#and the miles pulls out the violent british accent

[aloeverified]

y'all think hobie would call miles "kilometers"

[kittyspring-creates]

anyone who knows me knows I’m obsessed with werewolves. And a female werewolf makes me blush. So heres the rough draft of the first chapter, introduction to the town before the actual story begins 

Oregan is made up of small towns, surrounded by forest life. Social communities that take pride in knowing one another. Crime spreads through the state regardless of the friendly atmosphere. Petty crimes, sometimes domestic crimes. But nothing as horrific as what's been happening in one of the bigger cities. Almost it's own big time concrete jungle. It was almost fitting a killer would manifest in such an area.

When the first body was found just outside the town, a fear ran through the police on the scene. Laying in a bloody pile in the grass was a married man. His face red and stained with what use to pump through his veins. His clothes scattered around the area, showing off the animalistic scratches. The flesh torn and the torso ripped open. The only thing missing was a heart, cleanly removed. The report came back as an animal attack and the body cleaned then returned to the family. No investigation was made. Not even when a second body was found a few weeks later.

The second victim a married man. Claw marks littered his body and left a sizable hole on his chest. The officers around the area ruled it as another animal attack. Requesting safety measures to be taken and a man hunt to start for the beast. A restriction of civilians in the forest was put in effect and a team of officers and hunters were put together. Eventually turning up nothing. Eventually the hunts were called off. With no more accidents the voluntaries returned to their every day lives. The restrictions were still in place as a precaution. But the county felt the danger had passed with only two tragedies in it's wake. That was until a very unwelcomed man rolled into town.

The sheriff of the town was given a heads up that the dc office was sending people over. That an agent from their sector was interested in the events. The man was disgruntled about the news. Knowing that an up roar would manifest once the DC official stepped into the police station.

John Doggett, dropped the phone on the receiver. Letting out a low grunt as he looked at the black object. A headache starting to form before the trouble even entered his quiet town. He ran a hand down his face, pressing his thumb into his cheek and dragging it over to his mouth. He let the limb fall to the arm of his chair. A gentle tapping came from his door. A tone he was familiar with. "Come in Monica" he spoke out. His voice rough with tired annoyance at what was to come. The door opened a sliver and a tall woman stepped into the small office. She gave a nervous smile to the man sitting behind his desk. "I have that field report from the jerkins" she began. Closing the door behind her, she held out a piece of paper. Looking it over to reference the information. "Nothing but fauna they said. Then Marcus shot one and Dave wrote out a report. Then... officer Scully fined him for hunting out of season." She summarized then placed the paper on the mans neat surface. He took in a long breath then reached for it.

The woman raised a brow as she looked him over. Taking in his expression. "You look troubled John" she pointed out. He let go of the paper and turned to her. "I am. I just got off the phone with Violent Crimes. They're sending a few agents over to investigate the deaths" he confessed to the officer. Leaning back in his chair a little as he looked up at her. She tilted her head slightly, her dark locks swaying with the movements. "But those were animal attacks" she reasoned to no one. "That's what I thought. But some big shot from DC thinks otherwise. He's gonna start a panic" he raised his voice slightly and the woman smiled. "Are you sure that's the issue and not a bit of guilt for chopping the deaths up to accidents" she frowned her brows in worry at her own words. The man glared passed her. "I'll be damned if there's a murderer running around under my nose. Or being incompetent" he mumbled the last part. Confessing a little unwillingly his real trouble.

Monica let out an appreciative noise. "John no one could ever think that. Everyone here thought it was an animal attack. Even I think it has to be a mountain lion. Besides what evidence does this agent have about the case. Their probably bored and looking for anything to get out of the city" she reasoned for him but he was unconvinced by her words. "He's gonna bring up the lack of autopsies. I should of had Scully look the bodies over" he spoke his thoughts. "And what create panic for no reason. Take a breath John, why don't you come out with me and the girls tonight" she offered, earning a smile from the serious man. "I don't think I fit in" he answered. He Stood up from the chair and walked around the objects in the room. Monica fallowed his movement and headed for the door. "Regardless If I caught it or not there will be an uproar. The agent will be here later tonight or in the morning" he warned, reaching for the door handle for her. He opened the door and she nodded. "I'll drink lightly tonight, compile everything I can on the incidents tomorrow" she promised, stepping out of the office. The door was closed after her in a silent goodbye.

With the news of the coming trouble, Monica found it hard to keep her mind on the night. Despite being a tight community they did have a red light district. A literal street full of clubs and pubs. A gay bar at the end and a 90's themed go go dance across the street. A place she usually loved. Unwinding on a Saturday night with her coworker and her friends. But the only thing on her mind was the case. She rubbed her thumb over her gin atonic, catching the condensation on the glass. Staring off at the wall, lost in thought. Till she was called. A soft voice spoke her name and she looked over at the seat next to her. A woman with piercing blue eyes stared at her. "Monica, what's wrong you're a thousand miles away" she asked, concern rather then drunken joy in her voice.

The raven haired woman forced a smile, thinning her lips by accident. "I- it's john" she began. Getting cut off by a a few 'oooo's. One more prominent then the rest. "OOoo man troubles" a woman with a thick British accent called out form her other side. The skinny gal sat down with two other woman. Her open backed, golden dress hanging off her body like she purposely bought a size to big. She set down two margarita glasses. Sliding one over to the strawberry blond beside Monica. "Uck, men are nothing but trouble. Like this guy keeps coming into the library and won't leave me alone. Even when I'm in the restricted section updating our ever evolving computers. There he is waiting for me" a blond woman pouted. Sighing out her frustration as she looked at the low spirited woman.

"Sounds like you need an officer Leyla" the British woman gestured to the other two sitting by her. Only the one drinking a margarita smiled. "Or a restraining order, that's a stalker Leyla" she added after taking a sip. She turned her attention back to Monica. "What's wrong" she asked again. "It's these deaths, the two men. Someone thinks their um not right" she tried to phrase. Not wanting to give information away to the three woman not police officers. "What, aren't they animal attacks. Of course their not right, the thing hasn't been caught ha" the British woman scuffed. "Right Dana" she gestured to the strawberry blond. The woman looked annoyed at being called out. "I don't know, I haven't seen a single body. I couldn't tell you anything about the cause of death" she informed. "Look whatever is bothering Doggett he's a big boy he can handle it himself" the silent woman spoke up from the end of the small table. She stood up and grabbed the blonds arm beside her. Pulling her out of the seat and on her feet. "Enough work lets get drunk and regret it in the morning" she laughed, causing Leyla to giggle.

"I'll drink to that" the British woman gobbled down what she could of her drink then stood up with the others. The three rushed away from the table harboring their reality and dived onto the dance floor. Dana giggled at them. She tossed her hair back with a shake of her head. Her smile fell as she looked at her friend. Seeing her worry undimmed by the conversation. "Don't listen to Phoebe, we all know men are play things to her." She scuffed, moving to take a sip of her margarita. With the wild women gone from the table, Monica turned to her co worker. She placed her hand on the drink and lowered it. The action confused the smaller. Before she could ask Monica began to tell her. "Someone from violent crimes is coming in tomorrow, they believe these animal attacks are really murders. John doesn't want someone stirring up trouble" she quickly told. Dana looked her over, her buzzed state fading with the news.

"Really I think he's beating himself up, chopping everything up to an animal attack instead of investigating further" Monica continued with a sigh. She looked down at the drink she held, staring at the bottom as she thought things over. Dana placed her hand on the woman's wrist, rubbing her thumb over the exposed skin. No words were spoken in the moment. The two officers sitting in the news of what will come. Their drinks long forgotten in contemplation.

As the night raged on Monica became to tired to continue their girls night. She called a cab and the group waited with her. Seeing her off when the car pulled up. They continued to wave even when she wasn't in sight. Dana watched longer then the others. Feeling the fear of what was coming. "Ello earth to Dana" her friend called for her. She turned to look at the group, her smile long gone. The thin woman raised her brow and crossed her arms. "Are you alright" Leyla asked in her ever questioning voice. She reached out for the older woman to check on her. "I'm fine" she obviously lied. The brunette rolled her eyes as she scuffed. The action mirrored by the woman in gold. Dana took in a deep breath. "Come on what did Monica say to put you in the glooms" Phoebe demanded. But the woman didn't answer her question. "We need to rein in our activities" she said instead. "No more hunting deer. We stick to smaller prey like rabbits and we leave no carcasses" she warned. Her voice stronger then it had been. "What are you talking about" her friends questioned.

"But Dana the blood moon is in cycle, you know what that does to us" Leyla tried to explain. Looking scared as she glanced at the moon in the night sky. A pink shade almost visible to her trained eyes. "I know, this couldn't of come at a worse time. But an investigator is coming to town. I don't want any of us discovered" the small woman whispered to them. Stepping closer to the group. They nodded at her. Conforming they will obey. "Fine when will they be here" Phoebe did little to hide her anger at the new rules. "Tomorrow" they were informed. "Tomorrow not tonight" she asked with a sly smile. "Yes why" Dana mirrored the smile, already knowing what was coming. The British woman reached down and lifted her foot off the ground. Taking off her heels. As she did so the other woman fallowed.

"One last night of un tamed fun, we rush through the trees till we hit the valley" she pointed out to the woods they were not allowed to be in anymore. Dana removed her heels, looking down the road for on lookers. The group buzzed with anticipation for her answer. Her smile grew and she nodded at them, shaking her bouncy hair excitedly. Taking one last look around the road, the four raced to the trees. Disappearing into the forest. Their bare feet hitting the ground hard. Tearing up the dirt and grass with each sprint.

It was the last thing Dana remembered. The feeling of dirt between her toes, wind rushing passed her ears. The feeling of her heart beat quickening. Her friends letting out small howls and giggles. Then darkness. A slight chill and the absents of familiar scents. An indication she was alone. Until she heard a gathering of voices. Deep and frightened. She snapped open her eyes, seeing the forest ground where she laid. The grounds contents sticking to her form. Her black dress nowhere to be seen. The voices got louder words became more distinct to her. She sat up quickly, leaves falling from her soiled hair. Her body covered in dirt and drying blood. Her hands to her forearm coated in the mixture. She gasped at the sight, her attention caught by the cracking of branches on the floor. The men were getting closer to her. She scurried to her dirty feet.

Her legs running once she was up. If she was chased there was no way anyone could keep up. Her speed reaching higher then the average person. She listened out to the forest. Searching for her friends, but she could not find them in the nearly dead night. She made her way as close to her apartment as she could. Cautiously she exited the trees and scurried to the building. Keeping watch out for anyone. She snuck in the back. Poking her head in to see if anyone was inside. The hall way was empty. Quickly she made her way up the stairs of the building. Making her way to her floor and her door. The wood unlocked as she pushed it open then slammed it closed. Tossing herself against it she let out a deep breath. "Auh that was close" she told herself. Once the danger had passed, the threat of being seen. She looked down at herself. Taking in how dirty she was from the forest. She inspected her arms. Letting them drop as she huffed out. Annoyed by the night.

[kunrendeotaku]

Chapter 12

I’m not sure how much longer Star drags me along before I finally look up, thinking that surely we should surely be home by now. To my surprise, I can’t immediately place where we are, but I think I see the mall fairly close by? That’s halfway across town! How far has Star dragged me? Ugh. I guess I have to put my own personal pity party on hold to ensure I can end up in my own bed tonight. The sheer amount of despair that thought provokes nearly makes me give up and lay back down, but I guess I’ve become more tired of sitting in this wagon than I thought, because the shaking now feels unbearable.

I roll out of the wagon and land on the concrete, but Star continues determinedly pulling her load along. I pick myself up, brush myself off, and rush to catch up with her. It causes a litany of aches and pains to run over my body, unfortunately, but I guess that's what you get for fighting above your weight class twice in the span of two days. Professional fighters usually spend months between fights, but I sure ain’t a professional. Still… they remind me of what I’ve been up to since I met Star. I fought monsters, I just finished fighting a fuckin demon! And I literally haven’t been bored even a single moment, the whole time. In spite of my grief for Rodrigo and his many brothers, I find a smile on my face.

“I see you finally decided to get up.” Star sounds completely miffed, perhaps understandably so. She must have been dragging me for miles. A twinge of guilt runs through me, she protects me (Mostly?) from Janna while I’m unconscious, then carries me away from the queen of creepiness herself? And I respond by making her drag me miles in a little metal wagon. I chuckle a bit nervously, scratching the back of my head. “Yeah, well, sorry about that. Janna… really gets to me. Where are we going anyway?”

Star glances over towards me with her lips pursed, but after only a few moments her gaze softens. In addition, that flush crops back over her cheeks and she looks away. Suspicious. I might have to find out if Star has anything to be guilty over herself. “Uh, yeah. We can call it even I guess. We’re heading to the school! We came out for your bike, we’re gonna get it.” Star declares, before pumping her free fist vigorously to punctuate her statement.

“Star…” I look at her in pity. “Did you take directions from Janna?” She blinks, tilting her head. “Yeah, why?” I grimace and rub the bridge of my nose. Stress levels rising. “Janna will literally never give you correct directions. Something about a middle school dare. We’ve been heading in the wrong direction for like, two hours.” I’m treated to my second view of Star’s cheek marks shattering in the same day, though unfortunately far less enjoyable this time. She groans, tossing herself back into the wagon to take my place. Her gigantic mass of blonde hair cushions her fall and honestly makes the thing look much more comfortable.

“C’mon. We’re pretty close to McDonalds, let's just grab some lunch.” Only unintelligible muttering comes from the bed of the wagon, and so I decide it's my turn to drag her around. I grab the handle and begin wheeling her along the sidewalk, wondering how in the world she’d managed to pull me for so long. A person is crazy heavy! Stupid warrior princess muscles. Probably the very same things making it so heavy for me. Luckily I don’t have to drag her nearly as far, but it's still going to be a grueling ten minutes of exertion all the way to our McDonald’s parking lot. “Listen, Marco, about earlier. You’re my guide to all Earth stuff, right?”

“Urgh. Yeah, that's right.” I answer, grunts of effort sometimes leaking out. Are these wheels even turning? “Well, you’re really smart about Earth stuff, but like… crazy dumb about magic. In the future, I’m gonna need you to follow my lead on that stuff. I’ll be your guide to the weird and wonderful magic of the multiverse!” Talkative when she’s not the one pulling, huh. I take my time to think that over, pondering what that would mean. On the one hand, that means I’m putting my safety and sanity in the hands of someone I’m pretty sure would classify as crazy. On the other hand, I really do have no clue what I’m doing when it comes to magic. That demon could have killed us, and it was all my fault. If we’re gonna keep seeing things like that…

“Alright, alright. That makes sense. We’ll just have to *gasp* teach each other.” Star bounces up onto her knees with a manic grin, shaking the whole wagon. “Great! First rule from your magic teacher: Unless I say otherwise, everyone who claims to be an Earth magician is doing real magic.” I slap my free hand into a vigorous facepalm, already feeling that that particular misunderstanding is definitely going to come back to bite me. “God-fine, sure Star. Every wacko who claims a mastery of voodoo or card tricks is a real wizard.” I hope my heavily slathered sarcasm makes it through that glitter filled skull of hers, but if so, she doesn’t react to it.

“Great! Also, I think we’re here.” Star jumps out of the wagon and points up at the building in front of us, done in beige and yellow. McDonalds written out in nice big letters, guess she’s right. I wonder if her dimension uses English in their writing as well, or if she learned before coming here? She does have a weird accent, now that I think of it. Something distinctly European, almost like a British accent's weird hyperactive cousin? About the best way to explain it. I of course park our wagon perfectly in the center of a parking space, finding myself compelled to click an imaginary electronic key. “Beep beep.”

I feel a hand snag my hoodie and drag me violently towards the door. “Hurry up, Marco! I smell food!” We blast into the door, which is thankfully push, rather than pull. I honestly think we might have busted the glass the other way around. Star thankfully releases me after I give her an affronted glare. The nerve, going after my hoodie. It could have stretched! She herself is bouncing up and down giddily, eyes swerving from place to place at lightning speed. I can tell the only reason she hasn’t gone any further into the room is that she simply can’t decide which to explore first.

“Earth Guide, rule one. When you find yourself in a place you don’t understand, do exactly as I do-or what the majority of others seem to be doing.” I gesture to the line of people getting ready to order, and step into line myself. “Oh, oh yeah. I can do that. No problem.” Star slides into place beside me, rather than behind me. Close enough, I guess… I’ll be paying for her food anyhow. “See that sign above the counter? Some of the items have pictures, some don’t, but that's the menu. Pick out one item from there, and a drink size.”

Star responds only with a few rapidfire nods, eyes already locked onto the menu. I wonder how she’ll do at her first time ordering a meal in an Earth restaurant? Unfortunately she’s not the most observant. I doubt she even hears how everyone else makes their orders, focused as she is on picking out her items. Eventually it comes time for us to make our orders, and she glances at me first. Good girl! She can learn! I step up and make my order quickly. “I’ll take a number three with a large fry and a large drink.” She asks if I’d like to make it a combo, which, obviously. I nod, then glance over at my new friend to see if she can follow along.

Star takes a deep breath, then holds up her wand and points it at the employee taking her order. It begins glowing with a menacing pink light. This isn’t exactly a promising start. “I don’t know what any of these are! I’ll just take the corn nuggets with the largest drink you have!” I quickly elbow her and shake my head, the poor confused lady just staring at us. “Star, there aren’t any corn nuggets on the menu!” She blinks, suddenly seeming just as befuddled as the rest of us. “What kind of food place doesn’t have corn nuggets?! I didn’t even bother looking for them, since I figured they weren’t one of the items with pictures!”

I sigh. Of course she only looked at the pictures. I slowly move Star’s wand arm down towards the floor so she can stop threatening the nice lady taking our orders, and thankfully she lets it stop glowing shortly after. “Look, she’ll take the 8 piece nuggets, large fry, and a large drink. Yes, Combo, whatever. Listen-thrown in a kids meal toy and she’s less likely to cause another scene.” The look of sheer exhaustion on my face must have clued the employee into something, as she suddenly gives me a look of sympathy and nods. I snag our two cups and lead Star over to the drink machine, a confused look on her face.

“Star. Can you tell me what you did wrong there?” She blinks, then frowns, thinking back over her actions. “Well, I greeted the lady, asked her for the food, and told her my drink size. Honestly, I think I did great. Pretty much the only one in the wrong is this place for not having corn nuggets.” Star scoffs, clearly unrepentant. We have a lot of work to do here. “No, Star. You threatened an innocent woman, demanded food instead of asking, and didn’t read the menu. At all. Worse, you didn’t observe anyone else to figure out the right way to do it-even me! You could have literally only repeated what I said and been fine!”

“Ohhhh. I just figured princesses behaved differently, so I never really think about how other people do things.” Star begins holding up fingers in turn as she lists off “Always meet a new person vigorously and with your weapons at the ready, from Dad. Never ask for anything as it makes you look weak, from Mom. Annnd both of them always said it was other people’s responsibility to match my demands. I did it all right! Three boxes checked, woo.” Star pumps her arms, a proud grin on her face.

I simply shake my head, wondering where this spoiled side of Star has popped up from. I mean, when she said she was a princess, it was always kind of hard to see-she treats me like an equal, along with my parents, and even Janna. But I guess service people automatically ping as ‘peasants’ for her royal upbringing? I wonder if it's even possible to overwrite fourteen years of habits built while considering yourself one of the most important people in your country. “Second Earth Guide rule: Marco’s orders supersede princess training. You can’t be a normal Earthling if you follow all the crazy rules of being a princess at the same time-heck, I find it hard to believe you follow them even half the time anyway, so this should be easy!”

[fanfictionlover333]

Bloody Complicated

 The Legends had decided to take a vacation. So, everyone went their separate ways agreeing to meet back at The Waverider in a week. Instead of going to the Bahamas Mick changed things up by making a trip to L.A.  He called Lisa so they could hang out maybe even rob a bank. Unfortunately, she would not be able to get a flight until the next day. That meant he was on his own for the night. Which lead him on a search for a good time.

His hunt for fun lead him to a club called Lux.  He walked in with a trouble-making smirk looking around at beautiful people he wanted to try his luck and see if one of them would check into a hotel room for the night with him.  However, it was important to keep his priorities straight so first things first it was time for a drink or five.

Mick sat at the bar for an hour flirting with some of the customers but after striking out several times he decided it was time to pay his tab thereby calling it a night. Then he heard someone scream. Mick knew that if he got involved things would get messy but it wasn't like he had plans. So, he went to investigate the situation.

Linda was walking back to her car feeling quite pleased with herself after having an enjoyable night that she had earned a difficult week. That pleasure was vanquished when she heard the click of a gun behind her head. Linda’s blood turned to ice in her veins and the only thing she could do was yell. Her mind was completely overwhelmed it was as if everything was moving in slow motion while she stood there helpless.

“Shut up and hand over your purse.” The stranger hissed like a feral animal before pressing the barrel of their hand gun to her head. “Hurry up bitch!”

Mick walked up behind a little toothpick of a man who was in the process of robbing a terrified lady. The crook clearly felt like a tough guy when he had all of the power. He silently watched for another second or two trying not to laugh at the sloppy thief. When he had seen enough Mick cleared his throat loudly. Thereby causing the runt to fumble and drop the gun.

“Why don't you pick on someone your own size?” Mick launched spinning the cowardly criminal around with one hand and with his heat gun in the other. Much to his disappointment the little worm scurried away before he could put his weapon of choice to good use. Oh well, there is always next time. At least nobody got hurt... He allowed himself to say inwardly though he would admit that out loud to anyone that he cared about another person.

Linda had withdrawn into her mind and everything billions of miles in the distance. The next thing she knew after the theft was halted by a large intimidating man she was holding her knees to her chest. She was watching the taller frightening looking man turning to leave when she heard herself stammered out a meek, “t-t-thank y-y-you.”

“Don't thank me,” Mick scoffed with his back to her. “Just get home safe,” He added under his breath.

The next morning after Linda called Lucifer to inform him about the debacle he doubled the security of the club. The next issue that had to be dealt with was repaying his debt to the unusual man. In order to accomplish that task he needed Maze to track him down but she had other more violent priorities.

“I’m going to kill the bastard who was stupid enough to put a gun to Linda's head. Maze seethed her words just as sharp as the knives she undoubtedly planned to slice and dice the human who harmed her friend. “I'll roast him alive like a pig. Then I'll  pull off his ears and pluck his eyes.” She raved stomping back and forth as if Lucifer weren't in the room.

As much as he delighted in observing her dark vengeful creativity run wild he needed her to concentrate. “Maze,” he breathed with a grin crossing his arms stepping in front of her to get her attention. “The good for nothing scoundrel is in jail like a sitting duck. Whereas, Linda’s rescuer has fallen off the face of the earth.”

“Whatever,” grunted Maze, “I’ll find Mr. Invisible and then torture the rodent who scared Linda half to death.”

“Thinking like that is one of the many reasons why you are my favorite demon,” Lucifer chuckled.

Around midnight the same day Maze contacted Lucifer to tell him she was at Lux with the guy. It goes without saying Lucifer arrived in the blink of an eye thanks to his wings. In hindsight using them in front of a mortal was a bad idea but he didn’t want to waste any time. “Well,well it is a pleasure to meet you.” Lucifer said with a smile and an out stretched hand.

Mick was taking inventory of his present condition and what events brought him there. One short hour ago he was passed out from drinking in a cheap motel room when there was a thunderous bang bringing a disquieting end to his dead sleep. His eyes shot open to discover a gorgeous woman standing over him with eyes like daggers that could kill. She already obtained his heat gun. So he acquiesced acknowledging putting up a fight would be futile.

Now he was standing in the middle of a closed night club in front of a man who had materialized out of the blue. Mick did not shake the hand that was offered to him. “Whatever is going on I don’t want trouble. I’m on vacation so let’s get this over with.” He mumbled tripping over his own feet while walking to a bar stool.

Lucifer gave his best charismatic smile “Trust me I can sympathize with the desire to be left alone on vacation. So how about we cut to the chase hmm?”

“Let’s get this over with...” Mick sighed thoroughly convinced the man with the sexy British accent sitting beside him was a touch crazy.

“Right then,” Lucifer clapped with satisfaction. “I just wanted to ask you a question, what is your deepest desire?”

Mick could feel a warmth filling his stomach. It was like someone was pouring sunlight inside him. All of the tension stress and irritation that wrapped around his mind like ivy retreated begrudgingly. He could feel the truth clawing at his lips like a dog pleading to be set loose from its cage. The fire lover found himself combating his own legs while attempting to stand. Mick’s feet defied his passionate orders to run. “Len... It doesn’t matter he’s dead” He reluctantly spat through gritted teeth. “The worst part it’s my fault.”

Lucifer sat speechless out of the things he was expecting to hear that wasn’t on his list. Seconds after the emotional admission Mick face planted on the bar with a thud followed by snoring. Lucifer considered it a tiny silver lining because it gave him time recalculate. “This just got complicated... bloody complicated...” He sighed in exasperation.

“As if it wasn’t already.” Maze snorted looking at him with something akin to pity.

[renegade2026]

TOM HARDY SAVES THE DAY (NO, REALLY)

One of the most intense actors of our time agreed to take us on a motorcycle tour of his hometown—and then the day spun way off-script.

ERIC SULLIVAN AUG 7, 2018

We're at the first stop on Tom Hardy’s literal tour down memory lane, and he’s already causing trouble. The caretaker of St. Leonard’s Court, an apartment building in the leafy London suburb of East Sheen, comes out to the driveway to say that a tenant has lodged a noise complaint. Hardy leans back in the saddle of the offending source, a Triumph Thruxton fitted with a not-so-subtle 1200cc engine. “Must be hard for someone who’s home at 3:00 p.m. on a Tuesday doing fuck-all, innit?” he says to the caretaker, who’s already in retreat. Then, overriding his knee-jerk snark: “It won’t happen again.”

“I’m the youngest person to own a flat on this block,” Hardy, forty, tells me, sounding both proud and bemused. He bought the place fifteen years ago, moved out six years later, and now uses it as a crash pad for out-of-town guests. He didn’t choose the location for its social scene, if the few geriatric residents shuffling by are any indication. Rather, he was the prodigal son returned: He grew up in the upper-middle-class community, the only child of Chips, an adman and writer, and Ann, an artist. His parents still live nearby.

“Ready for the five-dollar tour?” he asks. Our plan is to trace the path from what he calls his “privileged bourgeois background” to the upper-upper-class town of Richmond, where he now lives with his wife, actor Charlotte Riley, and their child, his second. (He also has a ten-year-old son with assistant director Rachael Speed.) The journey is short in distance—a little more than two miles—but ultramarathon-long in life experience.

“Behind the Laura Ashley curtains, there was naughtiness and fuckeries!” he begins like an overenthused docent. I point out that’s a line he’s delivered many times to many writers. He shrugs. “It’s easier to say that than to go deep-sea diving into it.” To Hardy, a fiercely private man and a reluctant public figure, the canned story serves the useful purpose of making an unsuspecting person feel like they’re getting to know the real Tom. “Should we fuck off?” he asks as we pull on our gear. Except for the beat-up jeans, his five-foot-nine frame is covered in black, from his helmet to his motorcycle boots. We get on our bikes and fuck off.

Five minutes later, just past the prep school he attended as a boy, Hardy spots a commotion, and we pull over. A woman, blood covering her face, lies faceup, half on the sidewalk and half in the street. A few bystanders are crouched around. As Hardy approaches, he says, “I know her.”

It's Mae, the mother of one of Hardy’s childhood best friends. [Some names have been changed.] He drops to one knee and takes her hand in his. Someone in the crowd tells us that Mae tripped while walking her dog. She’s slipping in and out of consciousness.

“Mae, it’s Tommy,” Hardy says. “Squeeze my hand. Keep talking to us. Can you open your eyes?” She moans. He tries out a joke. “Are you Canadian?” he asks. She manages a word: “No. ” He says, “Not even a little Canadian?” She doesn’t reply. By the time the ambulance arrives, Mae is responding, but barely. Shortly after, her son Albert pulls up on his bicycle. When he sees his mother laid out, he bites his fist. Hardy wraps his arms around his friend, both to comfort him and to keep him at a safe distance.

The paramedics load Mae onto a stretcher, and Hardy asks if they can bring Albert, too, then asks again to make sure they remember. They say yes, but they’ll first check Mae’s vitals.

After the ambulance doors close, Hardy turns his attention back to Albert. “Your mom took a whack to the forehead. But I’m not concerned immediately, ’cause she’s responding better than when we arrived. And ’cause they’re not rushing off. You settle in at the hospital, and then we’ll meet you.” Albert protests, but Hardy stops him. “I’m one of your best mates, and I love you.” He slips money into Albert’s pocket. “Just for now,” he says. As soon as the ambulance leaves, bound for Kingston Hospital, he calls Albert’s wife.

For the half hour we’ve been here, Hardy has not stopped moving. He’s talked himself through each step as if checking off boxes on a crisis to-do list. Suddenly, he turns to me and considers our circumstances. We began the day as writer and subject, but that dynamic dissolved the moment he saw Mae. “There was no interview here,” he says. “We find ourselves in a situation where we needed to put everything on hold.” A smile cracks across his face. “Welcome to my neighborhood. I told you there’s always something to find behind the Laura Ashley curtains.”

Private Tom and Public Hardy: These are the two sides that define him. That his time is split between work life and family life, and that his obligations toward both are sometimes at odds, isn’t unique. However, his steadfast struggle to separate them is; he’d be thrilled if never the two should meet. But they do, with increasing frequency, in ways that are beyond his control.

Public Hardy may be an accomplished actor in the U. S., but in his home country he’s a national treasure. In June, he was awarded the title Commander of the Order of the British Empire, which, while not as prestigious as knighthood, is on the same scale. In February, Glamour UK named him the sexiest man of 2018. Madame Tussauds in London recently displayed his likeness reclining on an oxblood chesterfield couch, one arm perched atop the back cushion like an invitation. (“Cosy up to Tom on his leather sofa and feel his heartbeat and the warmth of his torso in what is surely the hottest seat in town,” hypes the wax museum’s site.) He tells well-worn anecdotes to keep Private Tom concealed, and he’s always on alert.

We meet for the first time the day before the accident, at the Bike Shed, a motorcycle club and café in Shoreditch where, last year, he spent his fortieth birthday. It’s Hardy’s favorite place in London—not surprising, as he’s an investor in the company, which plans to open a location in Los Angeles soon. Every few minutes during our conversation, he nods hello to yet another bearded, inked-up passerby. He’s wearing a loose T-shirt and cargo pants with enough pockets to fit all the world. Brown fuzz dusts the crown of his head. A copper beard stippled with gray blankets the lower half of his face.

He answers my first question—how he’s doing—without missing a beat: “I’m tired.” He’s been working a lot, mostly on Marvel’s Venom (October 5), in which he plays the title role, a reporter named Eddie Brock whose body is hijacked by an alien symbiote. Venom has remained one of Spider-Man’s best-known foes since he first appeared in comic-book form in the late eighties. At times, he’s an outright villain; at others, including in Hardy’s hands, he’s more of an antihero. He can’t discuss the plot, but he says the tone of the movie, directed by Ruben Fleischer (Zombieland), is “dark and edgy and dangerous.”

The three-month shoot, which ended in January, took him to Atlanta, New York, and San Francisco, where the movie is set. “I see America by where the tax breaks are,” he jokes. Next, he headed to New Orleans to play a syphilitic Al Capone in Fonzo, directed by Josh Trank (Chronicle). That crew went hard: nineteen hours a day for six weeks. The day they wrapped, he flew home, threw on a suit, and attended the royal wedding with Riley. (All he’ll say about why they landed the coveted invite is that “it’s deeply private” and “Harry is a fucking legend.”) The work wasn’t the hardest thing; it was, he says, spending such long stretches away from his family.

Yet workwise, Hardy has arrived at what you might call a stakes moment, one that’s twenty years in the making. At the dawn of his career, after landing just two small roles, albeit in big projects—Band of Brothers and Black Hawk Down—he scored his first major part, as the bald, asexual villain in 2002’s Star Trek: Nemesis. But the movie tanked, snuffing buzz over his excellent performance. Five years of forgettable films and a few distinguished stage performances passed before Hardy played lead roles that fully showcased his talents: the homeless drug addict with a heart of gold in the BBC’s Stuart: A Life Backwards (2007), for which he shed nearly thirty pounds, and the most violent inmate in Britain in Bronson (2009), for which he packed on fifteen pounds of muscle.

Physical change is just part of Hardy’s exacting, chameleonlike transformations. “One can embellish with flair or an accent,” he says. “But ultimately you need to ground the character in some form of recognizable truth.” Hardy will talk your ear off about acting theory— Stanislavsky versus Adler, presentation versus representation, the use of clowning and mask work. “I’m a complete geek about it,” he says. But those seams don’t show. At his best, Hardy so thoroughly embodies a character, in both body and spirit, that he all but disappears.

Take a scene from 2015’s The Revenant. Hardy plays Fitzgerald, the coldhearted fur trapper and the target of revenge for Leonardo DiCaprio’s Glass. One night, around a campfire, Fitzgerald makes a veiled threat to a suspicious travel companion. He never raises his voice, but it’s as if he’s ripped out the man’s heart. Hardy’s performance earned him both an Oscar nomination and, after losing a bet with DiCaprio over whether he’d receive such recognition, a tattoo on his right arm that reads leo knows all.

His knack for magnetic unease can inject a blockbuster with edge: Mad Max: Fury Road, Inception, and, most notably, The Dark Knight Rises. But aside from Fury Road, whenever he’s assumed the lead role—Lawless, Warrior, This Means War, The Drop, Locke, Legend, Child 44—the results have come up short critically, commercially, and sometimes both. Venom is Hardy’s most visible role yet.

“Sounds like a lot of pressure, doesn’t it?” he half-jokes. But he says he’s not concerned about box-office returns; as always, he’s consumed with building a good character. He admits he knew little about Venom when he first read the script. “So I spoke to the only person I could really trust in this environment: my older boy.” His comic-book-loving son “was a huge influence on me doing the role.”

Hardy prepped for the movie for more than a year. He undergoes a rigorous process to shape each performance, complete with its own argot. A script is a “case file,” to be “unpacked” via “investigation.” He often begins by using personalities, both real and fictive, as lodestars toward which he guides his portrayal. The voice he developed for Al Capone in Fonzo is based on Bugs Bunny’s; to prove it, he plays me a clip of the raw footage on his phone. Sure enough, he sounds like the cartoon rabbit with a severe case of vocal fry. In Venom, the dual roles of Eddie Brock and Venom reminded him of three wildly different traits of three wildly different people: “Woody Allen’s tortured neurosis and all the humor that can come from that. Conor McGregor—the überviolence but not all the talking. And Redman”—the rapper—“out of control, living rent-free in his head.” Those are not details he revealed to the execs at Sony, which is producing the movie. “You don’t say shit like that to the studio,” he says.

“IF THE ODDS ARE STACKED AGAINST SONY, THAT’S NOT MY FUCKING BUSINESS. IT'S IRRELEVANT.

“If the odds are stacked against Sony, that’s not my fucking business,” Hardy says. “It’s irrelevant.” He burnishes an image of himself as a creative lone wolf, and in the third person no less: “Tom is very mercenary when it comes to work. I cannot give a fuck what the writer, or the director, or Larry in Baltimore thinks about my choices.” (He later clarifies the perspective shift: “Sometimes I talk in the third person because it’s a lot easier to see myself at work as a piece of meat. So when Tommy says he doesn’t give a fuck what you think, it’s only because I give too much of a fuck, and it gets to a point where it stifles me.”) But it’s hard to square his claims of artistic purity with the occasional very non-lone-wolf detail like, “Market research shows that the biggest fan base for Venom is ten-year-old boys in South America.”

If this movie does well, there will be sequels. And if Sony builds its cinematic Spidey universe, Hardy may well appear in those, too. Beyond those commitments, he’s vague about his post-Fonzo plans, most of which don’t involve acting. “What I’d like to do is produce. Write. Direct,” he says. Through his production company, Hardy Son & Baker, he’s working on the second season of Taboo, a moody period drama set in early-1800s London that he stars on and cowrites with his father. The first season was a mixed bag—its premiere ranks as one of the most streamed episodes of any BBC show, but historians criticized its accuracy and U. S. viewers met its FX airing with indifference—yet his stature is such that the BBC green-lighted the second season. He also optioned Once a Pilgrim, a thriller by a veteran of the Parachute Regiment, the elite airborne infantry of the British army; he’s considering directing the adaptation.

Hardy’s future looks rosy. And yet, more than anything, he feels worn down. Physically, sure: He’s walking with a limp. He says he tore his right meniscus on the set of Venom, but he doesn’t know how it happened. “At the end of a job, I normally end up on the side of the road,” he says. “And then carrying the toddler around on my shoulders. . .” He lets loose a two-note cackle. “Things get in the way of looking after yourself.”

But the fatigue is also mental. Maybe it’s because the growing demands of the job, especially the time spent far from his wife and children, are beginning to outweigh its diminishing gratification. When I ask if being forty has changed how he feels about his career, this time he answers in the second person. “You’ve summited Everest. It’s a miracle that you’ve made it anywhere near the fucking mountain, let alone climbed it. Do you want to go all the way back and do it again? Or do you want to get off the mountain and go fucking find a beach?” He tugs his left temple so hard that it looks like the skin might tear. “What is it that draws you to the craft? At this age, I don’t know anymore. I’ve kind of had enough. If I’m being brutally honest, I want to go on with my life.”

After the ambulance leaves with Mae and Albert, Hardy suggests that we stop at a few places on our way to the hospital. Not for my benefit, but for his friend’s. “Albert needs to be alone with his mum and his thoughts,” he says. “He’s going to be taking care of her, so it’s important he pays attention. Sometimes, when there are other people around, that’s hard to do.” Hardy isn’t trying to swashbuckle; he’s thinking of how to best help two loved ones. And, apparently, a guy he just met: Looking me up and down, he says, “We’ve had a bit of a shock ourselves. We could use some sugar.” We set out for a refreshment stand in a nearby park he first came to as a toddler with his mother to paddle around the kiddie pool, and then as a teen with Albert and others to play rugby.

When we arrive, the stand is closed. As we get back on our bikes, a father walks by carrying his son, a chubby boy with an explosion of straw-colored curls. “How old are you?” Hardy asks the boy. “He’s two,” the dad beams.

“When will you be three?” Hardy asks.

“July,” the toddler says softly.

“That’s really soon!” he says. “You’re a bit older than my youngest, who’ll be three in October. Oh, you’ll be a big boy by then. You’re already a big boy. Do you want to sit on my bike?” The boy buries his face in his father’s chest. “I appreciate I’ve made you feel nervous. This is what I will do: I will disappear,” he says, which could double as his two-sentence acting manifesto. He revs his engine over and over. As we depart, the boy watches Hardy, his mouth agape.

We cut into Richmond Park, a twenty-five-hundred-acre expanse that’s equal parts polished and untamed. When something catches Hardy’s attention—stags in the brush, a view of the Thames, a tree with knotted bark—he raises two fingers to his eyes in a V, then points so I see it too, like I’m his Dunkirk wingman.

We pull over at a dead end. With our engines rumbling, Hardy tells me that his parents moved to this part of London to enroll him in the best schools they could afford. The area is among the wealthiest in the UK, but it’s also an economic patchwork where council houses sit blocks away from mansions. “Growing up, you mix and mingle. You can sit in the shit if you want to, or you can make something of yourself,” he says. “Or you can end up under too much pressure and fading out young.”

As a child, Hardy had a strong relationship with Ann, but he butted heads with Chips. Father and son made up years ago, and Hardy resists going into detail about their difficult past. “My father was the most wonderful of teachers in a world that can be cruel,” he allows. “He treated me like an adult, as opposed to changing his persona for his child. There was no filter. Do you understand? No filter.”

In his teens, Hardy wobbled. “The centrifugal force in my life is a natural disposition to not be happy with the way I feel,” he says. That, combined with a robust contrarian bent—“Nine times out of ten, when somebody says, ‘Don’t do that,’ my instinct is to say, ‘That has to be done’ ”—got him into a fair bit of trouble. He hung out with the wrong crowds; he fought in school. “I grew up in the neighborhood being a dick,” he says. “I’ve learned and will continue to learn from being a dick. To try and somehow chisel myself into being a human being so I can respect myself when I look in the mirror. And that’s a procedure that will go on until I die.”

Starting at thirteen, he struggled with alcoholism and other addictions. He still has a soft spot for those with similar demons. In April 2017, when two kids riding stolen mopeds were T-boned at an intersection and tried to run, Hardy, who lived nearby, apprehended one of them. The Sun headline sums up how the press covered the incident: “Tom Hardy Catches Thief After Dramatic Hollywood-Style Chase Through Streets Before Proudly Saying, ‘I’ve Caught the C**t.’ ” He disputes the details of what was reported— “It wasn’t much of a chase; when I found him, he was in fucking rag order”—but that’s beside the point. The tabloids missed the real story: After the incident, he tracked down the kid he turned in and got him help. “He must stand accountable for what he’s done,” Hardy tells me. “But he’s got issues, and he’s in a bad way. Do we just give up on a sixteen-year-old?”

As a boy, Hardy was given second, third, and fourth chances. Along the way, he discovered that acting offered an outlet for his baneful discontent. He attended one drama school, then another, got kicked out twice, and was cast in Band of Brothers before he graduated.

Still, for years, he questioned his chosen path. Hardy even signed up for a Parachute Regiment training course—but never followed through. “Oh, mate, I did so much backpedaling,” he says. “The reality is that where I belonged was not there. The last person defending the realm was Mr. Hardy.” He calls the decision to back out “one of my biggest regrets. I wonder what life would’ve been like. I would’ve loved to have served and been useful.”

In 2003, at twenty-five, Hardy cleaned up with the help of a twelve-step program—he calls it “my first port of call”—and he’s been sober ever since. “It was hard enough for me to say, ‘I’m an alcoholic.’ But staying stopped is fucking hard.” Sitting on his Triumph, at the center of the place that held all the risks and possibilities that would define him, Hardy sounds almost wistful.

We take off through the park. He rides with his legs bowed out, his left hand resting on his knee, and his right hand holding steady on the throttle. When he rips on a vape pen, white plumes swirl around his head and dissipate into the damp air.

We head to Richmond. The town sits within the borders of Greater London, but its roots are as much in the countryside as in the city. Generations of famous Brits seeking refuge have called it home: Queen Elizabeth I liked hunting stags in the park; Charles I relocated his court here to avoid the plague; Mick Jagger lived near the Thames with Jerry Hall, who, though now married to Rupert Murdoch, apparently still co-owns the home they shared.

We stop at a café around the corner from Hardy’s place. The wall between us that crumbled upon seeing Mae—or seemed to, anyway—is fortified just as quickly. When Private Tom reaches playfully for my stack of questions and I instinctively pull them back, he casts a leery eye. “I see I’m not in the circle of trust,” Public Hardy says, when in fact I just got booted from his.

“Can I get a double espresso?” he asks our waiter.

“For sure,” the waiter says. “By the way, big fan. I always know if you’re in a movie, it’s going to be a good one.”

“Thanks. But don’t put your money on that,” Hardy says. “I’ve got to be crap at some point.”

“I would say you’re one of my top three best,” the waiter says. “Action actors,” he clarifies.

“I think I’m a bit too old now for action.”

“Except for the next Expendables,” the waiter jokes.

“I’m tempted to ask who the other two are,” Hardy says after the waiter walks off. “I showed great restraint. Great restraint.” He might claim that the opinions of others don’t matter, but this is driving him crazy. “Who are the fuckers?”

When the waiter returns, I ask. “Mark Wahlberg,” he says without delay, as if he were waiting for the question. Hardy, stone-faced, says nothing. “And Matt Damon.”

Finally, Hardy speaks. “Can I give you this?” he says, handing over a plate, any plate, just to send the waiter on his way. Almost as an afterthought, he adds, “Thanks, man. Good company.”

He deals with this sort of thing all the time. “I’ve crossed the line of being a public figure. And I accept that means to a certain degree I’m public property,” he says, “even though I project an image of myself to them,” acknowledging Public Hardy in all but name. Most people he meets are lovely. But “the downside of being overt is you invite darkness,” he says. “It only takes one person to cause real harm.” He defends himself as if someone has called him out. “That’s not being paranoid. That’s just facts.”

“THE DOWNSIDE OF BEING OVERT IS YOU INVITE DARKNESS. IT ONLY TAKES ONE PERSON TO CAUSE REAL HARM.”

By filtering which parts of himself become public, he’s mostly okay with the balance of Private Tom and Public Hardy. Except, that is, when it comes to his children. “I will pose for you, and photos of me and my wife are fine,” he says. “But if someone takes a photo of my kids, all bets are off. I will take the camera off you and beat the fucking shit out of you.” His voice contains no hint of exaggeration. “That’s the one that hurts. My kids didn’t ask for what my job is.” He pauses. “There’s something that really upsets me about the imposition of a grown-up world on a child.”

When we spoke earlier about his relationship with Chips, he said he was working to become a better father by learning from the mistakes of his own. “In trying to protect my children, I’ll probably give them their own dose of problems,” he told me. “But I don’t want them to go through what I went through.”

At Kingston Hospital, we make our way to Mae’s room. She’s feeling better, but dried blood still cakes her face. She and Albert don’t know who or what to expect next, or how long it will be. Hardy asks what she remembers—“Hit the pavement,” she says. “Made a nice sound”—and what still hurts. We unload snacks we brought, and then we wait.

The three relax into a familiar rhythm. Age has smoothed but not erased the boys’ mischief and the mom’s sass. Hardy jokes to Mae, “All right, lovely, want salt-and-vinegar chips with a side of infectious disease? Pick up a little souvenir?” She smirks.

Hardy squeezes some sanitizer onto his hands and rubs it, then reaches for a chip. “Don’t do that,” Mae says. “Wipe off your hands first. It’s not for eating.”

“It’s better than eating disease,” Albert weighs in. “I’d rather be sanitized to death.”

“I’m gonna take my chances,” Hardy says.

“How’s your mum and dad?” she asks.

“Very good, actually,” he says. “It was my mum’s birthday last week.”

“Twenty-one again?”

“I’m glad to see you’re cracking jokes,” Albert says.

“Me too,” Mae says.

When she leaves the room with the help of a nurse, Hardy turns to Albert and delivers a dose of optimism: “She’s walking, mate. That’s a good sign. The next thing we’re going to get is an X-ray, or maybe a CT scan if they’re concerned about bleeding or swelling in the brain. They’ve got to check all the boxes.”

Once Mae is back, Hardy steps out to talk to the nurse without saying why. “Is he using his celebrity powers?” Albert asks me. “Not the first time I’ve witnessed that.” He laughs, then quiets. “But it’s a nice tool to have.”

Hardy returns without explanation. A few minutes later, the nurse comes in. “She’s going to be seen next.”

Like that, Mae is at the top of the list.

Though Hardy is coy about how much he played the fame card, it’s clear his job here is done. As we say goodbye, Mae pulls him in close. “I want you to know that I have plans to see Venom,” she says. “You’ve done something that’s close to my heart. You know I’m a sci-fi freak.”

“You’re gonna enjoy this one,” Hardy says. “This one’s just for you. And for my boy.”

Hardy wants to exert control over his world. The brutal irony is that the more successful he becomes, the more the world controls him. But as we walk out of the hospital, I suggest that while his celebrity might feel like a burden, in the instance of Mae and Albert it was . . . He finishes my sentence: “Perfect.”

At the exit, an orderly chases us down. “Tom! Tom Hardy!” We stop. “I just love your movies. Can I take a picture?” Two more fans follow. He smiles as they gather around in the hospital parking lot and start snapping selfies.

This article appears in the September '18 issue of Esquire.

https://www.esquire.com/entertainment/movies/amp22627852/tom-hardy-venom-fonzo-september-cover/

[the-colony-roleplay]

Mekhai Knight | Thirty Six;  Elite

House: Brink Status: Infected - Telepathy (Infection Unregistered) Elite Specification: NWRF Security Alignment: New Wave Reformists

History

Mekhai was raised to value family above all else. Growing up on a farm in the Romanian countryside of Peciu Nou with his mother and grandparents, he learned to be resourceful and adaptable in times of hardship. At the young age of nine, he would travel to the big city of Timisoara to sell and trade their harvest for supplies. His talent to barter grew and eventually, he began marketing on behalf of the other villagers. In fact, when both his mother and his grandparents died in a fire, the villagers took him in like their own. 

However, after a short time, the authorities connected him with his previously absent father, a wealthy British man.  Sent to live with his father, stepmother and three half-brothers, Mekhai was shocked to find how cold and disconnected they were, not only to him, but to each other. After months of being an outsider to his blood relatives, he realized he had no place among this elite family in his current state. But unsatisfied with remaining in their shadow, he decided he would do whatever it took to win them over. He stopped correcting his father when he called him Michael and worked relentlessly everyday to mimic the mannerisms and accent of ‘sophisticated’ British society. He excelled in school and surpassed his brothers in any activity he set his mind to, hoping to earn their respect. But over the years, nothing seemed to prove his worth to his father or gain acceptance of his brothers.

In his mid-twenties, he became a real estate agent where his adaptable personality crafted a smooth and charming salesman. Around the same time, he met a new client Elis, a paramedic raising his three-year-old daughter, Rosa.  While helping Elis find a home, a part of his persona slipped away and the two became fast friends.  As their friendship grew, he found himself becoming part of their family. Sure enough, he fell deeply in love with Elis and adored Rosa as if she were his own daughter. After making a name for himself in the business world and living off his own wealth, his estranged father finally began to show interest, offering him a place at his company. Smart enough to not let his father use him and tired of trying to be part of a family that had always seen him as an outsider, he turned his attention instead to building his own family. After marrying Elis and raising Rosa, he finally felt content—he finally had a purpose.

Six months after D-day and the first falling, Mekhai and his family were safe. Having met up with a group of survivors, they found a gated hotel and there they formed a settlement. Nearly three years later, small clans had popped up within a mile’s radius around them, and Mekhai worked as a scavenger, trading supplies between the groups. When raider and looter attacks became more frequent, he worked on gathering the tools necessary to upgrade security for his own and the surrounding clans. Shortly thereafter, he developed his infection: Telepathy. Though excruciatingly painful at first, he eventually learned control and used it to communicate with Elis while he was away from home.

However, on a dreary day like many others, after returning from a long trading circuit, he found his home in flames. To his horror and devastation, the dead lay everywhere, and Elis was among them. In the midst of his despair, he found survivors who explained the infected were captured and Rosa was one of them.

In overwhelming pain and anger, Mekhai lost himself to a violent rage, tracking down and attacking smaller groups of raiders, whether they were the ones responsible or not. Eventually, he discovered that the raiders who’d destroyed his family were all Infected and belonged to some cult. Their leader Marius, a Deluded, believed that the Infected were chosen by God to rebuild the earth and that he and his followers’ collective purpose was to eliminate the weak and liberate ‘God’s chosen’. Mekhai would later come to understand that Marius and his followers were among the first of what would become an extreme revolutionist movement called the New Wold Radicals. Of course, this was impossible to predict back then, in a time before the official rise of the NWRF. 

After months of searching for Rosa, Mekhai found what he believed to be her body, pulling her locket out of the ash. In the following months, he sank into a nightmarish state he can hardly remember, which broke only when his hunt for Marius was successful, and he took the man’s life with his own hands. 

Avenged, but shattered and exhausted, he wandered the wastelands, waiting for death.  He had no reason to live, anymore. His purpose having died alongside his family, and the one who killed them. But more than a year after the death of his family, he was found by a group of Crusaders—no longer working for the Colonies, but for the NWRF, in the Purging of the Wastelands. He was taken in to a nearby Reformist outpost, and nursed back to health. It was upon learning the purpose of this new government and their vision for the future, that Mekhai too, recovered purpose, and he was in a sense, revived. 

Mekhai Today

Having lied about his Infection when recovered from the wastelands, too shameful of his affiliation to a ‘curse’ he so hated, Mekhai joined the NWRF while in the lowest point of his life. Today, however, he has a renewed resolve to protect the Uninfected—the innocent—from the dangerous nature of the Infected and more specifically, the New World Radicals. Though not all Radicals believed or operated as extremely as the delusional Marius, their platform of being a superior, evolved race, was more than enough for Mekhai to make the distinct association between the movement and the deranged cult who killed his family two years prior. 

He was sent to Colony 22 at the time of the initial take over, to serve as NWRF hired security. Based on his revulsion towards the Infected, they saw him as an asset and a domineering force to be reckoned with, and they needed someone they could trust to infiltrate the existing Colony security. Mekhai vowed never again to use his dreaded ability, as he could not go on living if he considered himself ‘one of them’.

Though he does what he can to update the Colony’s still outdated security, he’s also made it his objective to watch and access every one of the Infected, on his own personal account. In fact, it has manifested into a relentless obsession. Often plagued by night terrors, he’s resorted to neurotically updating his personal records and accounts of the Infected he’s observed, long into the night. He meticulously memorizes any personal information he’s formulated on them, which he stores in offline files on his private Echo device, and continuously evolves profile after profile of Infected and Deluded inhabitants, assessing each one carefully.

Falling back into old habits, he often appears as a collected, charming individual when in the presence of Elites and other NWRF members. But his demeanour drastically changes when dealing with the Infected. He isn’t afraid to put them in their place and get his hands dirty, if need be. He’s rumoured to be a menace among the Infected who’ve seen the grave hatred in his eyes. At his core, Mekhai is unpredictable—they are right to fear him. It’s likely only a matter of time before he snaps again.

CLOSED

[nathjonesey-75]

A Decade Away

In August (which already feels like last year), I passed over an interesting date on my calendar, as on the 22nd – somewhat incredulously – I had been living abroad from Wales and Britain for ten years. A decade outside Europe. Ten years ago upon leaving, I had nothing to lose but a wide-open space in which to travel, discover and meet all variations of people, cultures and places.

  In this crazy time, I have lived on two continents, changed careers (a few times again); witnessed modern slavery, seen the remnants and after-effects of colonialism in new and old lands, learnt stuff, dropped habits, restarted those habits and dropped them again, realised what I missed while sacrificing those things for work; confirmed myself as an atheist, met someone in another land - who grew up, just a mile away from me – and married them; learnt more stuff - had young students die tragically, lost friends to cancer, worked under ridiculous conditions, made friends and lost acquaintances; had lots of surgery, seen equality rights improve but be violently opposed, seen my country finally qualify for a football finals tournament, owned my first dogs and love them like kids, seen the horrific, evil right-wing shadow cast over the world so bewilderingly subtle that I cannot recognise the world from ten years ago. And breathe.

 As I pulled away from the glamour of Llanelli railway station on that date in August a decade ago; parents tearful (I was thirty-four and had left several times by this point – go figure); it seemed like the adventure it was about to become. Like the Lord Of The Rings story, I was to travel through some questionable places but alternatively - observe sights I wouldn’t have imagined. In my first hour of Doha life, seeing a woman in different attire to the usual Trostre car park attire in 2009 – ordering a shop worker around like a slave. “Get me this…get me that…” while repeatedly prodding his shoulder. Mind blown. Like I was watching a rich Caucasian American family from the late 1700s - jump to the 21st Century with their shopping techniques (Just to clarify - it was the manner and behaviour, not the attire which caused the bigger shock). The aisles of Asda in West Wales suddenly glittered with freedom. Yet somehow I stayed in the dusty, humid backward land for four years.

  Not having record shops, comic or other book shops nearby – and the advent of a pub being a ‘membership only’ do – with very little else to do in Qatar, became a four-year strain. Although, the carnage of Friday brunch – paying the equivalent of £40-80, depending on the hosting hotel – for stuffing your face with all readily available food and guzzling sparking wine or beer for three-to-four hours until you stumbled out, into the hot sun – had a degree of rebellious sun about it. Away from the narrow lanes of daily Qatari constitution and archaic religious laws.

 Realising that Melbourne was an escape route (by this time both Mr and Mrs Jones were infused by the travel bug – a return to Blighty was not an option), we visited the city in February 2013; kindly subsidised by Katherine’s future – and previous – employers. Our first encounter starting on a high street (for more than one intended pun reason) being that of intoxicated-to-oblivion bodies being dragged out of both McDonalds and KFC on a Friday night. Now this is more like home. High streets with open drunkenness and debauchery. Sign us up.

  Not only that, but the self-appointed, clever social secretary – Mrs Jones – had organised what was to become my personal Australian favourite – its wine, through a vineyard tour of the Yarra Valley. If we could have been sold Melbourne – and Australia – any better in one week, I would be surprised. Plus the British and Irish Lions were touring here from June that year, so it could possibly be a dream come true, of seeing one of their test matches. It had to be Melbourne.

 Of course, when you’re itching to leave a spiritually toxic place, yearning for a new social catapult in a new home – positives are mostly what you’ll see. Which is why living around the world – leaving the rough times with hope; expecting – or at least wishing for the rough to become smoother – it can be the most exposing and openly blatant aspect of life as an expat. Not knowing what will come next can be an exciting part of an adventure. It can also be of huge personal detriment should you not hit the ground running and settle into the new environment. While I have lived with immense pride at how my wife’s career has glowed in Melbourne, to say my working journey in Australia has been stop-start is like saying a Tarantino move ‘may contain violence’.

  We can all live in a media-controlled bubble, wherever we are in the world. I would guess that most British people above thirty-five years of age would retain the idea that Australia is more alike the sun-drenched, ‘barbie’-having, beer-drinking eternal summers, as seen on Paul Hogan’s old adverts, Home and Away – as well as England’s Ashes tours are played in hot conditions. The thing with the validity of Paul Hogan’s Foster’s commercials – as good as they were, no-one in Australia drinks it. If it were the only thing available at a party, I’d have water. That’s always been my opinion of the uric juice. Australians have a joke about why they sell it to Britain because ‘Poms are stupid enough to drink it’. Thus, the irony and paradox of Foster’s being a symbol of Australia – it is not like Britain in the sun. You have to live here to know the hidden nuances. Sometimes, the hard way.

 For instance, no-one would have told you that despite all your experience in certain industries in Britain – if you haven’t got “local” experience in Melbourne, then you won’t be employed (https://www.bbc.com/news/business-29206260). Hundreds of my unanswered job applications are testimony to that. Not many people can identify a Welsh accent. People will guess you’re Irish, English and Scottish - then run out of ideas of where else you could possibly come from. Rugby is not important in Melbourne (despite Australia having won the World Cup twice). Neither is driving or speaking fluently. Just abbreviate everything and end each word with an ‘o’. First world problems for graduates of an English and Culture degree, who still value their own culture and wonder why professional instructors are not mandatory in a Western, developed country.

  First world problems or not – a decade later, third world problems seem to be entering the first world. Tomorrow, the general election of the four nations which are anything but united by royalty – and would certainly find it difficult to describe Britain as ‘great’ these days; regardless which side, fragment or definition of politics – you follow. It has become so depressingly divisive that it has split families – and societies right through those home nations. Politics across the world has become so murky and manipulative that no good comes of it. Social media, fake media, fake politicians, social tension – nothing is real. Apart from the poverty, confusion and disunity which has come from misinformation, lies and no real leadership.

 When I left Europe, I wanted to find both myself – and my home. As mentioned, I had nothing to lose at the time – had my country been a thriving place, filled with opportunities – very much how Australians feel about their country – I may not have felt such wanderlust in my veins. I wanted to find my place. A place of belonging. In my home land, not only is it an industrial corpse which has become increasingly depressing to see its degradation in the past decade with each visit – but now won’t trust anyone so will seemingly vote for the ones who have harmed it most. If I really believed statistics being published this week about voting trends; Welsh voters now have lost their own moral compass and found a new level of Stockholm Syndrome, it would seem. My fingers are crossed to breaking point – in hope that those figures were nothing but propaganda. In 2019, anything is possible.

    Wales – which has never had a Conservative majority – and rightly so considering its utter negligence of Wales - also now even being bandied as ‘West Britain’ by the future plans of the aristocratic parties, based in England – relies on tourism and the export of agriculture to survive. Universities help finance some aspects of the very few small cities we have, but outside of these urban entities, there is little growth. Considering the gentrification of larger cities (mostly in England) in the 2000s, isn’t it high time it happened in provincial towns?

 The fact that some of my family – have told me they would probably vote Conservative this week – shows the predicament and alienation which is comparable to that of the 1930s in Germany and brought forth intolerance of racial and cultural variations. “Let’s vote for those who promise the most, have the least recent blemishes on their vague moral compasses – and hope for the best” – seems to be the strategy of casting a vote. The state of the NHS alone should be enough to veer the vote away from Captain Buffoon and his Blue Bigot Army. Elimination should be purely by track record, or by granting new chances. Not by being duped by rhetoric which will be forgotten in six months’ time apart from when a journalist raises the point - when it’s too late. Being loyal to your punisher is such a classist, British trait which seems to be perpetuated.

 Now, at the end of the decade – it should be said that I probably still have little to lose. With no dependents apart from my little canine children, the next chapter now depends on what effects Brexshit will have on travel and work opportunities in Europe and the Northern Hemisphere. As an ex-teacher, hospitality pro and semi-professional DJ and producer – using the “anything is possible” to my advantage is the watchword. With social and international reasonability at an almost-anarchic state of suspended reality, the “one life, one chance” motto has to be imprinted on my mind.

  In my mid-forties, it feels like that the wanderlust needs to be summoned again. I’m finding it harder enduring bad road rules, taking orders from millennials who think they know everything, missing watching my teams at reasonable times, missing festivals which only happen up north, missing comedy such as Vic and Bob; time zone difficulties and being so far away from my interests, as well as friends and family. Coming to Melbourne with a completely open mind was something I’d repeat, should I head for a new habitat. Bearing in mind and researching cultural differences is definitely something I’d do, emphatically and thoroughly. The older you get, alarm bells ring louder with each situation. You just don’t want those bells to be a daily chime, after a while. So the most liveable place for me - would have an essential checklist of being – tolerant, multicultural, musical, a maximum of 3 hours’ time difference to Britain, with an effective infrastructure and not over-expensive. Now, where could that be?

[nancygduarteus]

How a Stroke Turned a 63-Year-Old Into a Rap Legend

Dr. Sherman Hershfield woke up one morning and was surprised to find himself behind the wheel of his car. Somewhere between his Beverly Hills apartment and his practice in the San Fernando Valley, the silver-haired physician had blacked out. Somehow, he’d avoided a crash, but this wasn’t the first time. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he admitted.

Apart from his frequent blackouts, Hershfield was in fine health for a man in his 50s. He was tall and lean, ran six miles a day, and was a strict vegetarian. “I believe a physician should provide exemplary motivation to patients,” he once wrote. “I don’t smoke and have cut out all alcohol.” Hershfield specialized in physical medicine and rehabilitation, and for decades had helped patients with brain injuries learn to walk again and rebuild their lives. Even with his experience, Hershfield didn’t know what was wrong inside his own head.

Perhaps the mystery blackouts were caused by stress, he wondered. Hershfield was the medical director of the rehab center at the San Bernardino Community Hospital, but he also ran a private practice 76 miles away in Winnetka, offering non-surgical spinal treatments. “Sometimes I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 a.m.,” he recalled, adding that the pressures had cost him his first marriage. At the hospital, Hershfield often slept in the doctor’s lounge, where colleagues nicknamed him “Dr. Columbo” after the disheveled television detective.

Not long after the blackouts started, Hershfield suffered a grand mal seizure—the type most people imagine when they think about seizures. He was driven to the emergency room, thrashing and writhing like a 6-feet-4-inch fish pulled out of the water. Concerned doctors at the UCLA Medical Center rushed him into an MRI machine, and, this being the late 1980s, wondered whether he might have pricked himself with a needle, and contracted AIDS. Instead, the scan revealed that his blackouts where actually a swarm of small strokes, and his illness was diagnosed as antiphospholipid syndrome. Hershfield’s immune system was mistakenly creating antibodies that made his blood more likely to clot. Those clots, if they entered his bloodstream and brain, could kill him at any moment.

Doctors prescribed blood-thinning medication and forced Hershfield to quit driving, but he was still fit to practice medicine. Like many survivors of stroke, his speech became slurred and he sometimes stuttered. His personality also seemed to change. He suddenly became obsessed with reading and writing poetry. Soon, Hershfield’s friends noticed another unusual side effect: He couldn’t stop speaking in rhyme. He finished everyday sentences with rhyming couplets, like “Now I have to ride the bus, it’s enough to make me cuss.” And curiously, whenever he rhymed, his speech impediments disappeared.

A STROKE or “brain attack” can happen to any of us at any time. One occurs every 40 seconds in the United States, and they can lead to permanent disability and extraordinary side effects. Some patients become hypersexual or compulsive gamblers. Others have even woken up speaking in a fake Chinese accent. “There was a famous guy in Italy who had what they called ‘Pinocchio syndrome,’” said Dr. Alice Flaherty, a joint associate professor of neurology and psychiatry at Harvard Medical School. “When he told a lie he would have a seizure. He was crippled as a businessman.”

One of Dr. Flaherty’s most famous cases was Tommy McHugh, a 51-year-old British man who suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage—a stroke caused by bleeding around the brain. Once a grizzled ex-con, McHugh’s stroke changed his entire personality. He became deeply philosophical, and spent 19 hours a day reading poetry, speaking in rhyme, painting, and drawing. He’d never been inside an art gallery before, he joked, “except to maybe steal something.”

For Hershfield, a love of poetry was also completely out of keeping with anything in his past. He was born in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1936, and while his mother was a concert pianist, he followed his father into medical school, graduating in 1960. In Flin Flon, a Canadian mining city, he mended the heads of injured hockey players, then became a resident at the University of Minnesota, before serving in the U.S. Army Medical Corps. In 1973, he arrived in Southern California and set up his practice, where he had little time for reading anything but medical journals.

His problems started during the medical malpractice crisis in the 1970s. Lawsuits against doctors became popular, and the cost of Hershfield’s liability insurance rose from $864 to $3,420. In protest, he quit working all but emergency cases, and took a job frying fish at Thousand Oaks Fish and Chips for $2 an hour. Newspapers across America wrote about the doctor who fried fish while wearing hospital scrubs, adding that Hershfield “looked like he was about to have four cod fillets wheeled into surgery.” He explained: “I’ve always been a person of high moral values. I’ve thought, what the hell do I want out of life? And it comes out, I want to be happy.”

Hershfield did return to medicine, but things went from bad to worse when his business partner and best friend started to abuse drugs. “He was an excellent surgeon, a handsome man who had everything going for him ... but he was unable to control his fears and constant bouts of withdrawal and depression, and he tried five times to take his life,” he recalled. Hershfield was there when his friend’s heart finally stopped, after six days on a respirator.

By 1987 he’d filed for bankruptcy. A year later he became the medical director at the rehab center, where he butted heads with management over his “odd” ideas, like opening a hospice where pets could stay with their dying owners. That was around the time the blackouts started.

In the 10 years following his stroke, Hershfield dedicated his free time to a Buddhist organization called Soka Gakkai International, where he loved to chant for hours. He had met his second wife there, Michiko, a beautiful Japanese divorcée who he impressed with his intellect, and his three medical certificates. Michiko told me that her husband “changed a lot,” following his stroke. “He used to like Japanese haiku poems, you know, five, seven, five.”

[Read: Can music be used as medicine?]

Hershfield also embraced his Jewish heritage, and volunteered at the Simon Wiesenthal Center, a Jewish global human rights organization. “I did the Holocaust in rhyme,” he recalled of the educational poem he’d perform on the bus. The city now sounded like a swinging rhythm section: Brakes hissed. Horns honked. Passengers rang the bell. As Hershfield recited his rhymes alone, he had become just another crazy person talking to himself on public transport. Then, one afternoon, as he waited at a bus stop in Hollywood, a man selling jewelry overheard him and suggested that he take his lyrics to Leimert Park.

“Where is Leimert Park?’” Hershfield asked. He had never been there.

Intrigued, he rode a bus headed into South Central, past Crenshaw’s Magic Johnson theater, the neighborhood’s megachurches, and liquor stores. At the foot of Baldwin Hills he found it—an area with one of the largest African-American populations in the western United States. If Leimert Park was 100 people, just one was white.

Since the 1960s, Leimert Park had been the center of African-American culture in Los Angeles—Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Ray Charles, and Richard Pryor had all lived within five miles of the place. To outsiders, it was known only as a hotspot during the Los Angeles riots in 1992. The jazz poet Kamau Daoud told me that locals still refer to the riot as “the rebellion.” The village would not quickly forget the four white police officers who beat the black motorist Rodney King half to death.

It was the very late 1990s when Hershfield stepped off the bus, dressed like a doctor who lived in Beverly Hills. He walked in polished shoes to the beat of the drum circle that gathered in the park, past the row of Afrocentric bookstores and shops selling colorful fabrics, where saxophone music leaked from every door and window. At 43rd and Leimert, he found a crowd of teenagers surrounding a community arts center called the “KAOS Network.” This had to be it: Spontaneous rap battles were breaking out, and dancers writhed on the sidewalk, seizurelike. At the entrance, a young man sized him up.

“Would you like to hear something?” Hershfield asked politely.

“Sure, what’s your name?” the man asked.

Hershfield looked at him.

“My name is Dr. Rapp.”

ESTABLISHED IN 1984 as a media-production center, KAOS Network was famous for “Project Blowed,” an open-mic workshop for up-and-coming rappers. Since 1995, the project had turned the dance floor into a living Venn diagram of performers from various gang-controlled neighborhoods, mostly African-American teenagers wearing baggy pants, Timberland boots, and caps pulled down just above the eyes.

“It was underground, powerful, strong, and scary for people if they weren’t ready, because it was really volatile,” explained the proprietor, Ben Caldwell, a 73-year-old African-American filmmaker with a tidy, graying beard. “I would have to take a deep breath every time, because it was a bunch of alpha males.” The project was a tough breeding ground for rappers, who hoped to “blow up,” like the underground performer Aceyalone, or more mainstream stars like Jurassic 5. But Hershfield knew nothing about any of this.

“He said he wanted to do a rhyme on the Holocaust,” Caldwell remembered. “I thought that was really insightful. I thought that it would be something good for the kids to hear.” This was unusual, but not against “da mutha f**ckin rulz” pinned to the door, that began: “PROJECT BLOWED IS PRESENTED FOR THE LOVE OF HIP-HOP ENTIRELY FOR BLACK PEOPLE.” The sign continued: “DO NOT GET VIOLENT BECAUSE THIS IS A BLACK-OWNED, BLACK-OPERATED BUSINESS.”

The entrance fee was $2 to perform, $4 to watch, and rappers were expected to “perform a polished piece of music,” wrote Jooyoung Lee in Blowin’ Up, a history of the club, adding: “The open mic is a lot like peer review.” Emcees with the skill to rap spontaneously—“freestyling”—enjoy the greatest respect. But when a rapper forgets his lines, stutters, or shows up unprepared, the crowd forces them offstage with a devastating chant:

“Please pass the mic!”

The DJ demanded Hershfield’s backing music. He handed over a cassette tape of Chopin. Piano music filled the room. Regulars in the audience, known as “Blowdians,” looked at each other.

“They all were going, ‘Uh hunh, uh hunh,’” Hershfield recalled, but they quickly tired of the classical music.

“Okay,” someone said. “Get rid of that music and let’s hear you rap.”

Alone on the stage, Hershfield gripped the mic, and began:

“God, this is a tough thing to write

The feeling I got in my heart tonight

Just to think of the Holocaust

So deep and sadly blue

And still so many people

Don’t think it’s true.”

The crowd was silent. Here was an old man, reading a poem.

“The first time he was up there, he wasn’t that successful,” Caldwell said. But out of respect, the audience didn’t chant him off. Project Blowed calls itself the longest-running open-mic session in the world, and they’d never seen anyone like Hershfield on stage. “First of all, he’s Caucasian around all these people of color,” said one regular, called Babu. “I thought he was some kind of spy.” Hershfield was also the oldest person in the room: “If you up in your mid-thirties and still ain’t got it,” a Blowdian called Trenseta would say, “Leave hip-hop alone, and go get you a little job at International House of Pancakes or some shit!” Hershfield was now 63, a dinosaur in rap years.

Clarence Williams / LA Times

As he emerged into the hot South Central night, Hershfield heard a voice from Fifth Street Dicks, the neighboring coffee shop: “If you can’t keep up with those kids, then you’d better do something else,” shouted Richard Fulton, a large man with graying dreadlocks. Fulton’s jazz cafe was a hotbed of African-American writers and artists, and he’d seen many beat poets try their luck in Leimert Park—none of them from 90210, America’s ritziest zip code. “At that time I thought I was rapping,” Hershfield later recalled. “I wasn’t rapping, I was just reading poetry. It didn’t have any beat. When you’re on rap street, you gotta have that beat.”

Undeterred, Hershfield put aside his Tchaikovsky records and listened to NWA and Run-DMC. He played rap music in the bath, Michiko told me. When she found out he was preparing for rap battles in South Central, she told him: “You’re crazy!” But she couldn’t stop him returning to Project Blowed every week, sometimes making the six-and-a-half mile journey from Beverly Hills on foot.

“Sherman’s leaving at 10 o’clock at night and going to Crenshaw,” she told her son, Scott. “He’s hanging out with kids and rapping.” Scott, who had transitioned from a teenaged professional skateboarder into a hip-hop DJ, was now in his 20s and was scoring regular gigs at Hollywood’s celebrity-filled clubs. When he saw his stepfather rapping at home, he felt embarrassed.

“Sherman, you’re kinda just rhyming, putting words together, but you know so many Latin words, you should rap about neurology, really get into the science of it ... that would be amazing,” he said. Scott encouraged his stepfather to be more like the hip-hop rappers he admired. “Even though I’m from the West Coast, most of the stuff I really liked was East Coast 90s hip-hop ... I was into KRS-One.”

In the mid-1980s, KRS-One had emerged from the Bronx as the emcee of Boogie Down Productions, with the seminal album Criminal Minded. As a solo artist he’d created one of hip-hop’s most enduring records, Sound of Da Police, and was now a leading rap scholar and lecturer. One evening in October 1999, Hershfield heard that KRS-One was speaking about rap history at an event for hip-hoppers in Hollywood, and decided to swing by. “Try to imagine a hip-hop gathering,” KRS-One told me, late last year. “You know, emcees from the hood, breakers, DJs, music is blasting. I’m giving you permission to stereotype. Then in walks this dude.” It was like Larry David had wandered into a Snoop Dogg music video.

During the Q&A, Hershfield grabbed the mic and started to tell his story.

He explained that he was getting his language back together after a stroke by listening to rap records. “One of which was one of my songs,” KRS-One recalled.

Hershfield couldn’t stop himself.

“I started to have a stroke,” he rapped. “Went broke.”

The room fell silent.

“I started to think and speak in rhyme. I can do it all the time. And I want to get to do the rap, and I won’t take any more of this crap.”

The crowd erupted.

When Hershfield rapped about his struggles, not history lessons, he inspired the audience.

“He got a standing ovation,” recalled KRS-One. He gave the doctor his telephone number and suggested they hang out.

[Read: The revenge of autobiographical rap]

“I didn’t know anything about him,” Hershfield recalled. “I just knew that he was in the same category as Tupac Shakur.” When Hershfield told his stepson about his new friend, Scott was stunned. “You know, you should really listen to his music and listen to his lyrics,” he told his stepfather. But inside, Scott was thinking: Let’s see how long this lasts. KRS-One?

A few days later, the rap icon arrived at Hershfield’s office. KRS-One gave the doctor a signed copy of his book, The Science of Rap. He too was fascinated with neurology, he said: “I was already talking about the concept of how rapping synthesizes those two hemispheres of the brain,” KRS-One told me. He asked Hershfield if he’d like to be part of an experiment, and offered him rap lessons.

“When you’re trying to teach someone to rap, you ask them to sing along with a song they might have heard,” KRS-One told me. He hit play on Rapper’s Delight by the Sugar Hill Gang. The song began:

“I said a hip-hop / Hippie to the hippie / The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop ...”

Then he pressed rewind and encouraged Hershfield to give it a try.

“He nailed it,” said KRS-One.

“He had the cadences and the rhythms,” he added. But the doctor needed to work on his delivery, breath control, and enunciation. And so an unlikely friendship blossomed between the Blastmaster and the Buddhist. They were both interested in spirituality: The rapper’s name, ‘KRS,’ came from the Hare Krishna volunteers he befriended in a youth spent on the streets of the Bronx. And just as Hershfield had lost his business partner to suicide, KRS-One had lost his right-hand man, DJ Scott La Rock, who was shot in 1987. The loss was life-changing for the rapper: his lyrics became more political and philosophical; he launched a movement called Stop the Violence.

To KRS-One, Hershfield was a pioneer of rap theory. “He was talking about neuroplasticity before I heard about it on PBS,” KRS-One recalled.

KRS-One suggested they write a book together, or record an album in New York.

He told the doctor: “I visualize you as revolutionizing hip-hop.”

HERSHFIELD RETURNED to Project Blowed, where he vowed to win over the crowd. The elder statesmen of Leimert Park took Hershfield under their wing, making sure he got time on the mic, and that he got home safe. “People respected him and he could work on his chops, work on his brain,” Caldwell told me. “It was interesting to see how well we all accepted him.” Caldwell encouraged Hershfield to experiment. “He wanted to do Jewish chants,” he recalled. “And I was like ‘That is so fucking tight.’”

The younger members of Project Blowed were also drawn to Hershfield. Up-and-coming rappers in South Central suffered from an “existential urgency,” Lee wrote in Blowin’ Up. Theirs was a race to “make it” in hip-hop, before their life was derailed by gang violence. Like them, Hershfield was rapping against the clock, unsure when the next seizure might strike.

Richard Fulton, the coffee shop owner, became especially close with Hershfield. Fulton was a cancer survivor and former drug addict, who had once pushed a shopping cart along Skid Row’s 5th Street. That was before he found God—and jazz. Against all odds, a reborn Fulton launched his coffee-and-music operation. His caffeine was strong and the jazz loud. Like Hershfield, Fulton’s second life was dominated by a love for music. His catchphrase was “Turn the music up.”

Hershfield and Fulton were kindred spirits, said Erin Kaplan, a journalist who frequented Leimert Park. Both men were enjoying “second chances,” she explained, and living “on borrowed time.” Hanging out at Dick’s, Hershfield brushed shoulders with beat poets, rappers, chess players, and jazz musicians. It was there he fell into the rhythm of Leimert Park.

Every week for two or three years, Hershfield climbed onstage at Project Blowed and gave his everything, sweat on his brow, steam on his glasses, fists pumping. Sometimes he electrified the crowd, other times: “Please pass the mic!” He learned to self-promote and name-check “Dr. Rapp” in his lyrics just like the pros; he wore customized T-shirts and learned to freestyle. He performed on the stage and in impromptu “ciphers” under street lamps, until the sun came up.

“He was tight,” the rapper Myka 9 told me, while he smoked in an alleyway before a performance in Culver City. “He had a little bit of an angular approach. He had flows, he had good lines that were thought out, I remember a couple punchlines that came off pretty cool.” Myka 9 recalled socializing with Hershfield at house parties in South Central, and described him as “a cult personality in his own right.”

At home, the doctor’s wife was worried. “I don’t understand why he goes to that area,” Michiko told me. Her husband was too generous and trusting, she added. “I bought him nice clothes, Italian-made suits, a couple times he came back with dirty clothes, he’d given the nice suit to somebody else.” With his designer threads and prescription pad, Hershfield was a mugger’s dream.

“I keep telling him it’s dangerous,” Michiko told me.

Hershfield insisted he was safe. These people were his friends, he said.

NOT EVERYONE IN the world of hip-hop was enthused by Hershfield. A letter arrived from a lawyer representing a different Dr. Rap, who advised him to find a new name or face legal action. Hershfield, who actually had a doctoral degree, rebranded to Dr. Flow, but it was too late. His reputation was spreading.

In early 2000, Hershfield attended a talk about violence and rap music at the California State University at Los Angeles. Sitting on the panel was one of Gangsta Rap’s pioneers, Ice-T, who argued that violence was an unavoidable part of rap culture. “I’m a person who deals with violence always in my music,” he told the audience. “Masculinity runs this world. The person who’s violent gets control. Peace gets nothing.”

Hershfield was infuriated.

“You can’t live by hate!” he yelled out, before trading comments with Ice-T in an ugly scene that required the moderator’s intervention.

Hershfield was appalled by gang violence and its needless killings. Internally, he was struggling with the fragility of his existence: He had survived a deadly stroke, and life was a precious gift.

No one was more devastated than Hershfield when Fifth Street Dick’s cancer returned. Hershfield was one of the many Leimert Park regulars who surrounded Fulton’s bedside. He found his friend unable to speak, the tumor in his throat so large that his tongue protruded from his mouth. Fulton could only communicate by writing notes, and knew his life was ebbing away. But Hershfield couldn’t accept it.

“If I can just get him to chant, he’ll recover,” Hershfield said, as decades of medical experience were drowned out by denial.

He started his Buddhist chant:

“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.”

Friends urged Hershfield to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. Fulton, 56, could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“We’re going to tap into his life force,” Hershfield insisted.

But on March 18, 2000, jazz filled Fulton’s room as he declined a final morphine shot, and instead told nurses in a note: “Turn the music up.”

Back at Project Blowed, Hershfield intensified his efforts to dominate the mic. But his double life soon became strained, as his two worlds splintered. “His friends in Beverly Hills did not approve of this at all,” said Kaplan, Hershfield’s journalist friend. “They were so shocked. Let’s just say none of his friends showed up at open-mic night.” By choosing rap nights instead of night shifts, Hershfield soon fell into another financial crisis. “I think he was more obsessed with rapping than he was going to work,” his stepson Scott told me. Sometimes, Michiko told me, the guys from Leimert Park would lend Hershfield money for the bus.

Soon, Hershfield’s voice became hoarse from shouting rhymes over African drums, and staying out all night. Then, during one particularly hot evening, everything went black. “Dr. Rapp had a seizure,” recalled Tasha Wiggins, who worked for KAOS Network. “Other rappers caught him. Everybody stopped what they were doing, trying to nurture Dr. Rapp.” As Hershfield lay unconscious on the floor, the crowd started chanting his name.

THOSE WHO HAVE been struck by the strange side effects of brain injuries often speak of their gratitude. Just before he died of cancer, Tommy McHugh, the British convict who became an artist, said his strokes were “the most wonderful thing that happened.” He added that they gave him “11 years of a magnificent adventure that nobody could have expected.” Dr. Flaherty described McHugh’s hemorrhage as “a crack that let the light in.” McHugh and Hershfield both experienced symptoms of what the physician and author Oliver Sacks called “sudden musicophilia,” an eruption of creativity following a brain injury or stroke. But for Hershfield, rhyming was no longer a symptom, but a cure.

It was as if one side of Hershfield’s brain that held the rhymes healed the broken side that had short-circuited. Brain scans on rappers carried out by the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders (NIDCD) discovered that during freestyle rapping, brain activity increased in the brain areas that engage motivation, language, mood, and action. Hershfield said rapping kept his seizures under control, and even after he collapsed that night in Leimert Park, he used hip-hop to regain his speech and return to the stage.

[Read: Mapping creativity in the brain]

Soon, Dr. Rapp’s notices at Project Blowed started improving.

“His name was on the lips of the multitudes,” recalled Ed Boyer, a Los Angeles Times journalist who first heard rumors about South Central’s rapping doctor in April of 2000. Boyer tracked down Hershfield to his office, and visited Project Blowed to hear him perform. “I’ve seen Dr. Rapp rock the whole house,” Tasha Wiggins told Boyer, as Hershfield climbed onto the stage. Another Project Blowed member, Gabriela Orozco, said, “Oh, I think I’m going to cry. I mean ... he’s doing it.”

As Dr. Rapp stepped into the spotlight and the DJ’s needle found the groove, he became lost in his rhymes:

“Me, I’m just a beginning medical intern of rap

Trying to express and open my trap ... ”

Hershfield’s stepson, Scott, remembers the morning he opened the Times and saw a photograph of Dr. Rapp, wearing an Adidas tracksuit, mid-flow, on the paper’s Metro pages. “The whole thing was so bizarre,” he said.

Dr. Rapp had finally “blown up.”

RADIO AND TELEVISION crews from Canada and England soon descended on Leimert Park looking for Hershfield. Ben Caldwell showed me footage from a Japanese television station, who filmed Hershfield waiting to take the mic. He looked like a retiree standing in line for an early bird dinner special. Then he laid down his rhymes, as the crowd bobbed their heads in appreciation. Afterwards Hershfield took a nap on a couch. “He did that quite regularly,” Caldwell sighed. “Everybody liked the doctor, right, even the hardcore gangster types,” he added. “They liked him for his chutzpah.”

Hershfield told reporters that Leimert Park had opened his eyes to a whole new world. “There are lots of misconceptions by white people about the area,” he said. “It’s very cultural with a lot of interesting places.” Project Blowed was “the Harvard of rap,” he said. “This is my foundation. I find it very beneficial.”

Though he never recorded an album with KRS-One, Hershfield owed his underground rap career to the Blastmaster. KRS-One, who now lives in Topanga Canyon, California, told me: “He mentioned one of my songs brought him back. He was in a coma, they were playing music for him to try and wake him up.” He added: “I’ve met a lot of people, but a few people I will never forget. [Hershfield] saying rap healed him ... that just stayed with me ... It’s part of my confidence in hip-hop.”

Instead of embarking on a world tour, Dr. Rapp continued to pay his dues at Project Blowed every week. Like a true underground star, he shunned mainstream success. He did appear in a documentary about Leimert Park, not as a novelty act, but as a regular member of the crew. “I can’t clearly tell you whether [rap] helped him,” said Michiko, “but I can tell you he was happy when he was doing rap music.” Hershfield represented Project Blowed until ill health forced him to quit both music and medicine. He died from cancer in Los Angeles, on March 29, 2013, aged 76.

Today, Project Blowed lives on, every third Tuesday at KAOS Network in Leimert Park. The area remains the “hippest corner in Los Angeles”—according to the recording on the club’s answering machine. But Leimert Park is now fighting a new battle, against soaring property prices and gentrification. The reason Hershfield was accepted at Project Blowed, said Caldwell, was that he arrived with an open mind, and he listened and learned. “That’s one wonderful thing I like most about black American communities,” he said. “As long as you don’t try to tell them how to do their own culture, you’re good.” Ever since Dr. Rapp’s days, performers from all races and backgrounds have jumped onstage, added Caldwell. But the moment they stutter or slur, it’s always the same:

“Please pass the mic.”

from Health News And Updates https://www.theatlantic.com/health/archive/2019/01/doctor-rapp/579634/?utm_source=feed

[ionecoffman]

How a Stroke Turned a 63-Year-Old Into a Rap Legend

Dr. Sherman Hershfield woke up one morning and was surprised to find himself behind the wheel of his car. Somewhere between his Beverly Hills apartment and his practice in the San Fernando Valley, the silver-haired physician had blacked out. Somehow, he’d avoided a crash, but this wasn’t the first time. “I didn’t know what was going on,” he admitted.

Apart from his frequent blackouts, Hershfield was in fine health for a man in his 50s. He was tall and lean, ran six miles a day, and was a strict vegetarian. “I believe a physician should provide exemplary motivation to patients,” he once wrote. “I don’t smoke and have cut out all alcohol.” Hershfield specialized in physical medicine and rehabilitation, and for decades had helped patients with brain injuries learn to walk again and rebuild their lives. Even with his experience, Hershfield didn’t know what was wrong inside his own head.

Perhaps the mystery blackouts were caused by stress, he wondered. Hershfield was the medical director of the rehab center at the San Bernardino Community Hospital, but he also ran a private practice 76 miles away in Winnetka, offering non-surgical spinal treatments. “Sometimes I worked from 6 a.m. to 3 a.m.,” he recalled, adding that the pressures had cost him his first marriage. At the hospital, Hershfield often slept in the doctor’s lounge, where colleagues nicknamed him “Dr. Columbo” after the disheveled television detective.

Not long after the blackouts started, Hershfield suffered a grand mal seizure—the type most people imagine when they think about seizures. He was driven to the emergency room, thrashing and writhing like a 6-feet-4-inch fish pulled out of the water. Concerned doctors at the UCLA Medical Center rushed him into an MRI machine, and, this being the late 1980s, wondered whether he might have pricked himself with a needle, and contracted AIDS. Instead, the scan revealed that his blackouts where actually a swarm of small strokes, and his illness was diagnosed as antiphospholipid syndrome. Hershfield’s immune system was mistakenly creating antibodies that made his blood more likely to clot. Those clots, if they entered his bloodstream and brain, could kill him at any moment.

Doctors prescribed blood-thinning medication and forced Hershfield to quit driving, but he was still fit to practice medicine. Like many survivors of stroke, his speech became slurred and he sometimes stuttered. His personality also seemed to change. He suddenly became obsessed with reading and writing poetry. Soon, Hershfield’s friends noticed another unusual side effect: He couldn’t stop speaking in rhyme. He finished everyday sentences with rhyming couplets, like “Now I have to ride the bus, it’s enough to make me cuss.” And curiously, whenever he rhymed, his speech impediments disappeared.

A STROKE or “brain attack” can happen to any of us at any time. One occurs every 40 seconds in the United States, and they can lead to permanent disability and extraordinary side effects. Some patients become hypersexual or compulsive gamblers. Others have even woken up speaking in a fake Chinese accent. “There was a famous guy in Italy who had what they called ‘Pinocchio syndrome,’” said Dr. Alice Flaherty, a joint associate professor of neurology and psychiatry at Harvard Medical School. “When he told a lie he would have a seizure. He was crippled as a businessman.”

One of Dr. Flaherty’s most famous cases was Tommy McHugh, a 51-year-old British man who suffered a subarachnoid hemorrhage—a stroke caused by bleeding around the brain. Once a grizzled ex-con, McHugh’s stroke changed his entire personality. He became deeply philosophical, and spent 19 hours a day reading poetry, speaking in rhyme, painting, and drawing. He’d never been inside an art gallery before, he joked, “except to maybe steal something.”

For Hershfield, a love of poetry was also completely out of keeping with anything in his past. He was born in Winnipeg, Canada, in 1936, and while his mother was a concert pianist, he followed his father into medical school, graduating in 1960. In Flin Flon, a Canadian mining city, he mended the heads of injured hockey players, then became a resident at the University of Minnesota, before serving in the U.S. Army Medical Corps. In 1973, he arrived in Southern California and set up his practice, where he had little time for reading anything but medical journals.

His problems started during the medical malpractice crisis in the 1970s. Lawsuits against doctors became popular, and the cost of Hershfield’s liability insurance rose from $864 to $3,420. In protest, he quit working all but emergency cases, and took a job frying fish at Thousand Oaks Fish and Chips for $2 an hour. Newspapers across America wrote about the doctor who fried fish while wearing hospital scrubs, adding that Hershfield “looked like he was about to have four cod fillets wheeled into surgery.” He explained: “I’ve always been a person of high moral values. I’ve thought, what the hell do I want out of life? And it comes out, I want to be happy.”

Hershfield did return to medicine, but things went from bad to worse when his business partner and best friend started to abuse drugs. “He was an excellent surgeon, a handsome man who had everything going for him ... but he was unable to control his fears and constant bouts of withdrawal and depression, and he tried five times to take his life,” he recalled. Hershfield was there when his friend’s heart finally stopped, after six days on a respirator.

By 1987 he’d filed for bankruptcy. A year later he became the medical director at the rehab center, where he butted heads with management over his “odd” ideas, like opening a hospice where pets could stay with their dying owners. That was around the time the blackouts started.

In the 10 years following his stroke, Hershfield dedicated his free time to a Buddhist organization called Soka Gakkai International, where he loved to chant for hours. He had met his second wife there, Michiko, a beautiful Japanese divorcée who he impressed with his intellect, and his three medical certificates. Michiko told me that her husband “changed a lot,” following his stroke. “He used to like Japanese haiku poems, you know, five, seven, five.”

[Read: Can music be used as medicine?]

Hershfield also embraced his Jewish heritage, and volunteered at the Simon Wiesenthal Center, a Jewish global human rights organization. “I did the Holocaust in rhyme,” he recalled of the educational poem he’d perform on the bus. The city now sounded like a swinging rhythm section: Brakes hissed. Horns honked. Passengers rang the bell. As Hershfield recited his rhymes alone, he had become just another crazy person talking to himself on public transport. Then, one afternoon, as he waited at a bus stop in Hollywood, a man selling jewelry overheard him and suggested that he take his lyrics to Leimert Park.

“Where is Leimert Park?’” Hershfield asked. He had never been there.

Intrigued, he rode a bus headed into South Central, past Crenshaw’s Magic Johnson theater, the neighborhood’s megachurches, and liquor stores. At the foot of Baldwin Hills he found it—an area with one of the largest African-American populations in the western United States. If Leimert Park was 100 people, just one was white.

Since the 1960s, Leimert Park had been the center of African-American culture in Los Angeles—Duke Ellington, Ella Fitzgerald, Miles Davis, Ray Charles, and Richard Pryor had all lived within five miles of the place. To outsiders, it was known only as a hotspot during the Los Angeles riots in 1992. The jazz poet Kamau Daoud told me that locals still refer to the riot as “the rebellion.” The village would not quickly forget the four white police officers who beat the black motorist Rodney King half to death.

It was the very late 1990s when Hershfield stepped off the bus, dressed like a doctor who lived in Beverly Hills. He walked in polished shoes to the beat of the drum circle that gathered in the park, past the row of Afrocentric bookstores and shops selling colorful fabrics, where saxophone music leaked from every door and window. At 43rd and Leimert, he found a crowd of teenagers surrounding a community arts center called the “KAOS Network.” This had to be it: Spontaneous rap battles were breaking out, and dancers writhed on the sidewalk, seizurelike. At the entrance, a young man sized him up.

“Would you like to hear something?” Hershfield asked politely.

“Sure, what’s your name?” the man asked.

Hershfield looked at him.

“My name is Dr. Rapp.”

ESTABLISHED IN 1984 as a media-production center, KAOS Network was famous for “Project Blowed,” an open-mic workshop for up-and-coming rappers. Since 1995, the project had turned the dance floor into a living Venn diagram of performers from various gang-controlled neighborhoods, mostly African-American teenagers wearing baggy pants, Timberland boots, and caps pulled down just above the eyes.

“It was underground, powerful, strong, and scary for people if they weren’t ready, because it was really volatile,” explained the proprietor, Ben Caldwell, a 73-year-old African-American filmmaker with a tidy, graying beard. “I would have to take a deep breath every time, because it was a bunch of alpha males.” The project was a tough breeding ground for rappers, who hoped to “blow up,” like the underground performer Aceyalone, or more mainstream stars like Jurassic 5. But Hershfield knew nothing about any of this.

“He said he wanted to do a rhyme on the Holocaust,” Caldwell remembered. “I thought that was really insightful. I thought that it would be something good for the kids to hear.” This was unusual, but not against “da mutha f**ckin rulz” pinned to the door, that began: “PROJECT BLOWED IS PRESENTED FOR THE LOVE OF HIP-HOP ENTIRELY FOR BLACK PEOPLE.” The sign continued: “DO NOT GET VIOLENT BECAUSE THIS IS A BLACK-OWNED, BLACK-OPERATED BUSINESS.”

The entrance fee was $2 to perform, $4 to watch, and rappers were expected to “perform a polished piece of music,” wrote Jooyoung Lee in Blowin’ Up, a history of the club, adding: “The open mic is a lot like peer review.” Emcees with the skill to rap spontaneously—“freestyling”—enjoy the greatest respect. But when a rapper forgets his lines, stutters, or shows up unprepared, the crowd forces them offstage with a devastating chant:

“Please pass the mic!”

The DJ demanded Hershfield’s backing music. He handed over a cassette tape of Chopin. Piano music filled the room. Regulars in the audience, known as “Blowdians,” looked at each other.

“They all were going, ‘Uh hunh, uh hunh,’” Hershfield recalled, but they quickly tired of the classical music.

“Okay,” someone said. “Get rid of that music and let’s hear you rap.”

Alone on the stage, Hershfield gripped the mic, and began:

“God, this is a tough thing to write

The feeling I got in my heart tonight

Just to think of the Holocaust

So deep and sadly blue

And still so many people

Don’t think it’s true.”

The crowd was silent. Here was an old man, reading a poem.

“The first time he was up there, he wasn’t that successful,” Caldwell said. But out of respect, the audience didn’t chant him off. Project Blowed calls itself the longest-running open-mic session in the world, and they’d never seen anyone like Hershfield on stage. “First of all, he’s Caucasian around all these people of color,” said one regular, called Babu. “I thought he was some kind of spy.” Hershfield was also the oldest person in the room: “If you up in your mid-thirties and still ain’t got it,” a Blowdian called Trenseta would say, “Leave hip-hop alone, and go get you a little job at International House of Pancakes or some shit!” Hershfield was now 63, a dinosaur in rap years.

Clarence Williams / LA Times

As he emerged into the hot South Central night, Hershfield heard a voice from Fifth Street Dicks, the neighboring coffee shop: “If you can’t keep up with those kids, then you’d better do something else,” shouted Richard Fulton, a large man with graying dreadlocks. Fulton’s jazz cafe was a hotbed of African-American writers and artists, and he’d seen many beat poets try their luck in Leimert Park—none of them from 90210, America’s ritziest zip code. “At that time I thought I was rapping,” Hershfield later recalled. “I wasn’t rapping, I was just reading poetry. It didn’t have any beat. When you’re on rap street, you gotta have that beat.”

Undeterred, Hershfield put aside his Tchaikovsky records and listened to NWA and Run-DMC. He played rap music in the bath, Michiko told me. When she found out he was preparing for rap battles in South Central, she told him: “You’re crazy!” But she couldn’t stop him returning to Project Blowed every week, sometimes making the six-and-a-half mile journey from Beverly Hills on foot.

“Sherman’s leaving at 10 o’clock at night and going to Crenshaw,” she told her son, Scott. “He’s hanging out with kids and rapping.” Scott, who had transitioned from a teenaged professional skateboarder into a hip-hop DJ, was now in his 20s and was scoring regular gigs at Hollywood’s celebrity-filled clubs. When he saw his stepfather rapping at home, he felt embarrassed.

“Sherman, you’re kinda just rhyming, putting words together, but you know so many Latin words, you should rap about neurology, really get into the science of it ... that would be amazing,” he said. Scott encouraged his stepfather to be more like the hip-hop rappers he admired. “Even though I’m from the West Coast, most of the stuff I really liked was East Coast 90s hip-hop ... I was into KRS-One.”

In the mid-1980s, KRS-One had emerged from the Bronx as the emcee of Boogie Down Productions, with the seminal album Criminal Minded. As a solo artist he’d created one of hip-hop’s most enduring records, Sound of Da Police, and was now a leading rap scholar and lecturer. One evening in October 1999, Hershfield heard that KRS-One was speaking about rap history at an event for hip-hoppers in Hollywood, and decided to swing by. “Try to imagine a hip-hop gathering,” KRS-One told me, late last year. “You know, emcees from the hood, breakers, DJs, music is blasting. I’m giving you permission to stereotype. Then in walks this dude.” It was like Larry David had wandered into a Snoop Dogg music video.

During the Q&A, Hershfield grabbed the mic and started to tell his story.

He explained that he was getting his language back together after a stroke by listening to rap records. “One of which was one of my songs,” KRS-One recalled.

Hershfield couldn’t stop himself.

“I started to have a stroke,” he rapped. “Went broke.”

The room fell silent.

“I started to think and speak in rhyme. I can do it all the time. And I want to get to do the rap, and I won’t take any more of this crap.”

The crowd erupted.

When Hershfield rapped about his struggles, not history lessons, he inspired the audience.

“He got a standing ovation,” recalled KRS-One. He gave the doctor his telephone number and suggested they hang out.

[Read: The revenge of autobiographical rap]

“I didn’t know anything about him,” Hershfield recalled. “I just knew that he was in the same category as Tupac Shakur.” When Hershfield told his stepson about his new friend, Scott was stunned. “You know, you should really listen to his music and listen to his lyrics,” he told his stepfather. But inside, Scott was thinking: Let’s see how long this lasts. KRS-One?

A few days later, the rap icon arrived at Hershfield’s office. KRS-One gave the doctor a signed copy of his book, The Science of Rap. He too was fascinated with neurology, he said: “I was already talking about the concept of how rapping synthesizes those two hemispheres of the brain,” KRS-One told me. He asked Hershfield if he’d like to be part of an experiment, and offered him rap lessons.

“When you’re trying to teach someone to rap, you ask them to sing along with a song they might have heard,” KRS-One told me. He hit play on Rapper’s Delight by the Sugar Hill Gang. The song began:

“I said a hip-hop / Hippie to the hippie / The hip, hip a hop, and you don’t stop ...”

Then he pressed rewind and encouraged Hershfield to give it a try.

“He nailed it,” said KRS-One.

“He had the cadences and the rhythms,” he added. But the doctor needed to work on his delivery, breath control, and enunciation. And so an unlikely friendship blossomed between the Blastmaster and the Buddhist. They were both interested in spirituality: The rapper’s name, ‘KRS,’ came from the Hare Krishna volunteers he befriended in a youth spent on the streets of the Bronx. And just as Hershfield had lost his business partner to suicide, KRS-One had lost his right-hand man, DJ Scott La Rock, who was shot in 1987. The loss was life-changing for the rapper: his lyrics became more political and philosophical; he launched a movement called Stop the Violence.

To KRS-One, Hershfield was a pioneer of rap theory. “He was talking about neuroplasticity before I heard about it on PBS,” KRS-One recalled.

KRS-One suggested they write a book together, or record an album in New York.

He told the doctor: “I visualize you as revolutionizing hip-hop.”

HERSHFIELD RETURNED to Project Blowed, where he vowed to win over the crowd. The elder statesmen of Leimert Park took Hershfield under their wing, making sure he got time on the mic, and that he got home safe. “People respected him and he could work on his chops, work on his brain,” Caldwell told me. “It was interesting to see how well we all accepted him.” Caldwell encouraged Hershfield to experiment. “He wanted to do Jewish chants,” he recalled. “And I was like ‘That is so fucking tight.’”

The younger members of Project Blowed were also drawn to Hershfield. Up-and-coming rappers in South Central suffered from an “existential urgency,” Lee wrote in Blowin’ Up. Theirs was a race to “make it” in hip-hop, before their life was derailed by gang violence. Like them, Hershfield was rapping against the clock, unsure when the next seizure might strike.

Richard Fulton, the coffee shop owner, became especially close with Hershfield. Fulton was a cancer survivor and former drug addict, who had once pushed a shopping cart along Skid Row’s 5th Street. That was before he found God—and jazz. Against all odds, a reborn Fulton launched his coffee-and-music operation. His caffeine was strong and the jazz loud. Like Hershfield, Fulton’s second life was dominated by a love for music. His catchphrase was “Turn the music up.”

Hershfield and Fulton were kindred spirits, said Erin Kaplan, a journalist who frequented Leimert Park. Both men were enjoying “second chances,” she explained, and living “on borrowed time.” Hanging out at Dick’s, Hershfield brushed shoulders with beat poets, rappers, chess players, and jazz musicians. It was there he fell into the rhythm of Leimert Park.

Every week for two or three years, Hershfield climbed onstage at Project Blowed and gave his everything, sweat on his brow, steam on his glasses, fists pumping. Sometimes he electrified the crowd, other times: “Please pass the mic!” He learned to self-promote and name-check “Dr. Rapp” in his lyrics just like the pros; he wore customized T-shirts and learned to freestyle. He performed on the stage and in impromptu “ciphers” under street lamps, until the sun came up.

“He was tight,” the rapper Myka 9 told me, while he smoked in an alleyway before a performance in Culver City. “He had a little bit of an angular approach. He had flows, he had good lines that were thought out, I remember a couple punchlines that came off pretty cool.” Myka 9 recalled socializing with Hershfield at house parties in South Central, and described him as “a cult personality in his own right.”

At home, the doctor’s wife was worried. “I don’t understand why he goes to that area,” Michiko told me. Her husband was too generous and trusting, she added. “I bought him nice clothes, Italian-made suits, a couple times he came back with dirty clothes, he’d given the nice suit to somebody else.” With his designer threads and prescription pad, Hershfield was a mugger’s dream.

“I keep telling him it’s dangerous,” Michiko told me.

Hershfield insisted he was safe. These people were his friends, he said.

NOT EVERYONE IN the world of hip-hop was enthused by Hershfield. A letter arrived from a lawyer representing a different Dr. Rap, who advised him to find a new name or face legal action. Hershfield, who actually had a doctoral degree, rebranded to Dr. Flow, but it was too late. His reputation was spreading.

In early 2000, Hershfield attended a talk about violence and rap music at the California State University at Los Angeles. Sitting on the panel was one of Gangsta Rap’s pioneers, Ice-T, who argued that violence was an unavoidable part of rap culture. “I’m a person who deals with violence always in my music,” he told the audience. “Masculinity runs this world. The person who’s violent gets control. Peace gets nothing.”

Hershfield was infuriated.

“You can’t live by hate!” he yelled out, before trading comments with Ice-T in an ugly scene that required the moderator’s intervention.

Hershfield was appalled by gang violence and its needless killings. Internally, he was struggling with the fragility of his existence: He had survived a deadly stroke, and life was a precious gift.

No one was more devastated than Hershfield when Fifth Street Dick’s cancer returned. Hershfield was one of the many Leimert Park regulars who surrounded Fulton’s bedside. He found his friend unable to speak, the tumor in his throat so large that his tongue protruded from his mouth. Fulton could only communicate by writing notes, and knew his life was ebbing away. But Hershfield couldn’t accept it.

“If I can just get him to chant, he’ll recover,” Hershfield said, as decades of medical experience were drowned out by denial.

He started his Buddhist chant:

“Nam-myoho-renge-kyo.”

Friends urged Hershfield to stop, but he wouldn’t listen. Fulton, 56, could barely breathe, let alone speak.

“We’re going to tap into his life force,” Hershfield insisted.

But on March 18, 2000, jazz filled Fulton’s room as he declined a final morphine shot, and instead told nurses in a note: “Turn the music up.”

Back at Project Blowed, Hershfield intensified his efforts to dominate the mic. But his double life soon became strained, as his two worlds splintered. “His friends in Beverly Hills did not approve of this at all,” said Kaplan, Hershfield’s journalist friend. “They were so shocked. Let’s just say none of his friends showed up at open-mic night.” By choosing rap nights instead of night shifts, Hershfield soon fell into another financial crisis. “I think he was more obsessed with rapping than he was going to work,” his stepson Scott told me. Sometimes, Michiko told me, the guys from Leimert Park would lend Hershfield money for the bus.

Soon, Hershfield’s voice became hoarse from shouting rhymes over African drums, and staying out all night. Then, during one particularly hot evening, everything went black. “Dr. Rapp had a seizure,” recalled Tasha Wiggins, who worked for KAOS Network. “Other rappers caught him. Everybody stopped what they were doing, trying to nurture Dr. Rapp.” As Hershfield lay unconscious on the floor, the crowd started chanting his name.

THOSE WHO HAVE been struck by the strange side effects of brain injuries often speak of their gratitude. Just before he died of cancer, Tommy McHugh, the British convict who became an artist, said his strokes were “the most wonderful thing that happened.” He added that they gave him “11 years of a magnificent adventure that nobody could have expected.” Dr. Flaherty described McHugh’s hemorrhage as “a crack that let the light in.” McHugh and Hershfield both experienced symptoms of what the physician and author Oliver Sacks called “sudden musicophilia,” an eruption of creativity following a brain injury or stroke. But for Hershfield, rhyming was no longer a symptom, but a cure.

It was as if one side of Hershfield’s brain that held the rhymes healed the broken side that had short-circuited. Brain scans on rappers carried out by the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders (NIDCD) discovered that during freestyle rapping, brain activity increased in the brain areas that engage motivation, language, mood, and action. Hershfield said rapping kept his seizures under control, and even after he collapsed that night in Leimert Park, he used hip-hop to regain his speech and return to the stage.

[Read: Mapping creativity in the brain]

Soon, Dr. Rapp’s notices at Project Blowed started improving.

“His name was on the lips of the multitudes,” recalled Ed Boyer, a Los Angeles Times journalist who first heard rumors about South Central’s rapping doctor in April of 2000. Boyer tracked down Hershfield to his office, and visited Project Blowed to hear him perform. “I’ve seen Dr. Rapp rock the whole house,” Tasha Wiggins told Boyer, as Hershfield climbed onto the stage. Another Project Blowed member, Gabriela Orozco, said, “Oh, I think I’m going to cry. I mean ... he’s doing it.”

As Dr. Rapp stepped into the spotlight and the DJ’s needle found the groove, he became lost in his rhymes:

“Me, I’m just a beginning medical intern of rap

Trying to express and open my trap ... ”

Hershfield’s stepson, Scott, remembers the morning he opened the Times and saw a photograph of Dr. Rapp, wearing an Adidas tracksuit, mid-flow, on the paper’s Metro pages. “The whole thing was so bizarre,” he said.

Dr. Rapp had finally “blown up.”

RADIO AND TELEVISION crews from Canada and England soon descended on Leimert Park looking for Hershfield. Ben Caldwell showed me footage from a Japanese television station, who filmed Hershfield waiting to take the mic. He looked like a retiree standing in line for an early bird dinner special. Then he laid down his rhymes, as the crowd bobbed their heads in appreciation. Afterwards Hershfield took a nap on a couch. “He did that quite regularly,” Caldwell sighed. “Everybody liked the doctor, right, even the hardcore gangster types,” he added. “They liked him for his chutzpah.”

Hershfield told reporters that Leimert Park had opened his eyes to a whole new world. “There are lots of misconceptions by white people about the area,” he said. “It’s very cultural with a lot of interesting places.” Project Blowed was “the Harvard of rap,” he said. “This is my foundation. I find it very beneficial.”

Though he never recorded an album with KRS-One, Hershfield owed his underground rap career to the Blastmaster. KRS-One, who now lives in Topanga Canyon, California, told me: “He mentioned one of my songs brought him back. He was in a coma, they were playing music for him to try and wake him up.” He added: “I’ve met a lot of people, but a few people I will never forget. [Hershfield] saying rap healed him ... that just stayed with me ... It’s part of my confidence in hip-hop.”

Instead of embarking on a world tour, Dr. Rapp continued to pay his dues at Project Blowed every week. Like a true underground star, he shunned mainstream success. He did appear in a documentary about Leimert Park, not as a novelty act, but as a regular member of the crew. “I can’t clearly tell you whether [rap] helped him,” said Michiko, “but I can tell you he was happy when he was doing rap music.” Hershfield represented Project Blowed until ill health forced him to quit both music and medicine. He died from cancer in Los Angeles, on March 29, 2013, aged 76.

Today, Project Blowed lives on, every third Tuesday at KAOS Network in Leimert Park. The area remains the “hippest corner in Los Angeles”—according to the recording on the club’s answering machine. But Leimert Park is now fighting a new battle, against soaring property prices and gentrification. The reason Hershfield was accepted at Project Blowed, said Caldwell, was that he arrived with an open mind, and he listened and learned. “That’s one wonderful thing I like most about black American communities,” he said. “As long as you don’t try to tell them how to do their own culture, you’re good.” Ever since Dr. Rapp’s days, performers from all races and backgrounds have jumped onstage, added Caldwell. But the moment they stutter or slur, it’s always the same:

“Please pass the mic.”

Article source here:The Atlantic

[zoraspetpetunias]

“Afternoon Zora.” Called the frumpy man behind the deli counter as he bent around to offer a brown paper bag to a customer. The customer quickly ducked towards the door around the throng of people in the line. The large man wiped his hands on his rustic brown apron and lifts the bar counter, coming about towards Zora. He calls over his shoulder “hey morty, take over the counter for a spell.” As he approached smiling and happy to see her a turtle of a man slinks out of the door behind the counter and with the air of a flighty reptile, begins taking orders in a nasal alto.

“Figured it was about time for you to get back in town. How ya feelin kid.”

Zora rolled her eyes up at the man, still slouched into the booth with her legs crossed at the ankles and head thrown back over the seat. "Gio, can i bum 'ere? Jus make a nest or sum'in under the booth?" The man, Giovanni, sat down heavily opposite zora; squeezing his budgy yet muscled frame into the too small seat.

"Now kid, I know home isn't much fun these days, but it beats the hell out of a bakery booth." He tried to give joking smile.

Zora rolled her eyes at him. "is got biscuits tho, and pies, and tarts." She sighed, not making him waiver. "I know it does, im jus not that excited abou' all the fightin, ya know?"

He nods sagely, scratching the week old growth on his cheek. "Your ma is doin her best, it's not easy getting over stuff when you're older; us old farts get set in our ways and that kinda change is hard to get over, no matter how long it's been." Zora crosses her arms and shrugs, scouring the table with her simmering angst.

"I had to, why can't she?" She mutters to the table.

"Because, you're tougher than the average jane kid. By far. Your ma's always been on the gentle side. Even before you were born." Gio's tempered New York accent gets a bit thicker as a touch of sorrow enters his voice. He lifts a brown thin cardstock box from next to him on the seat, as if by magic. "I had your favorite ready." He slides it slowly across the table, thick fingers leaving flour fingerprints on the side of the crispy brown cardboard.

Zora took a long pause, rolling his words around in her head before deciding that she liked what he was selling, and looked up. "Thanks, fer..."

He shook his head fatherly, letting her know no explanation was necessary. "Rest, eat, let me know when you leave." He knocked a knuckle on the table top softly, as if to add a finality to the words; an gentle authority to it, and got up.

Zora watched him walk away. She always saw something in him, a kindness that reminded her of what her dad had been like. Charming, awkward, just a dash of command; the kind of flair in his manner that came from seeing the bad side of a war, and coming out the other side. They'd served together in the gulf, and on a break Her dad had convinced Gio to move to England afterwards. He'd visited, just before they went back, and her dad had named Gio Zora's unofficial godfather. Gio had mentioned several times that he wasn't Italian, he was a bit polish, but it had stuck.

That same stint, Zoras dad had gotten caught in crossfire pulling another soldier out of the field. She had visited at the service and had talked to Zora. The words were hard to recall, but that look of apologetic sorrow on the pretty woman's face, all scared from a gunshot, was an easy thing to recall in her mind; insidiously easy.

Eyes blinking back sudden tears, Zora wipes her face over with her sleeve and lifts the edge of the box's lid with her fingertip. Inside sat a plump cupcake, lemon with buttercream icing and bits of lemon sherbet sprinkled on top. A single piece of craft white chocolate sat atop the whole things, a sphere with a pair of wings extended behind it in flight. Gio had called that specialty cupcake 'Lemon Fireflies' but any wizard would know what it was.

She flipped the box open all the way, and dug in her oversized backpack for a patchwork diary and opened to a fresh page. 'Love is a Firefly on the wind' She began, before sampling the cupcake in tiny, measured bites and writing down her feelings for it.

Gio stopped by, set down a mug of thick hot chocolate that had purposefully been left to chill, and went back to work without saying a word; looking pleased with how things were going. The lines ebbed and flowed out of the door, fancy and delicious baked goods were made and left, and a steady handful of hours ticked by in the bakery. The door rang open, as it always did, but the room went quiet for a heartbeat; and that's when Zora began closing the box, saving the other half of the cupcake without looking around. She stowed her diary, pushed the heavy steamer trunk away from the edge of the booth, and climbed out.

Standing rigid and alert behind her was a slim man in a off-the-rack suit, black and simple. He nodded to her, "Mam." And took hold of one side of the steamer trunk and rolled it towards the door. Zora hastily glided to the counter, letting herself behind it and hugged Gio around one arm and left without saying a word.

Gio called after her "Be good to your ma." And she threw up a hand over her shoulder in response, following her families Gentleman out the door. She glanced back after the door swung closed, getting another look at him before she went into battle. She stepped off the curb in front of Kowalski Bakery, and toward the waiting automobile.

* * * * *

Outside, trunk loaded in the boot, Reggie held the door open for Zora to step into the car. She slung her bag into the back and stepped in, avoiding touching Reginald at all possible. He smartly closed the door and stepped round the car and got in, religiously checked his mirrors and seatbelt, and shifted gears. "Home Jeezes." She whispered, hoping he wouldnt catch the off-color joke. She idly pushed the cupcake box across the leather seat next to her as she impatiently awaited what was to come.

They left the city and drove for half an hour, ending up in a small village of stately homes, each on its own modest mile or so of land. The town was reclusive, almost occultishly so, and had always bothered Zora on some level. There simply were not enough people for her taste. The car pulled towards a circular drive made of flagstones that led to a three story home that many in the city would deem to hang the word 'mansion' on. As the car stopped before the white steps leading up to the large cedar doors of the mansion, Reggie got out and around to open her door, but Zora had immediately exited and went around to open the boot. He came over and used a key to unlock it, somehow pushing her out of the way without having touched her. "Shall I place this in the wash room to be gone through miss?"

"My room, as always Reginald." Zora clipped. Her voice had a new quality, a refined old family british lilt that was anathema (ann-ath-emma; contrary or polar opposite, to the point of violently so) to her voice at school. "I appreciate your work, but if you could refrain from handling my things 'for' me while I am here on break, I would appreciate it." He nodded, this routine had played out before but he never deviated from script; he was a cock like that. She tucked the cupcake box close to her chest, slung her bag on, and marched up the steps toward her mothers home.

The front door was opened in front of her by the Maid, Sarah, who Zora actually sort of liked. She serviced a few other houses in the area, unlike Reggie, and was only a handful of years older than Zora herself. She always found a piece of chocolate or two hidden behind the spoons when Sarah knew she was back home.

"How was boarding school miss?" Sarah asked as she shut the door behind Reggie who began trudging up the staircase towards the bedrooms.

"Board-ing" Mumbled Zora, before giving a thankful smile to the woman. "How has life here been?" Zora awkwardly adjusted her bag.

"A new family moved in last week, they've got a lazy son who likes to paint. So not too boring, if ya know what i mean." She gave her a wink.

Zora tried not to roll her eyes, though the impulse was strong. "Of course, I hope he's nice." Zora turned away before making more of an awkward conversation, stepping carefully through the once wide hallway; now packed with displays and dressers and shelves of collectibles.

There was something odd about the Abbott house, Her mother, Rhatamiwa, was a hoarder. Of their once extensive family, only Zora and Rhatamiwa were alive. All the worldly possessions of her various cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, grand aunts and uncles, and great grand parents were organized somewhat haphazardly and put for melancholy display about the endless house. Right next to the entrance, like a sentinel, was a display with a military coat folded neatly on top and a picture set above it. Zora absently ran her hand over the coat as she passed it, a ritual of hers for luck.

In the den she found her mother, drinking wine and reading over a large-print book. Around her were a few others, partially read, and a scrapbook turned to a random page. It was difficult to get to the couches that her mother favored in the middle of the room, and consequently her mother rarely left this room except to sleep or lounge on the lawn in the back on temperate days. "Mother." Zora cooed.

"Yes?" The nearly middle aged woman removed her thick glasses and slipped on another pair that dangled from a thin gold chain about her neck. Her thin, frail, but lithe form twisted towards Zora. "Zoralia Rosaline Petunia Turquis, come give your mother a hug." She got up slowly, almost dramatically, as Zora snaked around china cabinets and shelves of clothes. She tried to hug her mother tenderly but the woman still gave a small jolt of pain from the embrace. "Welcome home my little bird, I hope you kept up with your Bible reading while at that," she paused over the word, almost finding a way to not sound condescending, "school."

"Yes mother" Muttered Zora as she pulled away, glancing around the room for some means of escape. "I'm feeling a bit off from the train ride, I think I'll go upstairs."

"Of course dear, reggie will fetch you when supper is prepared." She sat back down airily, picking up her glasses and book. As Zora was almost gone she called after "And do your reading before bed, God knows when you don't."

* * * * *

That was the general mood of the entire christmas break, up until the day of. Solitude, false bible study, and sneaking down her roof outside her window to explore the woods on their land. A few creatures lived there that shouldn't. Zora would take as many opportunities as she dared to visit her transplanted pets, her odd little family of a streeler, a handful of spiteful knarls, some odd toads, and a snake that protected the woods from muggle poachers. Senya, Zoras friend snake, would slither up close to a muggle and then rapidly go right past them; too fast to catch or shoot, but enough that they ran for the safety outside the woods.

On christmas morning, having said three prayers already, Zora's mother handed her a present. "To keep you safe, I know it will get frightfully cold." She opened the unwrapped box (mother did not appreciate shiny, flashy wrapping for a few years now.) and inside was a slightly moth-eaten scarf of deep green material, soft and girly. "It was your great aunt Geraldine's. She wore it whenever she wanted to look fancy at winter, always matched her eyes. She will watch over you if you wear it." Zora refrained from any words other than. "Thank you mother." and set the box aside.

She handed a small, simply wrapped box to her mother. "It just pops open, no ripping." She made sure her mother knew that before getting obstinant about having to rip it open. She lifted the lid and inside, on a bed of satin, were a pair of half moon reading glasses much like her real glasses. She lifted them out and turned them side to side, admiring the rose gold frames. "This is lovely, just lovely." She unfolded them slowly and slid them on, turning to Zora to show her. "Oh." She said sharply and her hand drifted up to grab the glasses before she caught herself. She peered around the room, down at the books still littering the table and couch, and then back at Zora.

"It is a new type of lense, from the store mother. A new type of optical layer on the glass." Her mother looked at her sharply, a fit of anger behind her eyes.

"This didn't come from your school, little bird? You wouldn't lie to your mother." She said it not as a question, but as a warning.

"No mother, from the store. If you don't like them I can have Reggie take me to retur-"

"No that is fine dear, just fine." Her fit seemed to deflate and Zora exhaled, mentally tallying the days until break was over in her head. "They work wonderfully. Thank you." Zora relaxed, knowing that the enchanted lenses she had gotten work done on from a curly haired boy in gryffindor would greatly help her mothers eyes.

"May I go into town, to see Gio for christmas, mother?" Zora asked politely. She had a little gift for him as well, a miniature tree that grew candies from Diagon Alley.

Her mother made a show about looking about, thinking hard on the topic, as if it were somehow improper to ask. "I suppose, but be home before dark." Zora got up and left, hopeful for just a bit more actual enjoyment from her break before returning to school. With plant-in-box under one arm, and dressed in a more mother-approved sunday dress and low heels, Zora slipped into the car and left for the city.

The rest of the break swept by. Zora said goodbye to her woodland friends, and Sarah one last time before packing her trunk and departing for platform nine and three quarters.

[queenofbooksandcoffee-blog]

Chapter 1

I was having a hard time staying awake in class. Professor Behunin spoke in a monotone voice and it wasn’t easy to pay attention. Besides, it was Thursday, the last day of classes for the week, and I had better things to do than listen to a 90-minute lecture on the Mortal Act of 1973. As a senior in college, I knew I ought to take notes and actively listen to what this lady had to teach but I dismissed my priorities.

           Yawning, I gazed out the window on that cold November morning. It was raining hard, but that was no surprise. Isle Olympia was located 15 miles off the coast of Washington and the weather was always dreary. There was a permanent overcast that hovered over the small island. It felt like a dark shadow, the kind that made me feel like I was trapped under it, waiting for a storm to take over.

           “You are too superstitious, bella,” would say my roommate, Abrielle, in her Italian accent. I smiled to myself. Abrielle hadn’t spoken more than three English words when we’d met 3 years ago, but she had quickly singled me out at the freshmen orientation class and attached herself to me with a bubbly smile that made it hard not to like her, even if she didn’t understand anything I said.

           Suddenly, a loud snore echoed in the classroom, drowning out Professor Behunin’s voice. I shifted around in my seat quickly to spot my friend Gregorio, sleeping soundly in the far-left corner. Giggles erupted all around.

But the professor wasn’t impressed. She sighed and snapped her fingers, creating a high-pitched shriek, making Gregorio spill coffee all over himself. The other classmates roared with laughter as Gregorio hurriedly collected his textbooks and notes before they were soaked. His face was beet red with embarrassment.

           “I am not a strict professor, Mr. Rodriguez. I’m fair when it comes to grades. I don’t ask much of my students,” Professor Behunin said in a calm tone, walking towards Gregorio slowly. “I am, however, going to ask that you do not waste my time by showing up to my class only to fall asleep and disrupt others with your obnoxious snoring! Do we have an understanding, Mr. Rodriguez?” She glared at him, her violet eyes bright with anger.

           Gregorio paled. “Yes, ma’am. I apologize.” He looked down at his desk.

           “Good. Now, thanks to Mr. Rodriguez, I am going to assign a written paper, no less than 1,000 words, about today’s lecture. It is due Tuesday morning. I will require a hard copy to be turned in for credit. Class dismissed.” Professor Behunin gathered her books and binders and hurried out of class while everyone groaned and complained.

           I glared at Gregorio; he shrugged sheepishly and mouthed an apology. I rolled my eyes while stuffing books into my bag and stormed out of class. As if I didn’t have enough to stress about.

           “Mila! Wait!” Gregorio yelled after me as I walked down the corridor. I sighed tiredly and stopped.

           “What?” I snapped. He hesitated, rolling back on the balls of his feet.

           “I had a question…”

           I raised my eyebrows at him.

           “Do you think Callie likes me?” He blushed scarlet, shoving his hands into his jeans’ pockets. I rolled her eyes and started laughing. Callie Sokolov was my dear friend and roommate. She and Greg had been crushing on each other since they met over the summer at a party down at Lake Tenues.

Gregorio blushed even harder. “Okay then,” he said quietly and turned to leave.

           I grabbed his arm. “Sit,” I ordered him, pointing to the rustic bench next to them. “Callie adores you, Greg. I don’t know why you guys keep doing this weird dance with each other instead of just being straight up. Stop wasting time; you never know when it can be taken away from you.”

           Greg smiled. “Thanks, Mila.”

           “Anytime. By the way, you’re going to pay for that term paper we have to write.” I whirled my hand around as Gregorio’s eyes widened in fear. Before he had a chance to say anything, I turned him into a gray and white stripped kitten. He landed on the bench on all fours. Greg looked up at me, his yellow eyes tainted with fear and anger, and meowed. “Oh hush,” I said, cuddling him. “You’re cute for a kitten. That has to count for something, right?”

           He meowed back and scratched my hand. “Ow, Greg! You know, I can leave you like this if I want so I suggest you be a good kitty and obey.” I grabbed him by the fur on his back and brought his face close to mine. “And I don’t think Callie will like it if she has to carry you around in a kennel at the carnival tonight.”

           Gregorio snarled at me. I smiled back at him. “Good boy.” I petted his head and stuffed him in my bag. I strutted down the long, Versailles-esque corridor. My black, high heeled boots clacked on the wooden floorboards the whole way.

           The corridors were bustling with noise and crowded with many students. Everyone was excited for tonight. The La Relance Carnival was taking place and it was the event everyone had been looking forward to. This year, the carnival commemorated the 200th anniversary of the Merging Law of 1817. The Merging Law was created by a witch named Bonnie LeCourte in France. It brought peace to the supernatural world that was being ripped apart by the War of 1817; the war lasted 12 days but thousands of supernatural creatures died. The Merging Law had saved supernatural races from definite oblivion.

As I turned a left corner, a frazzled boy in a broom seemed to be flying towards me at an exceptionally fast rate. My heart started pounding with anticipation and I dropped down to the floor just in time. A loud impact and a painful groan erupted from behind me.

           I sat up and looked around. In the middle of the room, where all four corridors met, was a lengthy, golden trout pond with a tall statue that also served as a fountain. The statue was of a circle engraved with the signs of each supernatural race: a wand for witches, a fish for the merfolk, a moon for werewolves, and a sun for vampires. It represented the unity of the different races on the Mystical Council.

           The broom was caught in the statue, the boy in the pond. I giggled. He was probably one of the many college freshman who signed up for the class on broom flying, thinking it would be easy. I had taken that class and it had been a pain in the ass. The professor, Walter Greenwood, was an old, grouchy sorcerer who loved to embarrass his students.

           I stood up, pulling my black, leather bag with me. As I did, the contents of it spilled out, Greg the kitten with them. He growled as he hit the floor.

            “Greg, I’m so sorry!” I cried, bending down to scoop him up. He recoiled in protest and turned around, darting up the long, double winder staircase rapidly. I threw my things into the book bag and ran after him. The heel of my boot slipped on the Venetian carpet that covered the staircase and I fell, landing on my right knee; I groaned in pain.

           “Son of a bitch,” I muttered, rubbing my knee as I kept running up the stairs. I caught a glimpse of Greg’s gray tail just in time to see him scamper off the staircase and onto the third floor. For a small animal, he sure was quick. I sprinted up the stairs faster but failed to see where he had gone. My breath was short and my knee was throbbing. I leaned against the railing, placing both hands on each thigh.

           My mind was racing. Animal figuration spells were not permitted within the university boundaries; the punishment for such spells was not light. I had to find Greg before anyone else did. I needed to get home to gather my things for the locator spell.

           I looked around. The third floor consisted of the professor’s offices and the university’s meeting rooms. It was a bright, open place that gave off a sweet, cherry scent. The receptionist’s desk in the middle of the room was deserted, and most of the offices were empty. The professors were all probably still in class, I thought hopefully. As I turned to leave, I saw the door to Professor Elise’s office was half open, letting dim light shine through. I heard various voices echoing from the room.

           Curious, I walked down the hall silently, looking back down the stairs as I did. Different people were speaking, arguing. I listened intently.

           “This is the eighth attack this month,” a male’s voice hissed. “Eight merfolk have been violently attacked and their pendants stolen. They’ve been forced to retreat to the oceans!”

           “It’s the same with vampires. There are been several vampire assaults and their pendants have been stolen as well. They are slaves to the nighttime without the magic in the pendant protecting them from the sun,” a different male voice stated angrily. He had a slight British accent.

           “I understand completely, James,” Elise said tiredly. “But you cannot come here to point fingers when we do not know for certain who is stealing supernatural creatures’ pendants. We have been monitoring the assaults closely but we’ve yet to find the culprit.”

           “Do we need to find a culprit? It’s rather clear to us that witches are stealing magic pendants from other supernaturals. They want to climb to the top of the food chain once again,” James exclaimed.

He was cut short by the sound of a ringing phone. Someone answered it quietly; I couldn’t hear what was being said.

            “What is happening, Tadeas?” Elise asked. “What did Samuel say?”

           Tadeas, I thought. That must be Tadeas Kersey, my friend Agatha’s father. He was the representative for the merfolk on the council, and the merfolk king.

           Tadeas sighed. “Two werewolves were attacked in Buenos Aires. Their pendants were stolen as well.”

           I gasped and covered my mouth as soon as I realized my mistake.

           “Someone is listening to us,” James, whispered menacingly. I ran down the hall, towards the staircase. Rapid footsteps pounded behind me as I raced down the stairs.

           My pulse quickened. Today was not off to a good start. I reached the second floor and made a rash decision. I got a tight grip on my bag and flung myself over the railing. Few passing students raised an eyebrow at me when I landed on the first floor very wobbly, but on my feet. Ignoring them, I pulled my strength for a spell.

           “Motus discede” I whispered, twirling my hands in a low, circular motion, eyes closed.

           I would never get used to transportation by spell. Every time I used it, there was a slight rush, followed by lightheadedness and when I appeared, I felt a gravitational push forcing me out of the spell.

           I appeared inside my apartment, on the tacky, glittery carpet Agatha had insisted we buy when we first moved in because it added a certain “je ne sais quoi” to our home; I sighed with relief, shaking off the bad vibes I felt.

           “Hello?” I called out, slowly walking down the hall towards my bedroom. No reply. That was a good sign. I could look through my spell book without having to look over my shoulder. I went into my room throwing my bag on the bed, and knelt. My spell book was in an old, wooden box, along with several hidden elixirs, potions, and ingredients. I unlocked the box, drawing out my book and a white crystal ball. They had been a gift from my father when I had turned 18 and left for the university.

           I sat on the floor and started flipping through the spell book; locater spells were common and easy. I came upon one and read it. Salt water, crystal ball and a personal belonging of Greg’s. I had everything I needed besides something that belonged to Greg. Unless, I thought, Callie had something of his in her room.

           I reached for my cell phone to call Callie but a voice outside my door made me freeze in panic.

           “Signorina, hello!” Abrielle said brightly. I turned around. Abrielle was standing at the hallway entrance, dressed very cheerfully in a yellow sweater and jeans. She carried various brown grocery bags.

           “Hey! Um, do you know where Callie’s at?” I asked nervously. Abrielle would hit the roof when she found out what I had done.

           “Yes,” replied Abrielle as she walked back to their kitchen, me close on her heels. It was a small area with a dark, wooden table that only fit four chairs, the stove was across from the sink and I could easily touch them both if I stood in the middle and extended my arms. Abrielle set down the bags on the counter. “She is meeting Greg for lunch at Jo’s Café downtown. She will be back later.”

I started putting away everything inside the pantry and fridge. “Well, that’s not going to happen.”

Abrielle frowned. “Why not?”

“It was not supposed to go like this, let me tell you that much first,” I said sheepishly, my eyes wide.

“No, Mila, what did you do?” Abrielle closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose as she did.

I sighed deeply and told her the unfortunate tale. My friend widened her eyes then scrunched them up, pouting angrily. When I was finished, Abrielle started yelling in Italian, shaking the jar of strawberry jam she was holding at me. I tried interrupting but failed. Exasperated, I threw my hands up and started screaming back at her in Spanish, my native language. Abrielle flushed red and slammed the jar of jam on the counter, breaking it; she swore under her breath.

“You know, I don’t particularly enjoy watching our groceries get destroyed during a bitch fight,” said someone from behind. I swirled around. There stood blond Callie, in all of her 5’10 glory, glaring at us with her hands on her hips.    

“Mila turned Greg into a cat!” Abrielle blurted out. The blood in my veins turned to ice.

“Snitch!” I shot back.

Callie’s face went pale then red. Her mouth pinched up angrily; she threw down her keys on the kitchen table. “Couldn’t you have chosen a day when we didn’t have a date to torment him?” she shouted.

I picked at my cuticles. “To be fair, I wasn’t aware you had plans with him.”

Callie sighed. “Well, where is he?”

I felt my face get hot. “Yes… He ran away.”

Callie gritted her teeth. “Find him before I incinerate you.”

“Well, I need something of his to complete the locator spell. Do you have anything?”

She nodded. “I have his sweatshirt in my room.”

I raised an eyebrow and exchanged a look with Abrielle, who was making a face. “And um, why do you have his sweatshirt in your room?” I asked pointedly.

Callie blushed scarlet. “Don’t turn this back on me. You need to find him!”

Abrielle snorted. “Mm,” she muttered and began cleaning the jam off the counter.

Callie turned on her heels and stormed off; I followed her down the hall. Her room was a complete mess: clothes were strewn all over her desk, makeup was all over the floor and her bed was unmade and full of underwear and homework. I pinched my nose up.

“You, my friend, are the true definition of a slob,” I said disgustedly, leaning up against the doorway.

She rolled her eyes and started digging through her closet. A few seconds later she pulled out a faded green hoodie with University of the Occult written on the front in white.

“Is it clean?” I asked sarcastically. She glared at me, her brown eyes full of annoyance.

“Just do the damn spell.” Callie threw the hoodie at me.

I caught it and we headed to my room. The setup for the spell was complete. Callie knelt, her hands on her thighs, across from me. I placed the hoodie between us and the crystal ball on top of it. I started chanting while I sprinkled the salt water over the crystal ball and hoodie.

“Apparent ostende te venio, veniat ad me.” I placed my free hand on the crystal ball and continued chanting. Suddenly, the ball became very hot and made a crackling sound. I pulled my hand back with a gasp. A blurry image appeared on the ball. It was colorful. Greg the kitten materialized, licking his paw. He was under a huge tree with orange-reddish leaves. Towards the back, a black wrought iron fence was barely visible; it was the fence that surrounded the university.

“Where the hell is that?” I squinted my eyes and leaned closer to the ball. The image disappeared within a few seconds.

“It’s the willow tree by the flying field towards the back of the school.” Callie jumped up to her feet. “Let’s go.”

“What do you mean ‘let’s’?” I raised an eyebrow. “I am not going near him. He’ll claw me to death.”

“And you deserve it. You turned him into a cat so now you have to turn him back.” She pulled me to my feet.

I groaned. “I’m going to need some chamomile tea and a deep tissue massage after today.”

Callie rolled her eyes and grabbed my hand, saying the transportation spell. We landed on grassy terrain roughly. I doubled over and vomited my soul out. “I don’t know how they let you into school,” I said weakly.

But she didn’t hear me. She was running towards Greg who had woken up and was bounding towards her, meowing loudly. She scooped him up and cuddled him up to her cheek.

“Oh, poor baby,” she cooed. “Don’t worry. We’ll get her back.” She glared at me.

I frowned. “That’s rude and uncalled for. And slightly hurtful. This,” I waved my hands, pointing at Greg, “was never meant to get this far.”

“Turn him back. NOW,” Callie snapped.

I rolled my eyes. “We could do without the theatrics.” I took a deep breath. “Verto.”

Callie jumped back, dropping Greg the kitten. When he hit the ground, he was human again. Naked.

“Oh, God, no,” I gasped, turning away. I closed my eyes as I took off my jacket and threw it at him. “Cover yourself, man. No one wants to see that.”

Callie kicked me my shin. I shrieked in agony.

“Not cool, Mila,” Greg yelled as he stood up. He wrapped my jacket around his waist.

“You shouldn’t have run away,” I shot back.

“Okay, okay. We are all very sorry.” Callie stepped in between us. “Now, can we please go home? The carnival is tonight and we said we were going to dress up.”

I sighed deeply. “Will my troubles never end? Why, God?” I covered my face with my hands. “Fine. But I refuse to wear glitter.” I waved my hands and transported myself back to the apartment.

The theme for this year’s carnival was Mardi Gras Masquerade and my friends were insisting on elaborate makeup and costumes. I had never attended a carnival, even though I’d been enrolled in the university for 3 years. I wasn’t particularly thrilled about going. The elaborate ball, shows and games never sparked my interest. I always found a way to worm myself out of going, but this year I had no excuse. Agatha had ordered everyone what she deemed appropriate carnival attire, and insisted on doing everyone’s makeup.

I found Abrielle sitting at the kitchen table, talking to someone on the phone. Her delicate voice was extremely hard to understand when she spoke that quickly and in Italian. When she saw me, she said what I assumed to be a goodbye and hung up.

“Bella,” she said, standing up.

“What’s wrong?”

“My mother is sick. My father called to beg me to go home immediately.” Her big, gray eyes filled with tears. “I must go. I must go now.”

I hugged her fiercely. “Of course, you must go, Ellie. I will email you class assignments every day, and text you constantly. Now go.”

She wiped her eyes, nodding. She went to her room, and a few minutes later emerged with her purse and an overnight bag. “I will be back as soon as I can.” Abrielle vanished.

At that precise moment, Agatha walked in carrying several shopping bags. “I’m home!” she yelled, closing the front door.

“I can see that!” I yelled back. “What’d you buy now?’

I sat down on the couch. Agatha sat down on the floor and began emptying out the bags’ contents. Out came glittery makeup, feather masks, colorful beads. I rubbed my temples; I should’ve known.

“Where’s Ellie?” she asked. I explained what Abrielle had told me, and reassured her I would keep her updated when I was updated myself.

“Callie is with Greg,” I told her.

Agatha narrowed her eyes. “Yes, I was informed about your eventful day.”

I smiled sweetly, batting my eyelashes at her. “J’adore mes fans.”

She shook her head. “Well, then I guess it’s only going to be three of us tonight. Someone is going to have to help me with my fortune teller booth.”

“Uh, Agatha, I hope you know you’re a mermaid, not a witch. You don’t have any magical powers, besides the power of luring men to their sudden death with your singing.” I raised my eyebrows at her seductively.

She laughed. “I know but that’s why I need help. Someone must be the fortune teller. I just volunteered to run it.”

“Not it,” I said. “I’m already gracing the masses with my presence. Consider that more than enough.”

“Fine. Let’s start getting you ready then.” She waved several makeup brushes at me.

An hour later I stood in front of the full-length mirror hanging on my bedroom wall. A stranger’s reflection glared back at me. Her cheeks were painted a soft, iridescent lavender. Her eyes were done up in reflective sapphire blue eyeshadow and heavy black eyeliner and black lipstick on her lips.

“Oh, you look wonderful!” Agatha clapped her hands.

I picked at my eyelashes. “I don’t know about these fake eyelashes, Agatha. They feel uncomfortable. Can I please take them off?”

She huffed. “NO! No more destroying my master piece. Callie isn’t complaining.”

“That’s because Callie set boundaries firmly from the very beginning,” said Callie. She was sitting on my bed, her blonde hair pinned back in loose curls. Her makeup was very simple. Black eyeliner, fake eyelashes, and red lipstick. She wore a long, black peasant skirt with a purple tank top and a purple scarf with a gold coin belt. She looked more like a belly dancer than a fortune teller.

“We have to hurry up. Callie, don’t forget your head scarf and crystal ball.” Agatha walked out. “Let’s go! Start moving people. It’s already 7pm! We are late!”

I groaned and grabbed the beaded necklaces. “She’s going pay for this later,” I whispered to Callie as we followed Agatha out the door.

“I hear ya,” she whispered back.

The carnival was being held on the south side of campus, where the university garden square was located. It was home to a hedge maze like the Labyrinth of Versailles, hundreds of rose bushes, and an arboretum. Supernatural beings were firm believers in nature and all its wonders and magical herbs. It was one of the reasons the university was built on this island; it was surrounded by lush green forests and with a lake nearby.

The garden square had been completely transformed. There were individuals dressed in colorful court jester costumes standing on tall pillars, performing fire tricks. There was about 20 booths selling different ethnic foods and desserts. A huge purple and green tent had been set on the west side of the square and a magic show was being performed inside. Cocktail tables were scattered all around. The hedge maze was located on the north side of the square; it had been decorated with balloons, streamers, and twinkling lights. People in eerie, gold, purple and green masks were running in and out of the maze, trying to lure people into it. The east side of the square was made up of fortune teller booths, photo booths and a small bar.

I followed Callie and Agatha. Greg was at Agatha’s booth, setting up. It was a dark tent with a dim overhead light and a fog machine. A small table was set up in the middle and covered in a black tablecloth. Callie placed her crystal ball on it.

“I don’t know how I’m going to tell people their fortunes. That’s not how magic works. The crystal ball is good for locator spells, but not exactly for showing a person’s future. You know it can refuse to show me anything at all,” Callie told Agatha.

“I know, which is why it’s dark and foggy in here. You can be like those fortune tellers from movies who don’t lie, but don’t say the truth either. It’s just for fun. Everyone knows that,” she replied.

Greg put his arm around Callie. “You’ll be fine. I’ll be here acting like your security guard in case anyone tries to get impetuous.”

I rolled my eyes and placed a white and gold Venetian half mask on my face. “Well, not that this isn’t fun, but it’s not. I’m going to get a drink and maybe take a walk around the maze. Good luck.”

“Thanks,” replied Agatha, smiling.

“Not you,” I said crossly, and winked at Callie. I ducked out of the booth and headed for the bar.

There were a few people in line at the bar, each one dressed in different costumes. The man in front of me was dressed in all black and wore an eye mask made of gold and purple glitter and black feathers. 10 minutes passed by and the line didn’t move. I was getting impatient. I stood on my tiptoes and tried peaking around the man in front to figure out what the holdup was, but couldn’t see much. As I stepped back, the heel of my boot slipped on a rock and I lost my balance. I shot my arms forward to avoid landing on my face but I hit the man in front and took him down with me. He landed face first on the grass, with me on top of him. I got up clumsily, and helped him stand up.

“I am so, so, so sorry!” I said. I could feel my face red with embarrassment. The people in front of us were roaring with laughter.

The man brushed grass and dirt off his clothes. “It’s okay,” he said. “It happens.”

I nodded. “My apologies, once again.” I hurried back to Agatha and Callie’s booth, drink be damned.

The booth had no customers. Agatha and Greg were leaning against the tent poles, and Callie was sitting at the table.

“Hey,” Greg said when he saw me. “We thought you’d be 5 shots deep in the maze right now.”

Agatha giggled then sighed. “We’ve had no customers. None. It might be fake but all the money we make is going to charity,” she shouted at several people walking by. They frowned at her, but kept on walking.

“I’m sorry, Agatha,” I said as I hugged her. “I know how much you wanted this to be fun. Do you want to take a walk? Maybe get some food? I know Callie and Greg can handle the booth for a few minutes.”

Greg nodded. “Go on. We’ll be fine.”

“I guess,” Agatha mumbled.

We walked in silence towards the row of food booths. Drunk college kids laughed all around us. Magic had been prohibited that night, except for the people participating in shows or booths, but that didn’t stop the occasional few from shooting fire balls at one another, or using a levitation spell to move out of someone’s way. I could see everyone’s guards were down and inhibitions were running wild. I smiled. Maybe the night wouldn’t turn out to be completely horrible.

But I spoke too soon. The night grew very cold. A ghostly aura enveloped me. I became jittery, feeling someone’s eyes on me. I scanned the crowds quickly, for any sign of eccentricity, but found none. I sighed with some relief, but my stomach stayed in knots. I rubbed my palms together; they were clammy and twitching with quiet electrical currents.

“Are you feeling well?” Agatha whispered as we reached the hot chocolate stand. She looked pointedly at my hands.

I shook my head. “I feel nervous, as if something bad is going to happen. Now.”

Her eyes widened with fear. “You know your suspicions are uncannily correct. Let’s get back before they manifest themselves, and you start shooting electricity bolts out of your hands.”

Agatha turned around and started walking back to her booth at a rapid pace. I followed her but was abruptly detained. Someone had clasped my wrist tightly and pulled me back. I twisted back to see who my abductor was, and shocked to see it was the guy I had knocked over earlier.

He let go of me and rubbed his palm. “Did you just shock me?” he asked incredulously.  

“Um, yes. It’s an ability of mine.” I paused and made air quotes.

He laughed. “I’m Beckett.”

“Mila.” I smiled. “I’m so sorry about the shock.”

He extended his hand. “Would you like to take a walk with me to make up for the incident from earlier?”

I hesitated, and looked back to the crowds. Agatha was gone. “Sure,” I replied, taking his hand.

“Nox,” he whispered, and I fainted.

                               ***********************************

 I woke up on my back, groggy and cold. My vision was blurry, but I could make out a figure in front of me, pacing. Several yards behind the person was a tall, wrought, black iron fence. I blinked a couple of times. The figure in front of me was Beckett, and he was on the phone. We were outside the university campus, on the outskirts of the woods that surrounded it. My hands had been bound together with a thick rope and I had been gagged. My heart started pounding; who was this man?

I lifted myself up into a sitting position; the front of my shirt had been sliced in half, revealing my black bra. Disgusted and horrified, I stared at Beckett. He hadn’t realized I had woken up as his back was to me; he sounded agitated as he continued his phone conversation, occasionally running his hand through his black, wavy hair nervously. If I timed this correctly, I could make a run for it into the woods. I closed my eyes. Okay, focus, Mila, I thought. I took a deep breath, opened my eyes, and stood up slowly. He was still facing the university. I looked back into the forest. There were no visible pathways, no obvious life forms. It was an intertwined mess of trees, shrubs, bushes, and leaves. I glanced at Beckett once more; he was still on the phone and unaware of my actions. I turned around and ran into the unknown.

I ran steadily, dodging tree branches and bushes. The only thing lighting my path was the full moon in the sky, and even then, it wasn’t enough. I tripped on rocks and logs, without being able to throw my arms in front of me to lessen the fall. I was badly bruised and cut; I could feel blood on my body. But I forced myself to get up every time and keep going. My lungs burned with the need for air, but I couldn’t bear to pause for a break. The crippling fear running through me only pushed me forward. I would not be a victim of date rape.

I don’t know how long I’d been running for when I made the mistake of looking back. As soon as I turned around, I hit a hard obstacle and fell down face first. At first, I thought I had hit a tree. But when I opened my eyes I found myself gazing into a pair of bright blue eyes that expressed hints of anger and irritation. I had fallen on top of a man.

I struggled to stand up, which only seemed to irritate him more. Suddenly, I was upright and standing a few feet away from him. The rope around my hands was gone, as was the cloth that had been used to gag me. My eyes widened in confused awe. He brushed dirt and leaves off his white shirt and jeans while I gathered myself mentally.

A piercing scream jerked me out of fixation. “Mila!” Beckett had realized I was gone.

I inhaled sharply. Now that I was free, I was ready to confront him.

“You’re bleeding,” said a deep, quiet voice behind me.

I twisted back to look at him. He was frowning slightly, his arms crossed. “You’re bleeding,” he repeated, this time with a hint of authority in his tone. “You have a cut on your chest.”

I looked down and saw a deep gash extending from my collar bone to my right breast. All the adrenaline pumping through me hadn’t allowed me to feel pain. I realized my shirt was in tatters, leaving me even more exposed, and flushed. Covering my chest with my arms, I turned back around. “I’ll be fine,” I snapped. “I need to take care of this S.O.B. first.”

I started walking back and collapsed after 3 steps. He caught me before I hit the ground and sat me down on a boulder.

“Who are you?” he asked looking intensely into my eyes. “What happened?”

Involuntarily, I found myself telling him the events that had occurred that evening. When I finished, I paused to take a deep breath and realized I had been mind-controlled. Angrily, I stood up and shook off the hand he had placed on my shoulder.

“You’re a vampire!” I hissed.

He stood up and rolled his eyes. “A thank you would have sufficed,” he muttered.

“Thank you for what? For using your mind control on me?” I yelled.

“Why are you yelling? I am standing right in front of you. There is no need for theatrics.” He leaned against a tree, his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t know you were a witch.”

I placed my hands on my hips and glared at him. “I’m sure that was it,” I said sarcastically.

“Mila!” Beckett screamed. He sounded closer. A few seconds later, he appeared. He sighed with relief when he saw me. “Oh, thank goodness I found you,” he said, walking towards me.

The vampire stopped him immediately, placing himself between us. “I wouldn’t go near her,” he said simply.

Beckett frowned, his lips pursed. He swallowed and said, “Look, just go on your way and pretend you saw nothing. This doesn’t concern you.”

“You assaulting a lady concerns me,” he replied. “Now, go on back and let her be.”

Beckett, visibly angry now, pushed the vampire back. “This doesn’t concern you,” he shouted.

I held my breath. This was not going to end well.

The vampire punched Beckett in the face, knocking him out cold. I gasped.

He looked at me, surprised. “Well,” he said. “Is that not a version of what you were going to do to him?”

I cocked my head to the side. “True,” I replied haughtily then sighed. “I feel too weak to do a transportation spell. Do you know what direction to take back to the university? I’m sure my friends are wondering where I am.” I kneeled next to Beckett and started searching his pant pockets. I retrieved my phone along with his; the batteries on both were dead.

“I can escort you back, if you’d like,” he offered.

I shook my head. “No, thanks. Just point me in the right direction.”

He took a deep breath. “I can get there in 3 seconds. It’s going to take you more than half an hour, especially with that wound of yours weakening you as we speak.”

I glared at him. He stared back at me wordlessly. After a few moments of silence, I spoke. “Fine. I’ll allow you to indulge in a few seconds of chivalry so you can feel good about yourself, and give you the privilege to take me back.”

He rolled his eyes. “What an honor,” he muttered. “Now, do you want me to carry you or do you want to go piggyback style?”

“You mean you actually have to touch me?” I asked, horrified.

“I could drag you by one hand like a dead horse.”

“Piggyback style is fine.” I smiled mockingly.

In the blink of an eye, I was in his arms being carried like an infant. “I prefer this method of embarrassment,” he said, his face amused.

My face felt hot; my whole body was burning. I closed my eyes, turning my face away. “Just take me back please,” I croaked.

He laughed. It was an honest laugh, unbothered and carefree. It was a sweet, lively sound that matched the vibrancy of his blue eyes, and it echoed through the woods. It pierced the darkness around us.

Within seconds we had reached the edge of the woods in which I had woken in. The university was close and well lit.

“I’m sure you can find your way back from here,” he said quietly, and set me on my feet. Tonight had been intense and traumatic, and my body was starting to feel it. I was beginning to feel a headache growing on me. I massaged my temples slowly.

“I’m sure. Thank you for your unsolicited help and remarks. They were actually useful,” I said bitingly.

He took a deep breath and frowned. “A simple thank you is fine. Defensive insults are not required.”

“Whatever. Thank you. Goodnight.” I started limping towards the university.

“You didn’t tell me if I would see you again,” he yelled.

I said, “No. I don’t suppose I did,” and kept on walking.