#and it's *assistant with another a. damn it guys this is English not German

[running-in-the-dark]

it's like. I'm tired. but also not the right kind of tired. but really really tired though. except I won't be able to sleep yet so I have to stay awake. it is stressing me out.

[paralianprince]

The Crown Prince of Sealand gives an exclusive glimpse into life on the off-shore platform

AS A principality, it doesn't quite have the glamour or style of Monte Carlo. There's no castle for the Royal Family and even basic luxuries, such as soap, are in short supply. Sealand is, in truth, a rather ugly, lonely pile of concrete and rusting metal which rises above the choppy waters of the North Sea some seven miles off the coast of Suffolk.

Yet the “hard as nails” Bates family have put their lives on the line on more than one occasion to remain the undisputed monarchs of their self-styled kingdom since 1966. For them it’s certainly not just two giant concrete legs rising out of the sea to support a thin metal platform measuring 120 feet by 60 feet – roughly the size of two tennis courts. “There is a very powerful family bond with Sealand which is difficult to explain but it won’t be broken,” says ruling monarch Crown Prince Michael Bates, 68, in a rare and exclusive interview.

He is currently involved in discussions with Hollywood filmmakers planning a movie about Sealand, and a book is published this week chronicling its fascinating history. Suddenly, Sealand is attracting an awful lot of attention, mainly because of a public yearning for wild tales of English eccentricity.

Built in 1942 by British engineer Guy Maunsell, it was one of a handful of his so-called Maunsell naval forts put up off the East Coast to stall a German invasion force which never arrived. Marines occupied the forts to pound enemy aircraft with 28lb anti-aircraft shells, destroying 22 planes, one submarine and 33 doodlebugs, a record which justified the cost of building them.

However, at the end of the war the forts were abandoned. Their purpose had been served and nobody knew what to do with them. For years, they lay empty and unloved, convenient rest stops for passing seagulls.

Then former soldier Roy Bates, Michael’s father, had a brainwave. Injured in fighting in Italy in 1944, Roy hadn’t adapted well to life in civvy street.

After literally hurling his bowler hat and briefcase into the sea near his home in Southend, Essex, he told his wife Joan, a former beauty queen he married in 1948 – six weeks after meeting her at a dance hall – he wanted to lead a more exciting life.

He bought a boat and adapted well to the rigours of North Sea fishing but found it difficult to make a good living. The couple also tried running a chain of butchers and an estate agents, but neither business satisfied Roy’s yearning for adventure.

While sailing off Essex, Roy became fascinated with the naval forts. When he learned that one, Knock John, was being used as a base for a pirate radio station he decided to set up his own.

With the help of some Southend musclemen, Roy turfed off Radio City and claimed Knock John as the base for his pirate station, Radio Essex, which began broadcasting on October 27, 1965.

As the listenership grew, advertisers started coming on board but the authorities took a dim view of his activities on Knock John Fort and successfully prosecuted him for broadcasting illegally.

Paying the £200 fine meant genuine hardship, so, undeterred, he decided to take over another fort, called Roughs Tower, which was further out in the sea and did not come under British jurisdiction.

The only problem was the pirate radio station Radio Caroline was using Roughs Tower as a base. But that issue was resolved when Roy and his mates arrived with iron bars on Christmas Day 1966. Unsurprisingly, the Radio Caroline crew agreed to share the platform.

However, the first chance he had, Roy took the opportunity to seize full control and ejected the competition.

“I was a 14-year-old lad at a private school in Wales at the time, but I loved visiting Roughs Tower in the holidays,” recalls Michael.

Roy certainly needed him to shore up their defences, especially when Radio Caroline unsuccessfully attempted to retake the tower. To deter them Michael tossed molotov cocktails down from above.

A later attempt was foiled when one of Michael’s petrol bombs started a fire on the invaders’ boat. His sister Penny, who was three years older, was also on hand to brandish weapons at any aggressor trying to land on what had now become the self-styled Principality of Sealand.

“One of the guns we had was taken from a German soldier my dad shot while he was fighting in Italy,” says Michael.

“The other was a 9mm Beretta Dad brought back from the war.”

There is a famous picture of Penny brandishing the weapons on Sealand, sending a clear signal to anyone else thinking of muscling in. Force would be met with force.

Other weapons in the Bates’ arsenal included a flamethrower and shotguns. Old gas canisters were strategically placed to drop on unwelcome vessels arriving with the intention of scaling the dangling rope ladder, the only way to get to the platform.

The defiance of 6ft 3in “hard as nails” Roy Bates was drawn to the attention of then Prime Minister Harold Wilson, who instructed the armed forces to switfly reclaim the fort.

But when Royal Marines arrived, Michael and his mother armed themselves with weapons and made it clear they would not leave without a fight. Rather than risk bloodshed, the Marines beat a retreat.

On another occasion, when the crew of a navigational installation boat came a bit too close and made cheeky remarks to a sunbathing Penny, then 19, Michael fired a couple of warning shots across their bow.

However, by then Penny was tired of holding the fort and wanted a more normal life back in Southend.

“My father was very demanding,” admits Michael. “I don’t blame my sister for not sticking with it. It was a strange kind of upbringing for sure.”

Penny told Dylan Taylor-Lehman, author of the new book, that life as a Princess was not all it was cracked up to be. Just getting to the principality was gruelling.

“It was hours and hours on the boat going chug, chug, chug. I used to sit there in a blanket and think, ‘For God’s sake will someone kill me please’. It was horrible, horrible.”

While Michael kept himself busy securing defences and fishing for lobsters over the side, Penny survived on rationed tin food and biscuits made from flour and distilled sea water. When the water tanks ran dry, they had to rely on rainfall.

In the late Sixties and Seventies, Sealand stamps, passports and coinage were produced to satisfy the curiosity of an increasing number of people.

There were also plans to go into business with some Germans who wanted to build a casino, a heliport and duty-free shops.

But while Roy and Joan were discussing the options in Salzburg, the crafty Germans teamed up with some Dutch allies and staged a coup. “I was on Sealand when I heard a helicopter approaching,” Michael recalls. “We had a big mast to stop helicopters landing but they came down on a winch and said my father had signed a contract with them to sign the fort over to them.

“I knew my dad would never do that. I kept telling them I needed to speak to my father. I was armed but I didn’t really know what to do.”

By now, effectively kidnapped, Michael was locked up in a room for several days. When he was finally let out there was a physical fight.

“They tied my ankles together and my wrists and I heard one say they were thinking of throwing me over the side.”

He was forced off the platform and dispatched back to land. But after regrouping with his father and friends, they vowed to take back Sealand and, appropriately, employed a helicopter pilot who had worked on James Bond films to assist them.

“When we took the fort back it was the biggest adrenaline rush in my life,” Michael says. “Sliding down a rope with a shotgun around your neck is very exciting.”

After he fired one shot in the air, order was restored and Sealand was back in the hands of the Prince of Sealand, Roy Bates, who died peacefully in 2012, aged 91.

After the death of his mother Joan in 2016, Sealand was pretty much run by Prince Michael, although Penny, now 70, takes a close interest. Michael’s grown-up sons Liam and James spend time on Sealand, along with caretakers to deter potential invaders.

Through the Sealand website, knighthoods can be purchased for £99.99 and dukedoms for £499. England cricketer Ben Stokes was given an honorary lordship, along with the singer Ed Sheeran. Founder Roy has become a revered figure among Sealand supporters who see him as a patriotic ex-serviceman who fearlessly realised his swashbuckling dream to create his own kingdom, complete with its own black, white and red flag.

When a journalist once asked him why he took over the fort, Roy replied: “I’ve asked myself that question many times and I’m damned if I know the answer. But it was a challenge, and I can’t resist a challenge.”

Michael spends most of his time in Southend with his Chinese wife Mei, who served in the Chinese army. Last year he faced the rather more pleasurable challenge of judging a beauty pageant in China, just one of the many perks of being a Prince.

“Life is a lot quieter now but we’ll never give up Sealand. You never know what will happen but we’re ready for anything,” he says with a laugh. If the movie version of Sealand is made, the scriptwriters certainly won’t be short of material.

[kingofthewilderwest]

What do you do most of the time when you’re not on tumblr?

Thanks for asking to get to know me!!! I do MANY things! :D 

Let’s get the “boring” thing out of the way: work! Occupationally, I work remotely as a theoretical linguistics contractor. Basically, that means I do freelance language analysis work for other companies. I sit at home in my pajamas at 2 AM listening to folk metal while doing boring repetitive language tasks for money. XD Usually, it involves me pouring through large databases of sentences and annotating pertinent information on top of the sentences, coding it according to the information another development team wants. What I input is what another team uses to improve an AI’s ability to understand English. For instance, maybe I’m going through a large corpus of sentences marking what the verb is, and how noun phrases relate to the verb (as the direct object, subject, etc.) My work helps accomplish a variety of practical uses. The reason why your search results are relevant on a website? The reason why virtual assistants like Siri are able to answer a question you ask it? That’s the stuff I work on, although I do the non-technical, non-programmy side of it, and am more or less just following instructions for what they want me to look for in the sentence databases they use to train their AIs.

I usually am held to non-disclosure agreements, so I can only say so much about what my work involves, but I have had the pleasure to partner with several collegiate universities, Amazon, the Mayo Clinic, Google, environmental research centers, local companies, and more over the years since I first began these gigs in 2012.

But like. Recreationally?

I LOVE DOING CREATIVE THINGS!!!!!!!

I’m usually running around doing three thousand eight hundred forty two and a half projects any given day. Music composition for indie films and video games; cosplay; fanfiction writing; original novel writing; learning new musical instruments (I own literally several dozen instruments…); drawing; Photoshop abuse; video game streaming; skiing; hiking; teaching myself new languages; collecting action figures and other rare fandom materials; getting distracted by cat videos; crying in feels over television shows; staring pointlessly at a wall for several hours; you name it! 

At the moment, I’m working on a fancy pants fanfiction novel for Camp NaNoWriMo - which I hope I’ll be posting online in the next few months. I’m creating/planning cosplays for Envy (FMAB), Catra (She-Ra), Rufus (Deponia), and Krel (3Below) to debut at a cosplay convention in May (assuming I get my act together, which I probably won’t, let’s be real). I’m playing Anthem with my sister and brother-in-law and am streaming video games most Wednesdays on my twitch account - also now available on YouTube btw. I’m learning how to use illustration markers and digital art tools, while trying to improve my ability drawing humans and backgrounds. I’m teaching myself 日本語. I’m working with several friends to translate a book from German to English so we can play a roleplay game together where I GM (none of us speak German… whoopsies). I’m going to be drawing illustrations for a children’s book my grandpa wrote. I’m drafting the outline for an original novel I hope to publish in the future. I’m arranging a music suite for some of the Huzzah songs for the Deponia video game series. I’m talking with several friends about movie or game projects we could make. I’m playing Dungeons and Dragons as a gunslinging True Neutral alien. I’m planning several fandom AUs with friends that might turn into comics, fanfictions, or getting lost in the dust because I have a notorious, terrible record for finishing anything. I’m skiing with friends in the mountains before winter season ends. I’m trying to collect several difficult-ish-to-find FMA materials from eBay. I’m trying desperately to avoid making an AMV for a ship I’ve fallen into, but it’s probably going to happen despite my best efforts (damn Deponia has my heart right now, okay???). I’m haranguing my irl best friends by being a loving assholish punster gremlin to them. I’m wasting lots of my hours screwing around with friends on discord. And, I haven’t had the time yet, but I just bought a ukulele, so I want to get around to learning that, too. Only so much time in a day though…. uhhhhh….

This doesn’t mean all my projects are good… I am not talented in all these respects… but that doesn’t mean I get any less enjoyment out of all these creative hobbies!

I SWEAR I’ve recently been trying to limit the number of projects I’m doing at any given time. I even made myself a checklist for activities that I “allow” myself to do so I don’t start three hundred more pointless hare chases. But yeah! That’s the current day-to-day activities of Haddock!

Actually… this conversation is a good lead-in to something I’ve been meaning to say on my blog for a while. 

It’s probably unsurprising that, given as I’m doing so much beyond tumblr, that I haven’t been spending an enormous amount of time answering analysis questions recently. My asks have begun stocking up over the last few months; though I have several hundred responses to answer and want to answer, the truth is that my life is prioritized elsewhere right now and I probably won’t get to things all that fast, if at all.

Tumblr has been an extraordinary experience for me and I’ll never like, leave-leave it behind. I’ve engaged a lot in tumblr because it’s provided me life, fandom, happiness, and a community I’ve attached to. It’s also given me hope: hope that my contribution to the fandom gives people happiness and meaning, too. Fiction is powerful for all of us and a way to give us inspiration and meaning. I hope that my engagement in fandom has helped other people feel happiness, inspiration, and meaning, too. Whenever I receive asks from people telling me kind things about my blog, I feel touched beyond words, because it makes me feel like my time on tumblr has been a benefit and a difference to other lives beyond my own, and there’s nothing better than that.

But I also admit: I’m ready to transition to New Things in life. My greatest goal in life is to make as meaningful of a difference as I can. I don’t want to breeze by my years doing nothing but recreation for myself: I want to do what I can to make a maximal difference in the lives of others for the better. Tumblr’s been fun and I hope I’ve made a good impact, but my deepest dreams and goals aren’t around tumblr analyses. They’re around creative writing, especially the wild dream to someday be a published author. I’m increasingly taking the steps and time to reach that goal. I’m done waiting; I’m done planning; I’m ready to charge forward and make this ambition reality, best as I can. 

That means that, anymore, tumblr is a hindrance to my life’s greatest dreams, and I can’t do both full-tumblr-activities and reach my heart’s deepest wishes.

I’m honestly feeling a lot happier now that I’ve drastically reduced my time on tumblr. I’m so sorry that it’s resulted in me not answering many asks (that really would be fun to talk about), and I hope no one feels like I’ve forgotten or snubbed them. I’d do it if I had time. But I don’t have time. The truth is that I feel my life shifting to new directions, and I want to take that. Otherwise, I’ll live in a stagnant world in which I go nowhere… and I can’t have that. I can’t. I want to fly.

So I’m going to be continuing to march through with these other life projects. With the creative writing especially. I hope I can post some of this writing to you guys on tumblr, too! It means I’ll be spending less and less time on tumblr, doing analyses not-anywhere-as-often-as-I-used-to (I don’t know if I’ll ever answer everyone’s asks again, sorry!). Leave tumblr? No. I’ll still be here. But… my shift in time… it’s all in the dream to make meaning out of my life.

Thank you so much for asking again! I hope you’re having a great day, have some fun activities of your own, and are staying awesome!

[kafziels]

weird shit i saw freshman year (2016-2017, part two)

again this is late and mildly nsfw

-we were talking about the sexual connotation of 'thrust his maids to the wall' in Romeo and Juliet and Matt asked to give an example sentence but he said 'I thrust my thing into her' needless to say everyone lost it

-English teacher told us he met a guy who said guys get 'periods,' saying he gets moody and anxious around the 28th every month

-same teacher called Leonardo DiCaprio a baby. 'He's just a baby!'

-ok we're currently in a bad omen, the power went out twice, then we saw a black bird in the hallway (IN THE SCHOOL) and then seconds after the fire alarm went off, turns out a generator blew out

-plot twist: we continued school that day

-english teacher was explaining what the nurse meant when she said Juliet has a bump on her head 'as big as a young cock'rel's stone' - a rooster's nut. Which is word for word, he also said a rooster's balls. And when he said 'rooster's nut' someone yelled 'BUST IT' and he said 'no. that's disgusting.' And hE STOOD UP AND GOT HAND SANITIZER AND HE WAS RUBBING IT ALL THE WAY UP TO HIS ELBOWS, NOT BREAKING EYE CONTACT WITH THIS KID THE ENTIRE TIME

-'my mom takes so long to answer her damn phone. I could get a letter back from Africa faster than her. I get a letter from some fuckin African kid named chicken mcboob nugget faster then my mom'

-*watching romeo + juliet in class* 'she's not IN the fish tank, giana'

-guys pointing bananas at each other like guns

-English teacher is giving an example to the class like 'say you go to Panda Express and you get orange chicken. and the you get another plates of orange chicken. and then you get a third plate of orange chicken. what can you infer is gonna happen sooner or later?' and a girl yelled out 'DYSENTERY'

-'what's your favorite chinese food?'

'PANDA'

'no chinese FOOD'

'P A N D A'

-football jocks behind me in study hall telling each other 'bro you look like a teddy bear'

-a girl in the hall yelled out 'DOES ANYONE HAVE A TORTILLA CHIP'

-English teacher: "ok so imagine me cutting annie's head off with a golden axe-"

-someone brought a guinea pig to school, lost it, and now it's roaming the school.

-'mr. randolph I have sss. sensitive scalp syndrome.'

-a girl had a coughing fit and my English teacher said 'if you're gonna die...do it quietly'

-a guy yelled to his friends across the hall 'I didn't touch ANY of his junk'

-there was a security guard in the hallway crying during the daily playing of the national anthem

-they're playing jazz music over the school's PA system???

-the classroom phone rang in choir while we were singing a grease medley and the teacher answered by singing along with us. when he hung up he said 'the principal was not impressed with my song.'

-the other day I saw a kid open a highlighter and put it on his lips like chapstick

-'mr. randolph did you have heelies when you were little'

'no i had friends'

-someone asked my history teacher a question and he responded by fake crying and saying 'I don't care' in the most pained voice I've ever heard

-'anybody got a toothbrush' in the middle of class

-'paris needs a cock ring'

-english teacher has a huge bleeding cut on his hand and all that's on it is a Barbie bandaid

-'I am death's boy toy' *cue mom friend turning around with a disappointed sigh*

-a girl came into history crying about a breakup and saying 'don't date people they just wanna ruin your life' and the teacher said 'is there anyway you can ruin your life more quietly'

-they just called every girl named Abby down to the office. the announcement was a whole minute long

-someone in the back of my study hall is brushing his teeth. the nearest bathroom is across the school. I don't want to turn around

-I was taking notes in english and someone in the hall yelled 'WHUP' and then we all heard a smack. I think someone fell

-*sniff sniff* 'smells like communism'

-'I was choking on some popcorn in German class while we were playing bingo so I'm sitting there like 'ECH' the whole class but I won bingo so it's ok'

-English teacher: 'were talking about salty farts here'

-'do babies fart?'

'YES THEY DO AND ITS DISGUSTING'

-there's a girl in my English class who, every so often, with no regular schedule, brings an entire jar of Nutella to class and eats it

-someone in history farted and a girl said 'that was a fart'

-history teacher was one his phone and a girl (same one from before) was like 'oooo I see you on that phone texting ya girl just HIT SEND' and the teacher said 'actually someone in my family just died but thanks'

-someone compared my English teacher to guy fieri and he said 'are you seriously body shaming me here' he said the same thing upon being compared to homer simpson

-'if I could strangle you with your ponytail I would' -english teacher 2017

-'that guy assisted at jesus' birth he's so old'

-choir teacher was very happy today. He was seriously considering getting neon hair extensions in class

-'is it susan boyle?'

'NO, SHUT YOUR MOUTH'

-someone mentioned the musical 'the book of mormon' and an actual mormon in the classroom got offended and the other guy got written up to the office. this is high school

-'if you're giving human qualities to a bear is it personification?'

'the bear was evading his taxes'

-English teacher: 'I'm gonna throat punch the next person to mention the boss baby movie'

-mid-choir class a dude burst into the room, grabbed the tissue box, and ran out. I have never seen this guy before, I don't even think he goes to school here

-English teacher is wearing a pink polo shirt and black skinny jeans right now (as I type)

-when one of the teachers greeted another, he dabbed

-'let me guess: she can twerk'

-'if tad and annie have a dougie-off....I will add 12 bonus points to everybody's final.'

-someone walking in the halls making the loudest whistle I've heard in ages, then tapping on the walls, why am I scared

-kid putting hemp lotion on: 'if I don't get high in the next 5 minutes I'm slapping you'

-during a shooter drill our choir teacher pulled a softball bat out of a closet in his office to explain he could use it if he had to. The bat said 'big daddy' on the end

-a girl at the end of an empty hallway just screamed out 'OH MY GOD I LOVE CHILI'

-middle of English class, the room got quiet for a moment and we all heard a scream. English teacher shrugged and got back to the lesson as if it was normal???

-during musical rehearsal: 'the shoe does not fit. NO SHIT. SHE ISNT THE PROTAGONIST.'

-'I was gonna grab a calculator but today I found out I'm black.' -friend who has always been black

-'that was such a huge yawn. I thought you were gonna swallow your face.'

-'why would you not want to be called a potato?'

-'WE'LL GET TO THE BUTTHOLE LIPS EVENTUALLY, EASE UP'

-'let's say I had an altercation with a hedgehog'

-my english teacher just threw a yard stick at someone, missed and hit someone else, then justified it with 'I had to use my staff'

-'why are you petting my leg'

'it's...firm'

-a guy in math: *leans over and whispers* 'is it weird that I'm black and I like to cover myself in flour and sometimes I think about putting myself in hot oil' (this is the same guy from the calculator incident)

-my big white english teacher, giggling like a child: 'are you throwing gang signs in my class?'

-the assistant teacher who everyone teases for his clothes? yeah I saw him in the hall on my way to class, he was wearing white pants with rainbow diamonds on them and a red sweater vest. I'm afraid.

-English teacher: 'can you go back to your seat and stop staring at me like someone who had to stop taking a dump early and is just...walking awkwardly cause they had to pinch it off'

-two dudes were talking with their heads out the bus windows so they could hear each other and the one guy said 'dude I had a mayonnaise sandwich for lunch it was awesome'

-English teacher followed through and held a dougie-off and the whole class got 14 bonus points on our big tests as a reward for two people participating

-a girl in the front of the class threw 3 packs of graham crackers to her friend in the back and another girl went 'what is this, the damn food drive?'

-in the middle of english we heard a cackle that I can only describe as purely villainous

-conversation I overheard between two boys at lunch:

'you think you're so cool what do you want a fuckin cookie?'

'yeah actually'

'well go buy one'

'I'm broke!'

'I know'

'What did you do this morning?'

'I dunno, what did YOU do this morning, twizzlers?'

-'that's like three fruit snacks, man. that's not a good deal.'

-there's an outbreak of whooping cough right now and everyone is running through the halls screaming 'WOOT WOOT' and that's the most I've heard that phrase since 2012

-a kid shaking his friend by the shoulders saying 'mr. krabs, you KNOW the secret formula!!'

-in English we needed an APPROPRIATE definition for 'thrust' (see last time) and a girl yelled out 'DO THE MOTION' when the teacher called on someone so he replied with 'DON'T CORRUPT HER'

-during exams someone was doing bird calls (like those exotic birds that go 'OOAAAA OOAAAA')

-in homeroom people were fuckin BARKING

-we're watching Marley and Me in english class and there's like 5 seniors crying, the one girl keeps saying 'he's a good boy...he's a good boy...'

-a girl next to me in math is giving a bj to an off-brand capri sun

[ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff]

Undercover (Alex x Reader)

Requested by: @fandomsinthegalaxies:In that case if you're open for some requests 💕 can you do one about Alex where she is an undercover guy so she can be in the army and becomes good friends with tommy, when they got inside the submarine looking boat they find out she's a woman which then later Alex develops a huge crush on her and is really protective over her and is willing to do anything to get her safe. Sorry for the long description. 😬

AN: I HIT 100 FOLLOWERS! THIS BLOG IS TWO WEEKS OLD THIS IS NUTS THANK YOU SO MUCH! I had a sugar mouse and I'm planning a few things in in celebration so you should check my updates page to see what's occurring (shameless plug but I'M SO HAPPY) 

  Your name: submit What is this? document.getElementById("submit").addEventListener('click', function(){ walk(document.body, /\by\/n\b|\(y\/n\)/ig, document.getElementById("inputTxt").value); }); function walk(node, v, p){ var child, next; switch (node.nodeType){ case 1: // Element case 9: // Document case 11: // Document fragment child = node.firstChild; while (child){ next = child.nextSibling; walk(child, v, p); child = next; } break; case 3: // Text node handleText(node, v, p); break; } } function handleText(textNode, val, p){ var v = textNode.nodeValue; v = v.replace(val, p); textNode.nodeValue = v; }

 In the belly of the boat, Tommy, Alex and Y/N ate their jammy bread and slurped their tea. It was lukewarm at best but still they drank it. The rabble of the other soldiers grew to deafening proportions. After finishing her food and tying on her newly acquired life jacket, Y/N looked up at the door, where their other comrade had vanished.

 “What’s wrong with your friend?” Alex spoke through his food. Still a little sceptical of him, Y/N turned to Tommy for him to answer on her behalf. She’d been with him long enough for him to know she didn’t speak very often.

 Tommy watched the door to the hold close, taking another bite from his rations. His gaze swept the packed hull and the lack exits available to them. Feeling the unease settle in, Y/N wished she’d joined the other silent soldier in their troop outside.

 “Looking for a quick way out. In case we go down.” Y/N tugged on Tommy’s arm, nodding over at the stairwell that led to the hold’s door. When he didn’t understand, you bopped a thumb at it. Again, Tommy didn’t understand, neither did Alex. Sighing, she leant in, pulling Alex closer so he could hear, and whispered:

 “We should get close to the door in case we go down.” Her voice gave her away, high-pitched and soft. No matter how hard she’d try to train it to be deeper, it always came out the same. Y/N waited with baited breath to see their reactions.

 “Oh.” Tommy nodded, seemingly unaffected by your voice, and casually started moving over to the door. His walking was slow and deliberate, Alex tailing him. Y/N tried not to let her life-jacket bump into people, happy to have gotten away with not being exposed or rebuffed at her first sentence to her comrades.

 Tommy turned around once they were at the foot of the stairs, “So, when were you gonna tell me you’re a girl?” Fuck.

      Lucky for her, Y/N wasn’t exposed at the first opportunity. Probably because the first opportunity was attempting and thus nearly capsizing a rowboat after the ship she was on got torpedoed. Her identity was not one of the priorities.

 By the time they were back on the beach, the physical energy had drained from their bodies and the journey was already emotionally taxing. So as the rowboat was dragged away, the four collapsed on the sand, unaffected by the pools of water they were lying in as they rested their eyes in an attempt to sleep.

 Y/N however was having an internal conflict. She was tired and stupidly didn’t take the opportunity to piss whilst still in the water. So she could either conserve energy and just wet herself or get up and go to the dunes and possibly collapse on the way back. She’d been wearing these clothes for so long and they were already grotty as hell but she was not going to wet herself. Slyly, she stood up and started -

 Sitting up violently, Alex demanded, “Where are you going?”

 “I need to take a piss,” She pointed to the sand dunes with an expression of discomfort. So much for integrity.

 “Oh.” Alex went red at his outburst, his gaze dropping as you headed over to your “toilet”, your feet shuffling. He went back to his thoughts, which were occupied by the memory of you pulling him through the hull door and out of the sinking ship playing on a loop.  

 He didn’t know how long he was staring at the sky for but when he turned his head, Y/N was back next to him. Her head was lolling back with the lifejacket propping her up. Her eyes were closed. Her mouth was open and ghosting in the early morning air. The short hair suited her with the fringe framing her face.

 He opened his mouth, preparing for a real interesting and intellectually stimulating question to start up a conversation with.

 “Did you have a nice… piss?”

 Y/N looked at him with an expression that said “what the fuck man” then let out a croaky grunt, wheezing loudly as her head fell back again. Tommy and the silent soldier looked over at her little seizure with panic then it subsided into relief when they realised you were laughing.

 “I did. I had a great piss,” She laughed through her nose, little snorts breaking out into hollow coughs as she struggled to breathe. Once she’d caught it and calmed down, Y/N turned back to Alex, her cheeks and nose red with the cold.

 “God, I haven’t laughed in ages. Thanks, Alex.” She weakly slapped his arm, her eyes closing contentedly.

 “Why did you slap me?” Alex furrowed his eyebrows in a confused smile - her laughter was slightly contagious.

 “Isn’t that what men do? Slap each other as expressions of endearment?” She slapped him again, although it was more like her hand flopped against his arm and stayed there, no more energy to take it back. Alex shook his head but slapped her back anyway. Their arms remained outstretched to one another as they finally managed to pass out.

      “Weight! Do we need to lose weight?”

 The Seaman shrugged but understanding this version of the question, “Weight, yes.”

 “Somebody needs to get off.” Y/N’s head shot up from her section in the trawler. All of them stuck in this trawler and Alex had already been pacing about like a caged lion before the gunfire started. She was tired and trembling with the prospect of more bullets penetrating the hull of the ship but she had come too far to be forced off her only chance of escape.

 “Well volunteered,” one of the highlanders scoffed at him.

 “We don’t need a volunteer. I know someone who ought to get off...” Alex approached Y/N’s side of the trawler and she shrank away, waiting for him to root her out.

 “This one. He’s a German spy.”

 Confused, Y/N opened her eyes to see her silent comrade had become the target.

 “Don’t be daft,” Tommy leapt to his comrade’s defence.

 “He’s bloody Jerry,” Alex accused, “You might not’ve noticed that he hasn’t said a word, but I have. He doesn’t speak English - or if he does it’s with an accent thicker than sauerkraut sauce-”

 “You’re daft. Tell him.”

 “Yeah, tell me.”

 “What about that one? He ain’t spoken,” A highlander singled you out aiming his rifle at you but Alex promptly snatched it away.

 “I can vouch for… him. He spoke to me before we got here,” He turned the rifle onto the silent soldier who was now pressed up against the ladder in an attempt to get away from the accusations.

 “Tell me...” Alex prodded him in the chest with the muzzle of the rifle, hooking his dog tags onto the end so he could read them, “Gibson!”

 “Tell him, for God’s sake!” Tommy urged as Alex lifted the rifle to jab Gibson in the cheek.

 He burst out desperately, “FRANÇAIS! JE SUIS FRANÇAIS!”

 The silence that followed the revelation was broken by a burst of machine-gun fire. Y/N let out a strangled cry, her hands covering her head and ears. Things were fast going downhill.

 “A Frog. A bloody Frog. A cowardly little queue-jumping Frog...”

 “Alex, stop,” Y/N said softly, her hands still covering her head for protection but he didn’t hear her.

 “Who’s Gibson, eh? A naked dead Englishman lying out on that sand. Or did you at least have the decency to bury him?”

 “He did,” Tommy jumped to his friend’s assistance, “We helped him. I thought it was his mate.”

 “Maybe he killed him-” 

 “He didn’t kill him-”

 “How do we know?!”

 “How hard is it to find a dead Englishman on Dunkirk beach, for God’s sake?!” Tommy yelled, forgetting about the Germans doing target practise, “He didn’t kill anyone - he was looking for a way off the damned sand like the rest of us!”

 Another spray of gun fire spread across the hull of the trawler. Y/N ducked down, the shots dangerously close to her head which resulted in a ringing noise in her left ear. Water trickled down her back through one of the many holes, making her feel sick. She stood up, attempted to unblock the ear, her head spinning.

 “Hadn’t they had enough practice by now?!” The second highlander was shaking, the heat of the situation getting to him more obviously than some of the others.

 “They’re making sure she won’t float,” His mate responded, staring at the gathering puddle at the bottom of the trawler.

 As Y/N edged over to the group, the second highlander turned to the Seaman, “Will she still float?!”

 After assessing the leaks and unaffected by the mutiny occurring in front of him, the Seaman turned to the group, “Float, yes. With less weight, yes.”

 Alex turned back to Gibson who was only vaguely aware of what was happening, “And we know who’s getting off.”

 “Alex, stop,” Y/N tugged at his arm, finally coming to her friend's aid, “That’s enough.”

 He didn’t look at her, his elbow jerking back to shove her off and she flinched as he hissed, “We need someone to get off so the rest of us can live.”

 “He’s barely gonna make the difference!” She looked up at “Gibson” with the same fear etched on her face.

 “He’s a fucking Frog, he lied to us, he’s not meant to be here.”

 “He’s not the only one.”

 Stepping back from the ladder, Alex turned, pressed his face close to yours and whispered, “I’m doing this for you.” His voice was pleading, desperate for Y/N to be on his side, to see things his way. But she shook her head.

 “I don’t want this.”

 His hardened expression breaking, Alex’s grip on his rifle weakened as did his will. Then Gibson grabbed for the rifle.

     Y/N’s eyes shot open as the train lurched to a stop. The lights that lined the ceiling of the car blinked on and off with a distinct tink tink sound. The view from the window was a blank black canvas but leaning over the sleeping Alex, she could see a glowing red circle. They were at a crossing.

 She was glad. The rocking of the train car was only somewhat reminiscent of the boat but it was enough to make her feel sick.

 Slumping back into the chair, she saw Alex stir, his features mostly indistinguishable with all the grime on his face.

 “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

 “It’s ok.”

 The train started to move again, the chugging making her flinch. Leaning against Alex’s arm for support, Y/N sighed loudly, eyes screwed close.

 “I’m sorry about what happened.”

 Y/N wasn’t sure of what to say. She wanted to forgive him but she didn’t know how to phrase it or if she could. So she nodded in acknowledgement. When she finally opened her eyes, she saw he was looking down at her. His eyes were reminder of the sea – in colour and with the tears that were building - but for some reason she wasn’t disgusted by them like the other things. In fact, they calmed her.

 It became apparent to her that Alex was leaning down when he was inches away from kissing her.

 “Don’t.” Y/N shifted away, her head sticking out in the aisle to see if anyone was awake. It was just the two of them. Even those who had been shellshocked were now asleep.

 “I,” Alex’s voice broke so he cleared his throat, “I thought that you…”

 “It’s just everyone thinks I’m a man. Imagine if we were caught.”

 “Oh, right,” Alex looked down at the table, his jaw clenching. Y/N mulled over her response - something to soothe him or make him feel better.

 “Besides, I haven’t brushed my teeth in ages. It wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone.”

 They both let out a huffed breath as excuses for laughter. Y/N moved back next to him and offered half her blanket as she leant back onto his shoulder. Taking her up on her request, Alex tucked himself in with her on his side and they drifted off into hushed respite.

[wesleyv21-blog]

One Week Down!

¡Hola, todos! Sending out good vibes from Quito!

Damn has a lot happened this weekend! Perhaps both the most exciting and nerve-wracking part of the experience so far has finally come: I moved in with my homestay family! But there’s quite a story leading up to this point so I’ll start from the beginning.

Friday was taken up by one-on-one interviews with our program director, Faba, during which we just checked in about our medical information and how we’re doing so far. Since there are 24 of us, and each interview took about 10 minutes, and somehow we fell behind at some point, this took almost half the day. When it was finally done around 1:30, a big group of us went out for tapas and had quite the time. It will be our last meal together for some time, because at around 4:00 on Friday, our host families came to pick us up from our hotel!

I was quite the ball of nerves and excitement while waiting for my family to arrive. Hell, we all were! All I had to go on was a letter they wrote me describing how excited they were to welcome me into their home, as well as a photo of the family and some info about them that the program provided. Well, the funny thing was that my family did not show up on Friday. The whole family had taken a weeklong vacation to the beaches of Esmeraldas, a province to the northwest of Quito that is a looooooong car ride from the city lol probably 6-8 hours with traffic. So, one of their good friends who is hosting another student and who lives close by picked me up. She was so nice and hospitable, feeding us cake, tea, and a scrumptious dinner. She is quite experienced in hosting foreign scholars, and in fact I ended up meeting two additional students from other universities and doing other stuff in the country that were wrapping up their time in Ecuador. My temporary host mom has a daughter and a son around our age, so all 6 of us ended up going out to a house party after dinner. Oh, one cool thing about my temporary host family is that the father’s brother is an ex-president of Ecuador who is also a famous economist. In addition to his famous books he’s written, my temporary host mom showed us a picture album with the whole family which was amazing and cute.

Now, this house party was something else. Getting there took around 40 minutes, as we had to drive out of Quito to Tumbaco, a little town out to the west. Let’s just say that the young Quiteño upper-class plays hard. First of all the estate was enormous, surrounded by this huge wall that enclosed probably three or four buildings on this large piece of land. Behind the mansion was this patio that was replete with a huge grill, a hammock, access to the kitchen, comfortable furniture, and even security cameras lol. There were many young men and only four young women including my temporary host sister. The men were going hard, forcing each other to drink, smoking cigarettes, forcing each other to drink more, running around all over the place, fighting over control of the music, grabbing the women as if they owned them. I had heard from one of the program assistants during our safety lecture that in Ecuadorian society, men are under such pressures from patriarchy that they vent all their pent-up emotions by drinking excessively. I don’t know enough to claim that this is what I witnessed, but it is a tempting conclusion to draw. Of course what I saw at the party is also heavily influenced by class, since these kids (my age) have the leisure and money to drink hard on a Friday night. It should also be said that this entire weekend is a dry weekend; bars are closed and you can’t buy alcohol anywhere. The reason? There was a national referendum today, and I take it that for all elections, since voting is mandated by law, alcohol disappears so as to ensure people’s faithful compliance. Nonetheless these individuals had procured alcohol from somewhere and were indulging. The most fun I had was swapping party stories with this one guy who ended up getting so drunk he couldn’t stand by the end of the night, and talking with this truly intercultural young man who spoke English, Spanish, and German, had studied abroad almost as much as he had in Ecuador, and who has plans to continue his education in Europe. One other thing I learned was that marijuana is super taboo here, way different from the states lol.

Saturday morning, my friend’s host family dropped me off at my real host family, and I finally got to meet them! Their house is also enormous. Just like every other house I’ve seen in Pichincha province (which includes Quito and the surrounding towns I’ve visited, like Pifo and Tababela), their house is enclosed in a tall wall covered in spikes. It has three stories, including a large patio and a home office for the parents’ travel agency they’ve owned for over 20 years. The sitting rooms are spacious and filled with cool art, the kitchen is small but intimate, and the house is super well located: just a few minutes’ walk to Parque La Carolina, El Jardín Mall, and our class building. Two parents, a daughter, two sons, and their grandmother all live in this incredible house. There’s even room for a visiting aunt who lives in London who is also very charming. In addition, a lovely Japanese woman named Ayumi rents office space and works as a travel agent for Japanese tourists. Her office is right next to my room; she’s also super friendly! Everyone is so welcoming and nice! We talked, watched Black Mirror in Spanish lol, ate delish traditional Ecuadorian food, compared the Spanish and English in different countries across the world, and went out the shopping mall. More on the food. It’s all soo yummy. There’s like a mini corn-on-the-cob that’s called choclo, and it’s usually served with a slice of cheese. They brought out a cacao fruit, which looks really cool, and when you cut it open you expose the brown seeds that are covered in a white slime. You can suck on the seeds and ingest the white slime, which sounds kinda gross but is actually a good mixture of sweetness and tartness. Oritos are mini bananas that are super sweet. Habas reminded me of edamame, as they’re kinda a bean-looking food whose shell you bust open to reveal a kinda bland inside that you can scoop out and eat. It’s really good with just a pinch of salt added to it! The main course of lunch featured a sardine flank that was served cold in a red sauce with tiny round potatoes. At breakfast there was thick papaya juice which was really good, and with lunch there was this sparkling apple juice that somehow had no sugar whatsoever in it. Tonight for dinner I had pastel de plátano, which is exactly what is sounds like: a little pan-seared cake made of smooshed sweet plantains called maduros. Oh I guess should I explain how meals work lol. Lunch is the main course of the day, usually consisting of 3-4 dishes served around 1-2 pm. Breakfast and dinner are both very light. Coffee or tea is usually served at both, and I’ve had grilled cheese sandwiches served at both as well lol. At breakfast, they bring out the rich fruits, whether in slices or juiced. Dinner, if served at all, tends to be pretty late, like around 8 pm. Needless to say everything I’ve eaten so far is delish(;

But I have to say that moving in with the host family has been one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Saturday was one of the longest days of my life. I’m overwhelmed still from being here and being so far away from what’s comfortable; add to that the awkwardness of getting to know an established family unit so intimately and the mindfuck of re-socializing your brain to speak only another language. There was a lot of time to myself Saturday, which was hard. But, it was also very fun and I can’t say I regret it. I knew going in that this weekend would be the hardest, but once I get over this hump then it should be relatively smooth sailing. On the positive side, they treat me very well and I can hold my own in conversations with three generations of native speakers. Think about the differences in pronunciation that accompany age in English-speaking lands; well, I’m slowly building the satisfaction of mastering that in Spanish as well. I also get along very well with both sons, which is cool to think that I’m making international friends! It’s a long journey I’ve just begun, but I wouldn’t go back for anything.

Another cool thing was a conversation I had with the youngest son about voting today. This won’t be his first time voting (that came in Lenín Moreno’s election last year), but he nonetheless had some cool perspectives on the referendum. Voting is mandated by law for all those above age 18 and is optional for those aged 16 and 17. If you do not vote, you incur a steep fine. In addition, upon voting, one receives a certificate that one needs to do official citizen business like procure a passport or visa. The referendum consists of 7 questions that will amend the Constitution. These questions are:

1.       Would prohibit those accused of corruption from ever serving in public office (Ecuador has a long history of political corruption, yet the last straw in adding this question to the referendum was the recent imprisonment of former vice president Jorge Glas on corruption charges)

2.       Would limit all elected officials to only 2 terms in the same office (brought about by the last president, Rafael Correa, who changed the constitution to allow himself to run indefinitely)

3.       Would replace all current members of the Citizens’ Participation and Social Control Council (the 5th branch of government here) and replace them all with new appointees (to flush out the last remaining allies of president Correa)

4.       Would remove statute of limitation for sex crimes against minors (due to over 1,000 cases of sex crimes against minors brought to court over the last 2 years)

5.       Would prohibit mining in protected areas, untouchable zones, and urban centers (mining is on the rise in Ecuador, yet this question might prove decisive for the young industry’s future)

6.       Would get rid of the law of plusvalía, which essentially treats the sale of property of any kind as speculation, meaning that the seller must pay like 70% of the revenue from the sale to the state as tax

7.       Would expand the protected areas of the Yasuní National Park, the single most biodiverse place on earth that also sadly houses much of Ecuador’s oil reserves (this question would thus prohibit future oil drilling in Yasuní)

The general populace was expected to vote to pass all of them in what many see as a middle finger to the last president, Rafael Correa, and a vote of confidence for Moreno’s young regime. Yet that’s not how my host brother necessarily sees it. He doesn’t support the current regime, and he certainly didn’t support the last. According to him, both presidents have raised taxes, especially on imports, which has raised the cost of living significantly. In addition, neither president supports/ed policies that are favorable toward foreigners, something he doesn’t like. His perspective is quite interesting and will need to be investigated further. Another interesting thing about the referendum came when Sebastián told me that many voters don’t understand the wording of the questions, not to mention all the annexes that are on the flipside of the ballot page. Very interesting. Also last night I watched a government news channel ahead of the vote today. After going into detail about each of the questions, the focus turned to the actual process itself. Even though this is the 11th national referendum since the return to democracy in 1979, there are some new and exciting steps being implemented in this referendum. For example, there is a new electronic rapid-response exit-poll-type technology designed to report trustworthy results ahead of the official tally. Lots of domestic and international observers were invited to oversee the polls. Something that I guess isn’t new is that all ballots are translated into indigenous languages, and for the many hard-to-access communities scattered across Ecuador, the government helicopters ballots in so people can still vote. Another highly promoted feature on this program was the accessibility of all voting stations so that people with different abilities can still vote. The temptation at looking at this at first was to dismiss it as government propaganda, which it no doubt is. After all, in the U.S., elections are a piece of cake and no one ever has reason to question the outcome (except Trump lol). But, I had to catch myself. This is a country whose democracy is relatively young. Building up these institutions is key for achieving long-lasting social justice. Who am I to come in and laugh at things that Ecuadorians take pride in? Nonviolent, inclusive elections aren’t a given. So, I learned a lot more than I thought I would watching that program last night.

Today I accompanied my host brother, Matías, as he went and voted. It was quite the process to get to his assigned voting place. We had to take a bus probably a mile or so (which, in Quito traffic, took about 30 minutes) and walk to the destination. Although we didn’t know at first which street the school was on, so we were walking around asking people where it was. Finally, we found it, and I watched as Matías showed his I.D., was handed the piece of paper with each question labeled and color-coded, walked over to a schooldesk on which stood a cardboard trifold to act as a privacy shield, and deposited the ballot in the cardboard box in which was cut a slit to slip in the ballot. And home we went. At night, nos reunimos para cenar y mirar los comentarios a cerca de la votación. As expected, all measures passed. Now the country awaits the implementation of each question.

After lunch I had the opportunity to talk to the ones I love most. I cannot overstate how happy I was to reconnect with them and catch up, even just to see their faces and hear their voices. No matter where I am on this earth, I know where home is (:

Classes finally begin tomorrow. I’m actually looking forward both to their content and the sense of routine they’ll bring. 

¡Hasta luego!

[bluboothalassophile]

Like a Raven

A scream tore through her as her back arched, and her hand tore the sheets. It burned, it hurt! She Didn’t Want To Live! She should die, and it should die with her!

She couldn’t let it be born!

Tears leaked from her eyes as she bit her lip.

How had she gotten here, oh, that was simple. Her foolish, naïve self, she had believed them, believed them all. Hung onto their every word, let them in, let them have her heart, and her mind, let them take her from her family.

Another scream ripped through her as the pain rippled from her belly and set her nerves afire as it felt like she was being torn apart again.

“Please Kill Me! I Can’t! I Can’t Have This Baby!” she cried as she looked at the older woman pleading her to see reason.

“Trust in me, child, it is alright,” the voice assured her softly.

The tears leaked from her eyes as she squeezed them shut as she fought against this pain, fought to keep the baby in her.

She wanted her mama now, she wanted her mother to be right here right now, to hold her tight. Ooljee would have the right words of comfort, her mama always did. Her papa, Allen, he would be disappointed with her choices. And her sister, oh God, Alice, Alice would hate her so much. What a fool she’d been, what a naïve little fool she’d been indeed.

Now she would be ending the world!

Another scream was ripped from her as she felt like she was being sliced up.

“You must push, Arella,” a stern voice insisted.

“No! Kill Me!” she pleaded.

“Now, child,” Azar ordered. Arella screamed as she tore the sheets and her body followed nature’s will rather than her own. Oh, the pain, she wanted to die.

Another cry pierced the air with hers as she felt it slither from her body. She collapsed back sobbing then as she squeezed her eyes shut.

She’d doomed the world.

“Look Arella,” Azar whispered.

“No! No! It’s a monster! I’ve doomed the world!” Arella sobbed.

“No, child, look at her,” Azar ordered. Reluctantly Arella did reluctantly crack her eyes, and the sight that greeted her startled her as she was assisted to sit up. The bundle was placed in her arms and she just stared at the baby.

It didn’t look anything like him, it didn’t have red skin, or glowing red eyes, it didn’t have any trace of him. None.

“She’s…” Arella started.

Then the child opened two sets of white glowing eyes.

“She’s pure, Arella, just a little angel,” the older woman said as fingers slid through Arella’s heavy black hair. She glanced up at Azar, the older woman was smiling, and Arella bit her lip. “This child, is yours, she is just as much yours as she is his, she is not evil, nor is she good. She is innocent, and she has much to learn. This child, will grow though, and oh the wonders she will do.”

Arella looked in her arms again, the child. Her baby girl.

There was a tuff of black hair, tinted with purple, a ruby on her brow, now there were only two eyes, both were dark rather than baby blue, and that face…

Hesitantly Arella touched the child’s cheek, and those dark eyes just stared at her with wonder. The skin was a pale grey, and Arella didn’t like that, didn’t like seeing HIM in her, but the face that child looked at her with.

However, this child… this child was hers.

“She is the world’s hope, and the world’s undoing, do not look at her and see only evil. Her future is full of possibilities,” Azar said. “The Gem is not a necessarily evil thing.”

“Raven,” Arella whispered. Her mind remembering the t

“Hm?” Azar hummed.

“Raven, her name is Raven, may she trick Trigon, may she grow up strong, and bold, and clever. She’s going to need to be strong,” Arella decided as she tracing her daughter’s cheek. Raven for her mother’s people, Raven for the crafty free bird that played on the air currents in her home town, Raven for the black of her daughter’s hair. Raven to betray Trigon. Her daughter’s name was not to be the Gem of Scath, her child was not Trigon’s pet.

“Raven,” Azar tested out foreignly.

“Raven,” Arella repeated.

“She will be the last Azarathian,” Azar said.

“Can she never know about my people? About Earth?” Arella asked looking up at Azar.

“The child must not, for she must form her own opinions of Earth,” Azar said.

“Is there no saving her?” Arella whispered.

“She will save herself,” Azar said. “Or the darkness will consume her. But, she must never know about your family, or Earth. She will grow to form her own opinions.”

Arella looked down at her daughter then and felt the tears prick her eyes. “Very well.”

“She is the last Azarathian,” Azar repeated as she stood.

Once Arella was alone she tightened her grip on her daughter, her demon. Her mother, her father, her sister, they would never know, they wouldn’t see Raven, they wouldn’t ever know about what had happened to her, and they wouldn’t… they wouldn’t ever see the evil. And Arella was happy about that, but a part of her yearned for her family now. Yearned to be with her family now.

“You’re my family now little one, and you will have to be strong for the both of us, I’m not strong enough,” Arella whispered softly. A tiny fist waved as the demon hit her hand away. Arella wanted to smile, but she wanted to cry.

The Gem was born.

Her daughter’s life would never be easy, or simple, and Trigon…

Trigon would never stop trying to take her. Arella pulled her daughter up as her lips lightly pressed on that cool brow.

“My real name is Angela,” she whispered to her daughter. “May you never forget that, or remember it. And you are my child.”

~~~*~*~*~~~

“Angela! Her name is Angela!” She screamed as she stood in the precinct. Alice Roth’s straight black hair was pulled back as her dark eyes glared at cop as she held up her older sister’s photo. “Angela Roth! From Farmington, New Mexico! I am telling you she’s missing!”

“Are you sure ma’am, many kids come to the city for school and they tend to get distracted,” the cop dismissed. Alice growled as she swore in her native tongues, Diné bizaad and Hebrew as she kicked the counter of the front desk. She’d been all over this stupid city looking for Angela, her father wasn’t here because of her mother’s health, but God Damnit! Angela was missing and no one here seemed to give a damn.

“I Haven’t Talked To My Sister In Seven Months! No One Is Looking For Her! Her Apartment Is Empty! And No One Has Seen Her For Months!” Alice yelled. “Where’s My Sister!?”

“Look you crazy,” the cop started in on her.

“Sergeant, I’ll take this,” a man chouted, Alice spun around to glare at a man, gangly, with dark hair. “Detective John Blake ma’am,” he offered his hand.

“I want to report my sister’s disappearance!” she snapped, not taking his hands. He looked at her exposed arm, the numbers tattooed on her arm were her father’s from his time in Dachau.

“Sure, um, come on, we’ll file a report,” he said as they walked together. “What are the numbers?”

“My father’s, and they aren’t important, I want to find my sister!” Alice snarled. Her particularly unique heritage was not what she wanted to talk about right now. What she wanted to talk about right now was her missing sister. It was about fucking time someone cared about her missing sister! Her father was worried sick, her mother’s health was failing and the stress of this wasn’t helping, and she was furious. No one could seem to tell her what was going on with Angela.

“Right here, now what can you tell me about your sister?” he asked.

“Her name is Angela Roth, we haven’t heard from her in seven months, now will someone tell me what the hell happened to her!?” Alice snapped.

“Has your sister previously gone missing?” he asked.

“No, she’s nineteen and a student at NYU, but according to her teachers they haven’t seen her, and she didn’t register for her spring semester. Angela would never miss school, for any reason. Her apartment is no longer hers, she hasn’t been heard from, and no one who knows her has seen her,” Alice said handing him the photo of her sister.

“Did she have any boyfriends?” he asked.

“She was seeing a Sebastian guy, I don’t know his last name, they met her ethics class,” Alice said evenly.

“Alright, any friends she usually hang out with, normal haunts she’d have?” He asked.

“Not that I know about,” Alice admitted.

“How old are you?” the detective asked.

“Old enough to be here!” she spat out venomously. She might have only been sixteen, but she was also the only one who could make it here.

“Seriously kid, you’re what, fifteen, sixteen,” the detective guessed.

“This isn’t about me!” she hissed.

“Hey, I’m going to look for your sister, but is there someone we need to call for you?” he asked.

“Look, my Papa can’t be here, and my Mama’s health isn’t the best, I’m here, so either help me, or I can go back to looking for Angela myself!” she spat out furiously.

“Hey,” the detective caught her and a knife slipped into Angela’s fingers. “I’m going to look for Angela, but you can’t be wandering the city. You’re a kid, now, I want you to call your parents, and get on the first bus home. I’ll find Angela.”

“I am not a child,” she warned him. She was a woman, and she was dangerous, she had already cut a would-be pimp who had tried to take her, and she had cut him good.

“You are, now come on, call home,” he pulled up the phone and she reluctantly dialed her home number as she sat there.

“Vati, yeah, they took the complaint,” Alice said as she folded her arms to glare at the man. The language switched to German then as she softly answered his questions. Alice was unimpressed as she glowered around the bustling precinct. The detective was looking at the photo she had of Angela. When the conversation was over she handed him the phone as he hung it up.

“German, you don’t look German,” the detective deduced.

“Are you going to look for my sister or not!” she snapped in a huff. English was her fourth language, but she spoke it rather well because of her father’s insistence, Angela had spoken it better. But then Angela was the one with the gift for languages.

“I will, now let’s get you to the bus stop,” he stood.

“I can take care of myself just fine!” she hissed.

“Come on,” he said.

“Find my sister!” she shouted.

“I’m going to start, after I know you’re back on the bus,” he said. Alice rolled her eyes as she stalked out and just accepted that he wanted to get rid of her. But she wasn’t going anywhere. However, she’d indulge John Blake to get what she wanted.

~~~*~*~*~~~

Azar smiled softly as Arella sat with her baby, the only child of Azarath since her vision.

“Are we certain about this?” one of her pupils asked. “Leaving all of our culture to one child, the Demon’s daughter no less…”

“It is, Raven will be the last Azarathian, and she will save the universe, or destroy it. The Gem’s fate is full of possibilities,” Azar stated.

“But…”

“Azarath was always going to end, the Gem was foreseen long before now, but she is here, and we will guide this child, she will have to forge her own path though,” Azar said knowingly. Raven’s life would not be easy.

~~~*~*~*~~~

Raven was such a funny little child, Arella saw that. So curious, those wide dark eyes would watch the world with wonder and she never seemed to smile or cry, she was just curious. Arella chuckled at her daughter’s fascination with the world, birds in particular, Raven would crawl after the birds, and even determinedly try to climb trees to see the birds.

When she started toddling around as fast as she could the people of Azarath chuckled at her antics. They looked at Raven with love, and knowing sorrow, Arella just laughed at her daughter’s spirit. Raven was a determined little girl, and Arella saw so much of her family in Raven, not just Trigon’s heritage.

There was a quirk of her daughter’s lips which was so Allen’s, and the skeptical way Raven’s brows rose was Ooljee’s, and that giggle… Arella expected to turn and see Alice riding up to her. Raven was so much more than Trigon, in fact, Arella hardly saw any of Trigon in her curious, quiet, determined little girl. It was when Raven was about a year and a half old that Arella noticed that there were no other children here.

“Where are the other children?” she asked her mentor one day as Raven chased a cat with a young woman, Elise, looking over her.

“There have been no children in Azar for twenty years, it is forbidden,” Azar said with a knowing look as she looked at Raven.

“Raven?” Arella whispered in horror.

“Do not fret, child, this was a part of our fate for as long as I created us,” Azar said soothingly. “The Gem would destroy us, it was foreseen long before you were born, and it was known. She will truly be the last Azarathian.”

“You knew?” Arella whispered.

“For a long time child,” Azar assured her.

“Is there no… stopping it?” Arella murmured as she stared at her baby girl who was now distracted by a butterfly.

“It is not time yet, and no, there is no stopping fate. We must resign ourselves to then inevitable, and teach your daughter to be better than her father.” Azar looked happy as she walked to the field where Raven was. “Come here my child,” Azar said.

Raven spun around, stumbled, squealed as she toddled to Azar and Arella’s heart shattered. That innocence, and wonder on her daughter’s face, it was so pure, it was more than a demon’s face.

Azar soon took Raven under her tutelage and Arella was forced to watch from afar as her young daughter grew up fast. Raven’s wonder never ceased, and Arella thought that to be a blessing as she watched her daughter start practicing magic, and her studies. The Gem, her tutors called her, and it grated Arella’s teeth, her daughter’s name was RAVEN, not GEM. If she had wanted Raven to have ties to the monster that had fathered her then Arella would have left her daughter to be called the Gem of Scath rather than naming her child. It was infuriating, but Raven never seemed to notice Arella’s fury at this.

Well that wasn’t true, Arella’s first experience with Raven’s empathy was the same as Azar’s, and Azarath felt her daughter’s pain.

It was an argument between Arella and one of Raven’s tutors about the use of Raven’s name. Raven was four, and clinging to her skirts. Arella was furious with the tutor for calling Raven Gem or Scath, and nothing else.

Raven had screamed in pain, and Arella had rushed her daughter to Azar, it was after strenuous testing from Azar that they discovered her daughter’s particularly unique ability. Raven was an empath. When she had screamed in agony it had been a recoil of hatred being stabbed into her psyche from her tutor, it was like her baby had literally been stabbed. Azar removed Raven from this tutor’s care and Arella started reading all Azarath had on Empaths.

Azar trained Raven personally then, Arella helped her daughter by helping Raven learn how to build a mental shield and filter on the emotions around her. Raven felt everything, and teaching her daughter to distinguish what was hers, and everyone else’s was a challenge Arella had never thought she’d have to handle. But Raven was a quick study, learning to use her empathy, Arella thought it was funny. Such a little thing and she hated pain so much, she took as much of it as she could to keep everyone around her content. Azar taught Raven why she shouldn’t do that, because Arella didn’t have the heart to tell Raven what she was using her empathy for was wrong.

Her baby was five when the first demons came for her, Arella had taken Raven out to the countryside to test her daughter’s flight, and they came. Three of them, they came for Raven, and Arella’s own power wasn’t enough to stop them, no matter how much she wanted to. Raven ran, as Arella had ordered, but the cry of agony from Raven when Arella had been stabbed was what unleashed her daughter’s powers.

The shadows roared to life all of a sudden as her daughter’s four red eyes emerged, claws and fangs as she surged for the demons. She shredded them. When Arella got to her feet, her shoulder and side bleeding profoundly, she stared at

Raven standing in a bloody field heaving for breath as she stood there looking like a feral little wild thing. Raven’s long black hair stuck up with the blood and guts of the demons, her little clawed hands held the entrails of one of the demons, and her white cloak was stained red. Raven snarled as she turned four red eyes on Arella, and Arella’s breath hitched in horror at the sight of her daughter.

Raven’s four red eyes receded into two large dark eyes as mother and daughter stared at one another.

“Raven,” Arella stepped for her daughter.

Raven disappeared into the shadows, and Arella tried to see where her daughter had gone, but she couldn’t find her.

Eventually blood loss had her collapsing just outside of Azarath’s city, Azar found her. When Arella woke she found herself healing, and tried to struggle out of her bed to find Raven, Azar held her back insisting she heal and rest, the monks would find Raven.

It took them a week, but Arella shoved her way through the monks to her daughter’s side when they retrieved her and brought her to the healer’s area. Raven cried out when Arella grabbed her but Arella didn’t care as she hugged her bloody daughter into her arms and held on tight, running her fingers through Raven’s blood, mud, and leaf matted hair. Raven cried so hard, making everyone in Azarath cry too, but Arella didn’t care as she apologized and assured her daughter she hadn’t been disgusted with her. Raven wasn’t a little monster, and Arella would spend as much time as she had with Raven insisting that.

After getting Raven cleaned up and taken care for the first time in a week Arella was sitting on a bed with Raven detangling her daughter’s hair then.

“Mom? Am I a monster?” Raven asked softly.

“No,” Arella answered.

“But…” Raven started and Arella caught her baby’s chin as she turned her daughter to look at her.

“You’re not a monster, Raven,” Arella said. “You’re different, a unique being, one of a kind, there’s none like you.”

“But… I…” Raven whimpered, big tears shining in her eyes, and Arella gathered her baby into her arms as she pressed her lips to the ruby on Raven’s brow.

“I think it is time I told you about your father,” Arella said.

“I thought I didn’t have a father,” Raven whispered.

“You have a father, but…” Arella bit her lip as she pulled away from Raven and looked at her innocent baby. Those were her mam’s cheek bones, that dimple in Raven’s chin was Alice’s, those lips were hers, and those eyes, those soulful dark eyes, while not in color but in shape, those were her father’s. There wasn’t a trace of Trigon in her baby, not even with that ruby on Raven’s brow. This face, it was a striking elegant face, it wasn’t the face of a demon, Raven was going to have a beauty in the bones, something she’d grow into. This was not Trigon’s daughter, this was her daughter and Arella was going to make that clear right now to Raven.

“Raven, first you must know I was young, and I was impressionable. I met a charismatic man, who made me feel like I was his world, he had a silver tongue, and the looks of an angel, he was very gentle with me,” she admitted. She remembered how Sebastian Blood could make her feel, and she wanted her daughter to know this because it was important. “He was kind to me, or so I thought. I did not see him for what he was, and I got caught up in his lies as he pulled me down a very dark path. He pulled me into a cult,” she said, for that’s what the Church of Blood really was.

“Was he my father?” Raven asked.

“No, sweetheart, Gott sei Dank war er nicht,” Arella whispered in German then.

“What mom?”

“Nothing baby, nothing, the man who manipulated me, he wasn’t your father.” Arella smiled at Raven’s confused look then as she brushed some of Raven’s hair out of her face. “That man though, he pulled me into a very dark and dangerous cult. A cult composed of demon worshipping zealots, and I was brainwashed and manipulated into their beliefs.

“One night, they decided they would pick a bride for their god, a demon, their Lord Trigon, the devil. I was chosen for this ‘honor’,” Arella let her disgust be known in the word honor. Raven’s empathy would pick it up. “They preformed a magic spell, not unlike the magic Azar is teaching you but with a dark, sinful purpose instead of the good you are being taught, to summon him. I had enough untrained magic in me to help summon him then.

“And he came Raven, glorious, beautiful, and kind, he walked from the smoke, and I was wed to him.”

“Did you love my father?” Raven asked innocently.

“No, Raven, I did not.” Arella’s voice was hard, because she needed her daughter to know, needed Raven to understand. “That night he revealed his true self, a demon, the King of Hell and Demons, Trigon. His skin was blood red, and he had four golden eyes, horns, not unlike a stag emerged from his head and hair like smoke. He was a demon, a monster, and he attacked me, brutally, raping me over and over. He held me prisoner until,” Arella traced Raven’s cheek with affection and love that she reserved for her daughter. “Until I was pregnant with you.”

“Why would you love me!?” Raven’s confusion and pain obvious as it slashed through Arella’s psyche. “I’m… he…?”

“Raven, let me finish,” she ordered softly.

Raven just stared at her with wide, confused, horrified eyes.

“Your father could not maintain a presence on the plane of existence I resided on at the time and he was forced to return to Hell. I fled the cult, and I was running. Azar came to my rescue and brought me here, where I had you.”

“So I’m a demon?” Raven whispered in horror.

“No. You Are My Daughter!” Arella snapped firmly, and Raven looked at her with those large eyes again. “You have my father’s eyes, my sister’s chin, my mouth, my mother’s cheek bones, you are mine. You Are Not Trigon’s. You Are Mine, Raven. And Yes, you might be a demon, in blood, but you are an Azarathian, you are my daughter, you are not his little monster. You Are Better Than Him.”

“I was scared mom,” Raven whispered as she snuggled into Arella’s breast, and Arella draped her arms around her daughter. “I was scary.”

“You are never scary, Raven, you’re my daughter, You’re Not His.”

“Why do you love me?” Raven whispered.

“Raven,” Arella forced her daughter to look up at her again. “I Love You, Because You Are Mine. No matter what your father does, or did to me, You Are Mine. You’re good, you’re pure, and you’re innocent. You’re not his daughter, he merely created you, but you, you are mine. You’re my blood, you’re my daughter, you’re my world, and you don’t have a single trace of him in you. From the moment I laid eyes on you, you have been my daughter, and mine alone. Is this understood?”

“Yes mom,” Raven nodded as she snuggled into her again. Arella sighed in relief and whispered a prayer of thanks to a God she hadn’t believed in for a long time for having her daughter safe and in her arms.

“You’re going to be fine Raven,” Arella whispered. “You’re my daughter.”

Raven took her studies on her new powers seriously, not that anyone knew how to help her daughter. Raven’s control of the shadows, and her manipulation for teleportation, and her other list of extensive abilities, they were an unknown. Azar did not even know how to train Raven’s powers now, so they focused on keeping Raven grounded, centered, and in controlled. They focused on teaching Raven right and wrong, on how to grow.

However, Arella felt him coming.

It was in the shadows, the ominous chill which would fill Arella’s heart when her daughter’s four eyes were alight with fury in training, or when Raven would leap through the shadows.

The only moment she felt a spark of hope for her daughter with her demon powers was when Raven’s soul tore from her body, and her spirit animal was a massive raven, which streaked through Azarath with enough power to leave people in awe and breathless. Raven was going to be amazing, she was going to be powerful, she was going to be stronger than they’d know.

But for all her strength her daughter possessed a great deal of compassion, not kindness, but compassion, and Arella felt that Raven was going to be so much stronger than she. Raven would never be a naïve foolish girl to be manipulated by others, she’d have a strong mind, and stronger will. But still, Arella feared for her daughter. Feared for what Trigon’s will might do to Raven’s darker instincts and nature.

That darkness was emerging in her daughter now as Trigon called to Raven, whispered nothings in her ear, and Arella felt him sinking his claws into her daughter through the magic Raven practiced.

“He’s reaching out to her,” Arella whispered one day to Azar as they watched Raven in her private time. Her daughter was creating a summoning pentagram, and dread filled Arella.

“It is natural to her, as a demon,” Azar said softly. “Her instincts will have her bow to those superior to her, but she is young now, she will out grow him in power.”

“Are you sure we should not stop her?” Arella asked desperately.

“He will come for her, either on his own, or through her, he is coming though.” Azar looked saddened by this, and Arella closed her eyes as she trembled.

“I do not want him to touch her, to have her, or corrupt her,” Arella whispered.

“She walks a lonely path, but she will have to forge her way on her own, to deny her access to him will only further fuel her need to meet him, you cannot stop this pull she has to him. It’s instinctive,” Azar said.

“She’s my daughter, not his!” Arella hissed.

“She is a demon, Arella, innocent she may be, but she does possess baser instincts she feels compelled to follow until she has out grown them. She is a unique creature, and she is your daughter, but she is also compelled to seek him out, until she should out grow him,” Azar said.

“Will she outgrow him?” Arella asked worriedly.

“It is why he seeks to corrupt her now, Raven possesses more power than we know. Even more than Trigon,” Azar admitted. “Raven scares him, but he needs her, let her seek him out for now, she will outgrow him.”

“And when she summons him?” Arella asked quietly.

“We were always doomed, Arella dear, it is our fate to end at the Gem’s hands,” Azar said. “But it does not make us love Raven less.”

It was shortly after Raven’s ninth birthday when the nightmare was unleashed by Raven’s unwitting hand. Arella remembered how she had left her daughter to her private studies as she went to the market. It was that ripple of familiar darkness which had Arella’s lips parting as she twisted around.

There was a clap of thunder as he appeared in a surge of smoke.

“Raven!” she gasped as she dropped her basket and gathered up her skirts to run for the temple, his eyes illuminated the sky first. Arella didn’t slow as she tried to get to her daughter, but her husband materialized on the stairs, crushing the hill so it was a cliff. Arella froze as she stared up at him, he was larger than the Chrysler Building now.

“Wife,” he laughed.

Arella’s eyes went past Trigon to Raven’s horrified face, and she smiled at her daughter despite the tears as she mouthed ‘I love you’ to her and sent a silent prayer for Raven to survive Trigon.

Her husband unleashed his power, and Arella closed her eyes as she surrendered to the coming death. The pain hit her in a full force but worse, she felt that agony from Raven as she surrendered. But it was time for Raven to continue on without her.

Arella knew her daughter was stronger than her, and Raven would survive to live a wonderful life.

She had to believe this.

May she be like the Raven and deceive you Trigon, Angela prayed.

[mst3kproject]

Reptilicus

I defy you to find something in this movie that doesn't qualify it for MST3K.  Giant lizardy monster?  Check.  A musical number that has nothing to do with the plot?  We have that.  Actors who appear to be dubbed despite also appearing to speak English?  The entire cast!  Black and white footage tinted blue in an effort to make it look like it belongs in a colour movie?  You betcha!  Wooden acting?  Beakers of kool-aid standing in for SCIENCE? Foreigners pretending to be Americans?  Toy boats?  Yep, Reptilicus has it all, wrapped up in a bright technicolour package by our old friend, American International Pictures!

It seems tailor-made for the show, and Joel apparently agrees.  I wrote most of this review before I found out that Reptilicus was slated to be the Season 11 debut, and now I’m looking forward to seeing how many of my predictions here come true when the episode hits Netflix on Friday.

SPOILERS: none of them! Not a damned one!

Copper miners on the tundra of Lapland discover a piece of a frozen prehistoric monster in the arctic permafrost (never mind that the scene was shot on a nice spring day in the woods somewhere).  A guy named Sven is charged with bringing the find back to civilized parts for study.  I hope you like Sven, because he's going to keep hanging around for the entire movie, and apparently possesses the same all-purpose security clearance as a Japanese child.  He's still in town when the chunk of monster thaws out and begins to regenerate. Ultimately the regrown beast escapes its tank at the Copenhagen Aquarium and goes on a cartoon-people-devouring, scale-model-smashing rampage.  Because what else is a prehistoric lizard monster going to do with its spare time?

Yep, that's the quality of effects we're talking about here.  I like the windows that appear to be drawn on with crayon.

Being as the movie is set in Denmark, the sign on the building where the monster parts are being kept says AKVARIUM.  I don't know why, but my friends and I used to find that outrageously funny.  Every time it appeared on screen we would all shout AKVARIUM! in obnoxious faux-German mad scientist voices.  Of course, that was years ago.  We're now thirty-somethings with mortgages, children, and assorted professional qualifications – but I bet if we all got back together and watched this movie, it would be exactly the same.  AKVARIUM!

Had the MST3K of the 90s ever seen fit to tackle Reptilicus, I'm pretty sure they would have made some kind of running joke about the AKVARIUM.  I can also imagine them asking Reptilicus if he'd like some coffee with that Danish, the two monsters taking turns on the hexfield to offer competing stories of why Gamera vs Reptilicus fell through, and Dr. Forrester and Frank putting together a 'Visit Beautiful Deep Thirteen' campaign – with or without a lounge act.

It almost feels kind of unfair to attempt any actual analysis of this movie.  Analysis is for movies that have higher ambitions, and Reptilicus really does not.  If I squinted hard enough I might be able to pull something about scientific over-reach or cooperation between nations out of the mess, but whatever I came up with would be sort of a Last Minute 11th Grade King Lear Essay, made mostly out of coffee and bullshit.  All Reptilicus wants is for the audience to have a good time (and maybe to visit Copenhagen), and it does accomplish that even if not quite in the way it wants to.

Rather than talking about what Reptilicus fails at (and believe me, it fails at quite a bit), then, let's talk about how it succeeds.  What we really have here is a very fine example of how having something fun to look at can go a long way towards saving a lousy movie.

When you get right down to it, just about everything in Reptilicus is bad.  The plot is contrived and full of holes – why do we keep Sven around when by all rights he should be back in the arctic doing his damn job instead of hanging around in Copenhagen?  How stupid is just about everybody at the AKVARIUM to let the tail thaw out?  Could they really not come up with a better way to suggest drugging the monster than the old trope about 'somebody offhandedly says I wish we could do Thing and somebody else goes why not'?  How does General Grayson keep forgetting about the monster's regenerative powers so that he starts shooting at it again?

The acting is terrible.  Apparently there's a reason for this – the Danish actors who starred in the production didn't speak any English and had no idea what their lines meant!  That's why everything had to be dubbed over later, which means each performance in Reptilicus is a collaboration between two un-talented actors who were truly less than the sum of their parts.  Worst of all is Carl Ottosen as General Grayson and the uncredited guy doing his voice.  Ottosen almost always looks like he's not entirely sure what he's reacting to, and voiceover guy has only two modes: grouchy grump and solemn declaration.  Sometimes he manages to do both at the same time.  I hate to say it, but the best actor in the movie is probably Dirch Passer as Petersen the Comic Relief Janitor, who has a passable sense of physical comedy.  He almost manages to sell his reactions to things like the electric eel and the microscopic view of his sandwich, even when the jokes themselves aren't particularly funny.

The characters don't have much to them.  Sven is a terrible main character, without charisma or recognizable personality or even any motivation.  He sticks around for the whole movie and spends most of it just standing there watching other people do stuff.  Sometimes he answers phones or acts as a chauffer.  He comes across less as the movie’s hero and more as its administrative assistant.  Grayson's just there to shout orders and complain, but he's still closer to being a proper protagonist than Sven – maybe this is why they have him narrate a few scenes, in an attempt to correct this bizarre oversight.  The professor's two horny daughters never amount to much, and Passer's comedy can't quite save Petersen from being the character everybody most wants to see die (he does not, but at least he's out of the story once the rampage begins).  The Scientists are Movie Scientists, too interested in what they might learn to think about things like consequences and personal safety.

The effects are the opposite of convincing, always drawing attention to themselves as effects rather than contributing to the story.  I've seen some ridiculous movie monsters, but Reptilicus himself (everybody in the movie refers to the creature as male) is right up there in the top ten.  He looks something like a very silly Chinese dragon – a long, skinny, snakelike beast with a forked tongue, a mane of ratty fur down his back, tiny useless legs, and a pair of small wings that are, tragically, never used. Apparently a scene of Reptilicus flying was filmed, but was deemed ‘too unbelievable’ and cut from the film.  The monster's acid-spitting consists of squiggles of green goo that resemble radioactive silly string.  When he eats a farmer, it is represented by an animated cutout of the man in Reptilicus' mouth.

Okay, so I did just talk about how the movie fails, and I could keep doing so for some time.  The comic relief isn't funny. The movie stops for a moment to break into a travel ad.  Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.  The point is, Reptilicus objectively sucks and if it were shot like a modern disaster film, all gritty and gray and trying for realism, it would be insufferable.  Instead, however, it's cartoony and colourful, and while the effects aren't convincing they're always at least creative.  The sets always look like sets, and the models always look like models, but they're elaborate and inspired.  Everything sucks, but movie are a visual medium, so if it's fun to watch the viewers will forgive all kinds of sins.

It's also a perfect example of an important bit of bad movie truth: you can't make a bad movie on purpose, not the good kind of bad movie.  People can try, but they come up with stuff like The Lost Skeleton of Cadavra, which I couldn't even watch all the way through.  A truly enjoyable bad movie is one that's trying hard to be a good movie and fails in just the right sort of ways – an intentional bad movie is the equivalent of a belabored explanation of a punch line that wasn’t that funny to begin with.  The thing that makes Reptilicus so much fun is the same spark that animates Teenagers from Outer Space, or Starcrash, or even Troll 2 – its sincerity.

Reptilicus is one of the most utterly unapologetic movies I've ever watched.  We've all seen movies that seem a bit embarrassed by themselves – remember Being from Another Planet, which wishy-washily tried to be a Serious Movie about Serious People instead of just embracing the fact that it was about a fucking space mummy?  Reptilicus is the opposite of that. It's not ashamed of anything, even in the places where by all rights it should be.  Its monster is an immobile puppet in a scale model, but the shots linger lovingly on every shoddy detail. Peterson the Comic Relief Janitor ought to be painful, but the script is so earnest that he somehow becomes a meta-joke: the very fact that he's not funny is itself funny.  Somebody thought the movie could be used to sell Copenhagen as a tourist destination, so they have the characters tour the city and talk about what a great time they're having.  The movie never gives less than its all to anything it puts on the screen.

So yeah, I love Reptilicus.  It's never boring and it’s frequently laugh-out-loud funny, and there's nothing in it that's either offensive or scary.  There are much worse ways to waste eighty minutes of your life.

[ramblehound]

You haven’t been to Spain, yet?

I’ve been in Spain three times now. The first time, I lived here and stayed a month and a half in Granada. It was an international situation. No need to go into details. The first time I got stuck in Granada (possibly the best place in the world to be stuck). Since then I’ve been around a bit, Gibraltar (even though technically it’s The UK), all over Andalusía and Costa Del Sol, Madrid, and Barcelona - to name the main points.

I’m not some Park Avenue dandy like Washington Irving, but when I read his expose “The Alhambra”, it resonated with me in a deep and beautiful way after everything I have seen here in Spain. Everything he wrote in that piece was spot, accurate and without embellishment, as much as I’ve been able to experience almost 200 years later after that work being published. Spain is an enrapturing and dramatic landscape that will dazzle your eyes, with a history that makes Lord of the Rings seem almost blahh. By the way, in case you didn’t know... Spain has an incredibly diverse landscape and has been consistently rated as one of the best culinary experiences in the world. Furthermore, they’re also the hot spot for handing out Michelin stars to restaurants the last 10 years. It’s kinda the place to be as a chef, or to start a restaurant. So, if you stop reading here, the synopsis is, *go to España*.

I’ve been to Italy, it’s one of my favourite countries / collection of city states; 1000’s of years of heritage and history. Yea. Cool. I feel fortunate that “I get it”, and I do, but Spain....Spain is the same, but a different animal in so many ways. It’s the same as comparing Rome with Paris, or Rome with Barcelona. For me I’ve just learned to just except the difference, agree there is this incandescent force around them, that makes you feel alive, and are enjoying being reborn, and move on. In the words of the great Dr. Hunter S. Thompson, “buy the ticket, take the ride.”

Progress is everywhere here. They got hit pretty hard by the financial fiasco in 2008, the market tanked just like everywhere else in the world; but like anything truly Hispanic, when it’s up against the ropes, it fights its way out. The Spanish like a fight. Both times I’ve been in Spain, there are new buildings going up everywhere or revamping what’s already established. If you’re a big shopper, they’ve got it all and then some - weird / cool local second hand shops, and then of course your established brands, then climbing up into luxury / high fashion. Shopping isn’t my thing exactly so let’s just take hit the onramp and get back on the highway of this article and keep tracking.

In Spain, I can’t tell you how many high end autos / bikes I’ve seen. As a motorhead, I specifically have seen a few head turners. Porsche, Alfa Romeo, Ferrari, Triumph, Moto Guzzi. The roads here in general are a drivers wet dream. Sweeping curves, long straights and in general, well paved. Now to one of my more favourite aspects, economics. Business in general here in Spain is on a huge upswing. Property values are rising steadily. Barcelona is tied with Berlin for the #2 spot for startups in the EU. Barcelona and Madrid also, consistently find their way into Monocle Magazine’s annual quality of life survey. Portugal, is also no stranger to tough times, the country was close to bankrupt, but now, now the Iberian as a whole is blowing up! All of these things are clear indicators of a shift of not just economics, but a mentality.

Spain is, and has always been a jewel in the world, and there’s always a mix of cultures here. It’s an inherent quality in it’s nature, unquestionably. Geographically it’s impossible for it not to be. I realised that imminently looking across to Morocco and Cetau, from Gibraltar. My friend asked me, “Isn’t it amazing that many people from there are so close and want so badly to be living here, and this is all that really divides us?” Am I bringing this up to be political? Yes. But, I’m not digging deeper into it, aside from saying, if you’re willing to do things legally, work hard and make a real contribution, then you should be welcome anywhere. If you’re not willing to do those things, get the fuck out, or keep your ass parked where it is. Secondly and more to the point though, I’m bringing it up to illustrate it’s ideal geographical placement as a crossroads of cultures while being lavishly shrouded in its own. If you travel more than a little, you know just how singular that dimension is and how rare it is to find.

Geographically you have a peninsula (Iberian) that is a main factor in every aspect of what Europe is in every facet. On top of that you have a culture that was a part of, and lived through however many different shifts. The Phonecians, The Romans, The Moors, The Castilians, The Catalonians, The French and Franco. What that equates to is the truth of their culture, and that it’s as malleable as quicksilver and titanium strong; while maintaining something decidedly luminescent. They’re as fun loving as they are relaxed. When business is on the table, they make moves. They get the balance of work / play on a level most never will. I find it so comical, in the worst of ways, that Hispanics are thought of as lazy. They’re some of the toughest sons of bitches I’ve worked with. They never miss a siesta, BUT they’re never without a bone to break.

Marbella seems like the quiet Monaco of the Mediterranean, while Cagliari, the secret. All too many designer shops, but many more, and more important, the backbones of a local economy. You can hear 5 languages a day, 7 maybe, easy. Today I talked with a local street vendor in Pidgin mixed with Spanish, we seemed to sort things out well enough. His English was well enough, but why deprive myself the opportunity? It was worth the shock slapped across his face from hearing a white boy speak Pidgin.

The local economy of restaurants here is thriving with all local products that make you wonder why you put so much faith in Rome, Paris and others for your culinary standards. The access to fresh seafood is absurd. Even the local market has fresh catches of seafood exclusive to the region for pretty damn cheap. I’ve bought local fish here to barbecue at a market price that couldn’t rival local markets anywhere else in Europe. Let alone a local supermarkets price. Vegetables, local everything for a € or 2€ per kg., maybe slightly more from time to time. This is an appropriate time to laugh at the “5 star or nothing” crowd who are missing out on the 2 or 3 star gems that are ridden by locals who don’t give two shits about writing a review. They know where to get their fix.

I’m a hole in the wall cafe / bar kind of guy. The local joints. I’m more into places that are devoid of the frills, and the types of marketing that lead to impulse buying the weird condoms in the checkout line. I’m not the kind of guy to get bent out of shape about being noticed at the “right places”. I much prefer the awkward feeling of being the new kid on the block when I walk into a local place. That’s the “right place”.

I recently got off the phone with a friend of mine in Firenze (Florence). He’s one of those guys that you’d shake your fist at, and say, “lucky bastard”, when you hear his job. Basically put, he’s a professional rockstar. He lives on the road, he rarely hangs his hat for too long in one place. But he recently got back to Firenze for the 2,977th time, or something like that, and planned to run into some American friends of his who have never travelled outside the country. That’s right. They exist, it isn’t just a myth, somehow. Instead of taking it all in, they were buried in their phones on travel apps. Making sure wherever they stopped was at least 4 stars or 5. As soon as my friend told me this, I said, “Fuck that! Just open your eyes and channel your inner wolf, and put your nose to work!” Don’t be this person! This is a core principle of the difference between a tourist and a traveler.

I’m posted up at a local joint now that I found the same way. I used my basic senses. I didn’t fucking use an app! People forget so often that the apps / websites are there to assist you, not guide you! Where’s your sense of adventure?! I walked by the other day and scoped the digs. Locals? Check. Basic table and settings? Check. The clear smell of something amazing going on in the kitchen? Ample wine supply? Check. That’s it, I’m parking it here. Another dead give away, that places like this have are the jamón legs hanging from butcher hooks behind the bar. They don’t need the 5 star reviews, although they would be nice, they don’t need the expensive marketing campaign and a squeaky clean, amazingly designed website. In fact I’d be surprised if some places like this had one. Things like that are the epitome of an afterthought to places like this. They’re betting on getting your ass in a chair at a table with you walking by and having a butchers. Like waving a red cape in front of the bull. And before you know it, you’re hooked.

Even as I write this now, sitting here with an amazing glass of Rioja, I’m watching a tourist tapas bar across the street getting the grease down. Even from 20 meters I can hear the Brits, Russians, French and Germans, even if I couldn’t hear them I can see them as plain as the nose on their face. Nope, I prefer the sanctuary of this local bastion, the simple, but effective approach of marketing involving nothing more than displaying the legs of jamón and the myriad of bottles of the fruits of Andalucía. There’s no buy 2 get one free deal running here. There’s no guy waiting to hand me a towel to dry my hands in the bathroom like in Ferris Bueller. Christ, even if there was I’d like to see how the hell he could fit. It’s more like a bath*closet*. This is as about as far as you can get from the Embassy Suites or the Four Seasons as possible, and I fucking love it.

I’ve been more of a wino the last 5+ years, and if you enjoy “sunlight trapped in water” (thanks Leo) like myself, then you will find even more of a paradise than you could have possibly predicted. One thing I can say for as much as I’ve experienced is that some of the best wine in the world comes from Spain. Spain holds a dead tie with Italy, with (in my opinion) France just beneath at number 2. You can buy a bottle at a local market here for 3€ - 5€ and be blown away. Start with the 3€-5€ options before you graduate to the 10€+ crowd. Pace yourself, slow yourself down and enjoy the ride. Totally worth it.

Practically everything in the Spanish culinary culture is built to be paired with wine, or alcohol in general. The beer scene isn’t lagging at all in Spain, they’ve got the hipster craft beer thing going, but in a less utterly excessive way (like some places on the globe) but each region usually has its own brewery that’s been adding to the siesta experience for decades or longer. C’mon... who the hell doesn’t enjoy an ice cold beer, in the shade on a hot day?! If we’re talking Spanish beer though, the front runner is absolutely Alhambra Cerveza. Like the New York saying goes, about the pizza there and why it’s some of the best in the world, “there’s just somethin’ in tha water”, concerning the dough, the same holds true for Alhambra, the mountain spring water used for the beer makes it incredibly top notch, Tasting is believing, look for the Alhambra Reserva Roja (Red) or Verde (Green).

Each city or region usually has a local after dinner spirit that ranges from 20% - 45% alcohol. Similar to why the Italians have limoncello. And similar to how people (like myself) actually read Playboy for the articles, this after dinner drink isn’t just about nailing a shot, it’s mean to be sipped and actually helps with digestion.

We talked about the alcohol and the food scene, sure, but let’s talk about something else more healthy and sometimes more fun than a glass of wine, green. Cannabis, in case you’ve been living under a rock, or are just someone who’s wound to tight; has been gaining more and more global acceptance. Why? Because governments are actually using science and logic. They’re also realising they can cut off a piece for themselves in an open and regulated market. The best potweedmarijuana in Europe, is not, contrary to popular belief, Netherlands. 40% - 50% of any ganja lit up in the EU comes from Spain. It’s a fact. I have had some amazing strains in Netherlands, but España edges out just past the Dutch. If you wanna smoke in a 100% legal scenario while you’re here, research the Private Clubs. But the same as with alcohol, don’t be a jacksss. Be respectful of others and have your head on straight.

I’ll stay here for 2 more orders of tapas and then walk around to catch some more shots of the city on a Saturday night, but I’m pretty damn content posted up here. There’s a La Liga game live, on the TV over the bar, an ample of supply of everything amazing a person could want in Andalucía (or anywhere) - nothing left, but to enjoy the minutes spinning off the clock. The owners gotten pretty chummy with me. He’s the 3rd generation extension of the establishment. He sees me look over across the street at the touristafied tapas bar and asks me why I chose his place. I tell him, “¿por que no?” He points to a tapas joint two doors down, another one on the boardwalk a block away on the corner and the finally the one across the street and then shrugs as if to say, “I know my turf, caballero.” I tell him in Spanish, simply, “Your place is real Andalucía. It’s real España. You can see the difference, and taste it.”

You might be thinking, “yeaa... but what kind of crowd? Is it a bunch of pensioners? Families? What about the younger crowd? I haven’t got Spain 100% figured out, but one thing I have sorted is that the legit, local spots, got a full mix. Spain gets the community / family thing a little better than most countries. Whether you’re hitting up a tapas bar, going to a local shop, stopping to catch a flamenco street guitarist (support your local street performers!) or strolling around, people are coming together, loving life and sharing it. When you come to Spain, and when you’re doing life here, time slows down in only the most desirable ways.

Which brings me to the one negative that I can mention with absolute certainty; coming to Spain as someone in a relationship with out your significant other is going to not give you the 100% experience. I’m not gonna get all puppy dog, but when you’re in an environment that so clearly embraces life and getting the most out of it, you feel your other half missing. This country and this region make you as romantic as you will feel in New York, Rome or Paris. I’ve never taken the time to rate the most romantic places in the world, but Spain has to be in the top 10. If you’re single and ready to mingle, Spain is definitely going to be happy hunting. I don’t miss being single myself, but sexuality is, and always has been a strong part of Spanish culture. It’s clearly visible here. Macho y Feminina. Spain is a Mecca of passion.

Synopsis: if you haven’t checked your schedule for the next month yet, or gotten on to the internet to start scoping prices for airfare and accommodations, do it ASAP. If you’re thinking about the job market or starting a new company, Spain. Thinking about buying a new property? Spain. An extended leave of absence? Thinking of going Expat? Holiday? Weekend getaway? Spain. It’s as cost effective as it is luxurious, and it’s as enchanting as it is beautiful.

Buy the ticket, take the ride and get lost.

————

Important notes:

- Bring your preferred method of credit, but always have a good supply of €. A lot of places here hang a middle finger attitude to the tax / banking system. The fees involved with running electronic payment systems have yet to reach an apex in popularity.

- Some places around the globe, you can live WiFi to WiFi, not Spain. If I could call the odds, I’d say you got a 50/50 when you go out, of catching a signal at a cafe, restaurant or shop. Trust me when I say though, sometimes it’s real nice being off the grid.

- Not all tapas are free. The usual case / scenario is, you buy a drink, they bring you a plate. Tapas is Spain’s way of fighting alcoholism and being hospitable. Food + alcohol = less drunk ass holes staggering around their streets. A real tapas place will be free or really cheap and they will have multiple options made with fresh, local ingredients. Steer clear of the jokers advertising 15€+ for a drink and picking 6 tapas if you can. This 15€+ jazz is the normal style of tapas in Madrid more so, and also often in Barcelona; not in the rest of Spain though.

- Gazpacho is the perfect thing to eat for lunch in Spain. All fresh vegetables, served cold, and engineered to keep you pushing in the hot summer heat. The best time for Gazpacho is May - July as the best vegetables of the year are grown then.

- Learn some Spanish before you go. Don’t show the fuck up in someone else’s country and expect them to speak your language 100%. Don’t be a tourist, be a traveller. Even if you don’t nail the pronunciation, this small little piece of advice is applicable everywhere, globally. The little effort you put in will show the locals you care, and aren’t self absorbed, ignorant, nationalist.

¡Hola! - Hello!

Adios - Goodbye!

Yo quiero - I want

Buenas - Hello! / Goodbye! (Spanish equivalent of Ciao in Italian)

¿Donde esta el baño? - Where is the bathroom?

- Leave room in your bags for all the olive oil, jamón and wine you will be bringing back.

- The drivers are a bit crazy. 50% or more know what they are doing. The other side of the spectrum knows better, but just don’t give a shit.

- Marijuana is legal in certain cities and has been decriminalised in general throughout the country. Like many other parts of the world, governments are embracing the truth about cannabis. The best marijuana in Europe, and definitely some of the best in the world, is in Spain - hash, green or moonrocks.

- Siesta isn’t just something from a Speedy Gonzalez cartoon, it’s for real. 75% of everything closes (roughly) between 15:00 - 17:00. Why? Because it’s the hottest part of the day and people are staying out of the sun and also because they’re preparing for the dinner rush, and taking a break.

- Try not to call someone Spanish. Are they from Spain? Yes, but try to detail it to the province they are from if you can. ie: Cataluñya, Andalucía, Castile. Something small, but they will value it a lot. Don’t be a tourist, be a traveler, someone cultivated trying to absorb the culture, not just take from it.

- Everyone advertises for live Flamenco shows. Research which ones are best. 75% of them are a sham compared to the real thing. The best ones are in Granada, Ronda or Seville.

- You can live off just tapas. 100% life hack certified. If you’re really on a budget or if you just want a lot of variety, find the real and local tapas bars. For 5€-7€ you can have a full, and very often, healthy meal.

-Put The Alhambra / Granada at the top of your list of places to visit, the other top choice is absolutely Barcelona. Don’t make the mistake of trying to cram each city into 3 or 5 days. Take 7 and really soak it in and explore.

[echobasegazette]

Dunkirk

If you missed the previews for Dunkirk, you should be ashamed of yourself, because they were freaking incredible. Not that I needed any fancy marketing to convince me to see Christopher Nolan’s latest project, a war movie on the Battle of Dunkirk. Now if you don’t know anything about Dunkirk I set the stage for this very important world history event with one sentence. Nearly 400,000 British and French soldiers were evacuated from the beaches of France as the German army barred down on the embattled soldiers, trapping them on the shores.  Now, I tend to really like movies about history, especially World War II, and since Christopher Nolan might be one of the better directors alive, I definitely wanted to see this opening weekend. I’ve had some time to collect my thoughts about the film and have reviewed it below.

BUT WAIT! Before I start the review, I would like to talk about Christopher Nolan really quick. He is a really good director, and despite being only 46 years old, he has made a string of great movies: The Dark Knight Trilogy, Inception, Interstellar, The Prestige, and Memento. Now here is the something that is a little crazy, according to the IMDB ratings, Christopher Nolan has directed six of the top 100 movies of all time! No other director has more than four movies in the top 100, and at this mid-point of his career, he has two more than them! Now that will most likely change with new up and coming directors, but it is still pretty impressive. As a side note, Dunkirk is currently in the top 100 which would give Nolan seven films in the top 100.  

 Quick Synopsis (Without Spoilers)

Dunkirk was a famous battle of the Second World War where the French and British troops had been defeated by the German army. They were forced all the way to the Atlantic Coast, troops crowded onto the beaches of the coastal city of Dunkirk. The British were trying to evacuate as many troops as they could but their progress was being slowed as the Luftwaffe attacked any ships on the English Channel.  Nolan decided to tell this story from three different narratives during the final days of the battle of Dunkirk as soldiers were losing all hope that they would find a way back home.

The first storyline and point of view, is from a solider named Tommy who is trapped on the “Mole”, which is the historical name for area that was controlled by the allies during the Dunkirk evacuation. Tommy’s timeline takes place over the course of a week as he runs around the city and the beaches doing anything he can to escape the oncoming assault by the German Army.

The second narrative focuses on civilians taking part in the battle from the sea. The British are in crisis-mode, and they are having major issues evacuating the men on the beach. There is only one dock on the beach that will allow large ships to pick up passengers and the waters are too shallow for the large ships to pull directly up to the beach. In order to try rescuing as many soldiers as possible, the British have decided to commandeer private civilian boats to assist the troops. Mr. Dawson, his son Peter and their teenage deckhand George head out to sea to help rescue the soldiers trapped on the beach. Their story line unfolds over the course of a day.

The final narrative focuses on British pilots and their battle in the Air. Three spitfire pilots Farrier, Collins and their squad leader are crossing the English Channel to provide air support for the troops waiting at Dunkirk. Due to fuel concerns the trio only has about 40 minutes to dogfight with the enemy before they must return to England. Their story takes place over the course of an hour leading up to the culmination of events at Dunkirk.

Review

I honestly am not sure if I actually like this film, the two things that bothered me most was the timeline setup and the dialog. But maybe seeing it a few more times would change my mind.  However, I was on the edge of my seat throughout the entire movie because this film does an excellent job of keeping the viewer engaged the entire time. Nolan uses the sound of a ticking clock to keep the viewer aware of the pressing of time, “Tick Tock, Tick Tock, Tick Tock,” creating an anxiety and an understanding that time is a factor and these men have to get off this beach.

Nolan secures quite the interesting cast of actors for this epic war film. The main character Tommy was played by Fionn Whitehead, who is something of an unknown actor, but he does a solid job in his role as “Terrified infantry Grunt” who needs to escape the beach.  Harry Styles (from One Direction) shows up as Alex, another Army private who meets up with Tommy along the way. Styles actually does a solid job, and after a while you start to forget that he is a famous member of a British boy band. Tom Hardy plays the main fighter pilot and spends nearly the entire movie in a cockpit, shooting down bombers and dogfighting with Luftwaffe pilots. There are several other actors in this film who you will recognize and all do a fine job.

The one thing that is really different about this film is the timeline. Each of the three stories are being shown but because the elapsed time of each is so different the stories don’t line up and it can make it difficult to follow exactly what’s happening in the story. Additionally, the time lines are only introduced with small type at the beginning of each story, “One Hour”, “One Day”, and “One Week.” It is often difficult to tell where these stories overlap because of all the moving pieces. The timeline really just makes the stories difficult to follow, and I can’t really see the benefit… maybe repeat viewing will provide an answer.

Another issue I have with this film was in understanding exactly what the characters were saying. When I am at home, I watch all movies and serious TV shows with subtitles. Some people find this annoying, but after a while the words and the movie start to blend together, and they become really helpful when you miss things or can’t understand someone because the character is mumbling. If you don’t use subtitles, trust me this is the way to watch movies. When I go to the theater there are usually a few points in each movie where I think, “Damn I didn’t quite get that.” But with this movie it was more like half the film. I just couldn’t get a grasp on what was being said, partially because of the loud background sounds of the attacks on the beach and also because of the short, quick dialogue, all with British accents.

Who will like this film?

If you like war films or are a history buff, then this is probably for you. But you should be aware of the disjointed timeline because it may give you a better grasp on the film.

Overall

7.4/10

 The Movie Guy

[buildercar]

New Post has been published on http://www.buildercar.com/rudi-koniczek-the-canadian-king-of-the-mercedes-benz-300-sl/

Rudi Koniczek, the Canadian King of the Mercedes-Benz 300 SL

From beneath his wide-brimmed hat and trademark driving goggles, Rudi Koniczek flashes a genuine smile, welcoming me inside from the Canadian morning chill. He motions for me to sit in a cozy armchair inside his tiny, cluttered office. Stacked high are mounds of automotive books, memorabilia, posters, and models, the mad physical overflow of a giddy mind with a lifelong obsession. Not 10 feet above our heads, one floor up, millions of dollars worth of vintage Mercedes-Benz steel is being restored to its former glory. “Are you having an orgasmic morning?” he asks, with a glint in his eye.

Most people don’t start conversations this way. Rudi isn’t most people. His house is packed to the gills with thousands of Tintin collectible toys and figurines, as well as high-end art both tasteful and raunchy. The man has devoted an entire room to building slot cars and racing them on a hand-built track. And at this colorful, far-flung home and workshop, down a narrow and forested road outside of Victoria on Vancouver Island, lives one of the world’s most accomplished and respected experts on the Mercedes 300 SL, as well as one of its most eccentric personalities.

Rudi works on all vintage cars, but he’s known as a bona-fide Gullwing guru. Customers send him cars from all over the world, from the U.S., Hong Kong, Monaco, Switzerland, and more, shelling out $300,000-$400,000 for his time-reversing powers. He takes me upstairs to the shop, casually past his showroom of concours-winning restorations. Under fluorescent lighting, five majestic 300 SL Gullwings and Roadsters are lined up in various states of progress. “We get cars that have been upside down, burned to the ground, wrapped around telephone poles, you name it,” Rudi says. To keep track of them all, they get nicknames like R2-D2, Punch, Monaco, and Timbits. “Punch was smashed up front and back, like it got punched on both ends. Timbits? Belongs to this guy Tim, who sent me the whole damn thing in boxes.”

In all the years he’s been in business, Rudi has never advertised. Flawless work, word of mouth, and good karma take care of that.

A full restoration takes about 18 months, which seems like a short turnaround given the stupendous level of craftsmanship that goes into every nook and cranny of each project. Everything from mechanicals to body repair, leather, fitted luggage, and wood crafting goes on under Rudi’s watch — only chrome work is outsourced. “For me, my work is about honoring history and my commitment to the mark — and especially the Gullwing,” Rudi says.

“When somebody asks what the car is going to be worth after the restoration, that’s the wrong question. This isn’t some commodity; I treat it as a work of art.”

That commitment’s story begins with his birth in Germany in 1949, near the Czech border. “We lost everything in the war, so Papa fled to Canada, and my mother and I followed six months later. I was 4,” he says. The family settled in Toronto, but being a German refugee in the post-war era wasn’t easy. “It was a tough gig, not knowing the language, the culture, the food. Everything was foreign,” Rudi recalls. Things got rougher when he was 10, when kids were more cruel. “I’d get beat up or spit on. After the war, Germans were Nazis and squareheads and Krauts. My parents taught me never to fight back, just to turn the other cheek and laugh. Laughter and jokes were my refuge.”

Tintin comics proved another key escape, and the one that inspired his love of cars and racing. “Hergé, the artist, was just a freak for detail, like me,” Rudi explains. “He captured the cars so well, the swift movement of those little European sports cars and racers. Maybe it was my German pride or heritage, but soon all my model cars were Mercedes-Benz.” Model cars turned to a job at a Toronto hobby shop, and soon Rudi was building 300 SL, W196, W154, and W125 slot cars and racing them competitively against other hobby shops. “I was playing, of course. But when I saw those cars run I felt like I was there in real life.”

At 15 he walked into the offices of Mercedes-Benz Canada with a suitcase full of slot cars and charmed his way into the office of the president, who offered him a job as a lot boy. Sweeping floors, shoveling snow, and cleaning cars turned into a factory apprenticeship that lasted four and a half years. “It was the best education imaginable,” Rudi reflects. “From the bottom, you learn how to clean tools, be a mechanic’s assistant. Then you graduate to terrible jobs like studding tires and oil changes on diesel trucks — the real grunt work. It was wonderful.”

Most of the mechanics there were passionate about the new technologies being developed in Germany, but the allure of Mercedes history and tradition put the blinders on Rudi. “I was a sponge and just sucked it all up,” he says. “Most of the hands were older and German, so I’d help them learn English, and they’d answer my questions about pre-war superchargers and bearings, little tricks to know from a bygone era.” The moment he drove and worked on his first 300 SL, Mercedes’ claws were set deep. “I was just blown away by the beauty and the quality of engineering and design. I thought that like dinosaurs, which died and turned into valuable oil, the knowledge I was collecting would someday be worth something.”

Rudi finished his apprenticeship in 1971, when he was 21 years old. He moved to Victoria to start his own sports-car tuning shop, mostly for the British machines that used to flood Vancouver Island. He recalls there were lots of so-called remittance men — black sheep of wealthy British families — who had been marooned all the way out in western Canada with a mansion and a sports car. “Those cars were great for business,” Rudi says. “Fun, cheerful, and always breaking down!” Soon he started leaving business cards on Mercedes-Benzes he’d stalk at dentists’ offices or university parking lots, and eventually he got a bite.

“Dr. Martin Scherzer called me, wanting some routine maintenance and a valve adjustment on his Mercedes 230 finback,” Rudi remembers, like it was last week. He does this constantly with apparently zero effort, recalling people, names, or places from decades ago in excruciating detail. Scherzer took a liking to him and invited him to dinner, and after that the Benzes starting arriving at Rudi’s door as word got out. Not long after, he sold the tuning shop and opened a new business for German cars — and later a specialty arm for Mercedes, Bentley, and Rolls-Royce carriage cars.

Business was booming with eight employees by the mid-1980s, but by then it was running him. “It stopped being fun, and if it’s not fun, I don’t do it,” he says. “After two years of internal turmoil, going to tea-leaf readers and fortune tellers, I closed the damn thing. I needed to go back to my roots, which was always Mercedes and the Gullwing.” The first 300 SL arrived from Wales, and he restored the entire car with one assistant. He sent it back — perfect, of course — and soon another showed up. Then another and another.

Twenty-five years ago he moved his shop from downtown Victoria to this location just outside the city. Before long both Rudi’s staff and his clients started to feel like the workshop was home. “People should come over, talk cars, feel the love of what we do and share in it,” he offers. “We should go from the shop to the kitchen, have some wine and a giggle. The clients come back, they become family, part of this little club.”

Things really picked up after a weeklong Gullwing owners’ festival at Rudi’s house in 2001. In recent years, the clientele has shifted with a huge uptick in the cars’ value. One of his finest cars, a gorgeous silver 1955 300 SL with a rare aluminum body and blue-plaid interior, sold in 2012 for $4.6 million. “These days we turn away more people than cars,” he admits. “When somebody asks what the car is going to be worth after the restoration, that’s the wrong question. This isn’t some commodity; I treat it as a work of art that’s meant to be shared with future generations.”

It’s been Rudi’s mission to share his passion for vintage Mercedes with people who appreciate it, who can enjoy the wonderful heritage and tradition he loves. So it follows that as long as there are people who want to dive into the world of vintage Benzes, there need be others who have the expertise to fix them. Six of his eight staff have been with him for 18 years or more, many since they were kids.

Production manager Ross Morrison, at 15 years old, was hitchhiking up the road when a crazy guy in a crazier car pulled over, waving him in. “This Rolls-Royce shows up, which he tells me belongs to the ambassador to the Ivory Coast,” says Morrison, beaming. “He asked if I needed a job, and I thought it would be landscape work or something. When I showed up the next day and saw I’d be working with these cars, my jaw hit the floor. That was 25 years ago, and now I’m doing engines, transmissions, everything.”

Rudi’s workshop is like a ’50s time warp. About 45 other sensational cars are kept in a storage vault on a farm a few miles down the road.

Mark Root started out as summer help when he was 14, also about 25 years ago. Now he’s the chief road tester, driving each car for about 400 miles. “As the miles pile up, he goes down the shit list until there’s no more shit,” Rudi says. On the other end of the spectrum is Eric Cherneff, who began his career as a mechanic at the ripe age of 47. Once an extremely successful but equally miserable accountant, Cherneff is grateful Rudi gave him a shot. “I laid my heart out on the line, thinking there’s no chance he’d want some hobbyist like me,” Cherneff says. “He just threw me right in the fire and let me be creative.” The team is called Rudi & Company, and the man in charge takes the latter part seriously. “We’re like a dance troupe. A band of artisans, doing things the right way.”

Rudi tells me to hold on a second. He pulls one of his guys aside and tells him to clean off a fingerprint he spots on a windshield. He circumambulates the workshop with palpable energy, scanning for imperfections with keen precision. The cars are executed flawlessly, oozing style and class. Brightwork shines gently around great swaths of rich paint, which matches perfectly the snazzy interiors and fitted luggage. Those details, that perfection, is what Rudi calls the sizzle of the steak.

To make sure the tradition carries on, Rudi decided to bequeath his entire business to his friends at GAIN, a luxury dealer group based on Vancouver Island, rather than sell it. Rudi helped the same group last year kick off a local motorsports club and racetrack, called the Vancouver Island Motorsport Circuit, (“Welcome to Speed Island,” September 2016). He trusts that, in their hands, his staff and his legacy will live on properly when he’s gone.

The team is called Rudi & Company. “We’re like a dance troupe. A band of artisans, doing things the right way.”

We head from the workshop to his house, where Rudi undergoes one of his frequent outfit changes. He dons a chef’s coat before cooking dinner, admitting it makes him feel closer to his father, who was a chef. After lots of wine, some spontaneous dancing, and another outfit change for Rudi into a bizarre animal-skin pelt, something is unmistakable. Deep down Rudi is still a kid, surrounded by toys and friends, and he hasn’t for a minute lost the heart of a child. His verve for life, for artistry, and not for money, is why Rudi’s cars are so special. Commission him to work on yours and you get a lifetime seat at his table. “Our doors are always open; you’re part of our weird extended family now,” he tells me. He throws me a wink before closing the door, and I know the crazy bastard means it.

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