examining sports fandom specifically.

In any case, ignoring the fundamental artform of each sport enables a quite crass view sports fandom in general. I believe that the very belief that sports are not art engenders the nasty comments you often hear of athletes, especially in the MLB. "These guys get paid to stand around for two and a half hours. And they get paid MILLIONS!" Of course, team owners agree. They also believe that players should be paid much less.

While art can sometimes elicit similar comments ("This Jeff Koons sculpture sold for HOW much? It's just a balloon animal!"), the so-called "legitimate" arts don't. A van Gogh of course deserves its price tag. Jaws of course should have cost millions of dollars to film.

Worth noting, of course, is that Jaws is an adaptation of a novel published a year earlier. Considered by critics at the time to feature simplistic characterizations, its suspense worked, and its marketing campaign made it widely-read. Jaws, the film, made enough improvements to the source text that its quality far outpaced the novel's, and it in turn became the archetypal summer blockbuster. This type of film is now generally regarded as being oversaturated and of low quality--and therefore of vulgar character.

Jaws was distributed to theaters in 1975, 4 years after Pong was put in arcades.

While film had to decay from art to trash, games started as trash and never elevated themselves (all of this, of course, in the critical consideration of the masses). And yet both Jaws and Pong represent the simple beauty of sport and competition--framed in different ways, yes, but with heroic underdogs, the uncertainty of victory, the elegance of struggle, sacrifice and strategy, all of this contributing to an experience of basic human cognitive joy, exultation in a play well-executed, a scene well-shot, a button well-pressed.

It's time to recognize such beauty where it is.

[mohitbisresearch]

According to BIS Research, The global electric ATV, UTV, and golf cart markets are projected to reach $6.81 billion, at a CAGR of 18.65% between 2023-2032.

[jellogram]

I know airplanes are over a century old now but my brain will never stop recognizing that shit as magic. I know there's air pressure and aerodynamics and all that shit. Sure. Whatever. You are still putting a several-ton pile of steel into the sky and controlling it the same way you'd control a golf cart. 40,0000 feet up in the air with power steering and GPS. That makes no fucking sense. Not on a scientific level, but on a worldbuilding level. That isn't something that should be able to happen. God fucked up somewhere and the multi-billion dollar flight industry is built on exploiting that loophole.

[nationalcovers]

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[sidhewrites]

I was possessed by the spirit of writing last night and stayed up way too late working on a Graveyard Lesbians rewrite. So here's a brand new chapter 1 :)

Project Info

Next Chapter

tag list: @adaughterofathena @ambreeskyewriting @carnelianflame @halfbloodlycan @vigilantdesert @nadunacreates

For the record, I wasn't in a graveyard in the rain to sulk, or brood, or pout. I had work to do. I'll admit, I had done no small amount of those things the past two weeks, but this wasn't the time. Regardless of the weather, grass had to be cut, headstones had to be cleaned, and ghosts had to be banished.

Okay, that last one was a lie, but I did feel a little bit like a ghost buster, leaving the tool shed armed with a trowel, huge garden shears, and an assortment of other tools hanging off my tool belt, and a grim scowl of determination on my face. One of the rose bushes had thrown out a runner, and if I didn't tackle it now, Mr. Ngo would try to take care of it himself.

And though I was a cool, collected, recently-single young woman in a college town full of other young women ready to mingle, I wasn't about to let a sixty-year-old man with arthritis try to fight a runner. Better just to keep him ignorant of the whole thing.

So I leave the tool shed properly armed, and only pause briefly to wonder if I should take the golf cart. The roses weren't too far away on a clear day, but it was pouring buckets, and it would be better for the metal tools. But it would also ruin the mood of my post-breakup wallowing. In the end, it wasn't a hard decision at all.

I take off, and let the rain wash down my face, ruining my recently-touched up pink dye, and dripping off my various piercings. Perfect.

The town had newer graveyards, with fewer ghost stories and questionable history, but this one had been around for almost 150 years. The first grave dated back to when Joseph Sutterman and his party first arrived here and set up a logging operation to service all the settlements along the river as it traveled down the mountainside. As the surrounding cities grew, so did Sutterman's settlement and the town of [Town] was founded. Even if the logging industry had dried up in the 1940s, people kept moving in, Sutterman College kept growing, and now we had a whole modern graveyard, and zoning laws, and everything. [find a way to put this back on topic about how this graveyard and like half of town has ghost stories with how old it is]

A flash of movement out of the corner of my eye has me stop in my tracks and look over my shoulder. The graveyard isn't open to the public for another two hours, so there shouldn't be anyone there. All the same, I could swear I saw something. But as I turned, my headphone wire snagged on the shears, and I flinched as one earbud tore out of my ear. By the time I'd saved it from falling in the mud, the brief pain had receded, and I was able to turn back to where I'd seen the person.

Only there wasn't anyone there. Just the old tree in the center of the older headstones, looking as ominous and spooky as always when the weather was like this. Spooky, but not actually someone trying to trespass. 

The graveyard was well-trafficked, with a wide gates on three of its four sides, separating many of the apartments and off-campus housing from the university campus itself. The odd passer-by wasn't an uncommon sight, nor was it unheard of for students to spend time here, studying or hanging out between classes. There's a small chance I'm speaking from personal experience when I say that the gates were too difficult to climb when locked and slick from the rain.

So I tip an imaginary hat at the old spooky tree with its crown of red-and-gold leaves, and make my way over to the rose bushes.

#

By the time I've got the runner pulled up and the dirt back in place, I'm exhausted, covered in mud, and soaked to the bone, but I feel better about my life for the time being. Digging things up and gardening had always helped get my mind off things, Josie included. She'd be at the curio shop by now, hard at work and hopefully feeling guilty about how we'd left off the last time we tried to find time for her to come pick up the rest of her things from my place. It was almost noon, which meant the end of my shift, and I figured that the older graves could stand to wait a day or two before I mowed the grass in that quarter of the graveyard.

Mr. Ngo, being a grandfather, had perfected the disappointed dad stare, and he leveled me with one as he puttered up to the tool shed in his own personal golf cart. "What happened to you, Karen?" He also knew exactly when to use my full name to kick his fatherly disappointment up a notch. Normally, it's Kas to him, and everyone else except my actual father, who I only spoke to on holidays.

For the record, I'd only ever called him dad five times since I started working here three years ago.

"Morning, boss."

"You look like a zombie that crawled out of the ground." Though he lost his hair years ago, Mr. Ngo had never lost his Vietnamese accent, nor his love for campy monster movies from the eighties. I have him to thank for my own love of horror, and half my DVD collection.

"I could definitely go for a skull full of brains right about now." Listen, I wasn't good at clever comebacks. "How are your joints doing?"

His expression didn't change, which meant that they were indeed hurting and didn't want me to know. "I'll tell you when it's your business."

"Sure thing, boss."

"Anything left to do today?"

"Nothing that can't wait until the weather clears."

He paused, looking at me in a way that made my insides squirm. I hated when he got sympathetic and fatherly. "Phan made banh mi today. I'll meet you in the office."

"Braiiiins."

He gave me a look, and drove off. His wife always made something for me, since my own family is half a country and two time zones away. She's an angel, and, if I didn't think my mom would disown me for ever saying such a thing out loud, I'd ask her to be my second mom, too.

Thankfully, lunch wasn't the worst thing ever. Mr. Ngo had taken a few days to accept Josie and I were properly broken up, and was still dealing with the fact that neither of us had any intention of getting back together. Any friendship we might have had post - relationship had been ruined with how long we'd drawn things out, and I still bristled when she was brought up in conversation.

I told him to thank Phan for lunch as always, and, now that I was off the clock, I let myself brood broodily back home.

[seat-safety-switch]

If you're unfamiliar with the auto industry, you might be surprised to hear that cars are almost never involved in the construction and shipping of cars. Big ol' trucks carry them to your local dealership, sure, but there's an invisible network of cranes, big-ass cargo ships, trains, and random dockworking weirdos involved in getting your car to that point.

This might not sound unusual until you think about almost everything else in existence. Computers are used to make computers. People are used to make people. Elephants are used to make elephants. Pencils are... probably used to draw pictures of other pencils that they want to make in the future? That last one isn't really holding water, but let's keep going.

When it comes to a car, though, you hardly ever see one at a car factory. Sure, you see them in the parking lot, ferrying the workers to the factory to use the giant machines. Hell, you see more golf carts in use, driving managers around in their little dumb-ass perfectly immaculate sticker-free hard-hats, looking for a penny to pinch or a cost to optimize. After that, it's all trucks, ships, trains, big vehicles all hauling those helpless little baby cars to the dealership.

Is this a problem to fix? Big Car says no, that's stupid, trucks haul a whole lot of cars at the same time. Thing is, though, Big Car hasn't been right about everything. That's why I'm proposing a new factory in my backyard, where we'll let cars a(?)-sexually reproduce. It's already borne some fruit: I swear to all that is holy that I only had seven Belvederes in there, but I went out there this morning and counted at least ten.

[butterflies-and-bumble-bees]

I think these are from one of our jackbox games:

Oppose my political beliefs

Inflatable bath mat

I am Spartacus Now

Human skull found in nut

Vomit

Help neuter Giants

An electric chair

Having a face

Arby's

Wood chipper

Death noises

Momo gand-man

Disconnected wing

I'm going to rip your face off Poor killer 5000

Industrial Grade weed wacker

My golf cart

California always Lacks

Feeding Batman into wood chipper

Otters versus wood chippers

Take out a loan with your kidneys as collateral

...interestin

[go-to-two]

If I am visiting Cali this summer, is it worth it to do a tour of a film studio? Which studio do you think is best to see if I only have time for one?

As a lover of film lots, yes I think it's worth seeing one while you're in town! I've gone on the tours for each studio that offers them, so I'll break it down a bit (actually I haven't done Sony's tour, but a friend has and I've been on the lot so I'll paraphrase). Continued below the cut...

1. NBC Universal: part of the theme park! You have to buy tickets to Universal Studios to access their studio tram tour. It gives a peek at the studio and some of the backlots, but it's a theme park attraction first and foremost. The trams seat hundreds of guests and the guides have heavily scripted material. Don't get me wrong, it's fun- but not the most genuine look at the workings of a film lot, if that's what you're after. If you want robotics and visual affects and water canons, this is for you.

Paramount: whatever Universal is, Paramount is almost the exact opposite. It's conducted on long, eight-person golf carts with one tour guide to a small group. They having talking points but no script, so they will talk to you and want you to talk back. It's much more history based than the others, but it is a much closer look at how a film lot actually operates. The tour doesn't follow a set route, and unless something is blocked off, those tour golf carts go pretty much anywhere. I think it's a much more realistic look at how the film industry operates than Universal's is, but it can therefore be a lot less exciting if it's a slow day on the lot or you're not into history.

Warner Bros: kind of a happy medium between the two! There are definitely some historical bits, but they also do a good job of showcasing their backlots (they have more than Paramount and you see more than Universal if they're open), as well as experiences from their bigger franchises i.e. the Friends couch or batmobiles. I think they strike the best balance of a real look at a film studio mixed with fan-oriented stops for their productions. It's held on a bigger trolley thing, so I think it seats about 20-25 guests to one tour guide. It's more personal than Universal but not as personal as Paramount. If you take this one, watch your head getting in and out of the trolley. The TV screens hang low. You don't want to be the guest who splits their brow in front of everyone... who would do that? 😬

Sony: this one is walking. It's a smaller studio lot than the others, so therefore less to see in terms of backlots or production spaces that are open to visit. I believe tours stop into some game show stages and a scoring stage, plus seeing some Breaking Bad props and set pieces. Okay, I actually don't have much to say about this one.

Overall, it depends on what you're into! Also take into account productions. If you loved Gilmore Girls, Warner Bros is fun. If you're a big Godfather fan, that's Paramount. It's all variable. If I'm recommending one at face value, I think Warner Bros does a good job of building a well-rounded tour.

Have fun in LA!

[thebiscuiteternal]

‘It’s just crazy’: Republicans attack US child labor laws as violations rise | Iowa | The Guardian

Amid these increases in child labor violations, legislative efforts have been introduced in several states to roll back child labor protections.

In Iowa, Republican legislators introduced a bill in January to expand the types of work 14- and 15-year-olds would be permitted to do as part of approved training programs, extend allowable work hours, and exempt employers from liability if these young workers are sickened, injured or killed on the job.

“It’s just crazy to me that we are re-litigating a lot of things that seem to have been settled 100, 120 or 140 years ago,” said Charlie Wishman, president of the Iowa AFL-CIO, which is opposing the bill.

Wishman added: “All of these protections have been put in place for a reason. Child labor law is there to make sure that kids are working in age-appropriate work activities or occupations that are appropriate for their age. We think this is a rewrite of our child labor laws in Iowa that are going way, way, way too far and has the potential to put kids in dangerous situations.”

The bill would permit the director of Iowa workforce development or the Iowa department of education to grant exceptions from any provision that restricts the types of jobs 14- and 15-year-olds can do if the work is classified as part of a work-based learning program and also strips workers’ compensation rights for these workers.

The protections being sought for companies are of particular concern to labor activists.

“In the Iowa legislation, one of the provisions is to exempt employers from civil liability due to the company’s negligence. It is astounding that they would have the gall to knowingly acknowledge that more young people will be harmed, but focus on exempting businesses,” said Marcy Goldstein-Gelb, co-executive director of the National Council for Occupational Safety and Health.

Goldstein-Gelb explained that throughout her career she has worked with families and co-workers of young workers who have died on the job, oftentimes in violation of child labor laws that industry groups have fought to repeal, such as in a case where a 16-year-old in Massachusetts was killed in 2000 while operating a golf cart on the job.

Young workers have much higher rates of non-fatal injuries on the job and the highest rates of injuries that require emergency department attention, Goldstein-Gelb noted. She argued that due to the vulnerability and inexperience of young workers, data on these workers is likely an undercount due to fears or barriers in being able to speak up and report dangerous situations or child labor law violations.

“I think there is this myth that you need to put young people in any possible job because there are openings. I think we are moving into a new age where we need to recognize that workers of all ages are seeking to earn a sustainable living and not put themselves in harm’s way,” added Goldstein-Gelb. “That’s why there are workers taking actions around the country and that needs to be supported rather than just saying we’re going to find people who have no alternative, the most vulnerable, and put them in jobs that are completely inappropriate.”