#and the pure self-satisfaction in the end of Wait in the Truck?

[amynchan]

K. So.

One thing I like about Wait in the Truck (haven't seen the music video yet!) is that the consequences exist, the dude doesn't get the typical "reward," and there's a zero chance that he'd ever get it either.

Like, in Take a Drunk Girl Home, there's also this element of a dude doing the right thing just because it's the right thing to do without need for reward, but Wait in the Truck has this element of "I did the right thing and am going to face the consequences of it for the rest of my life, but I'm satisfied because I did the right thing" and not "I did the right thing and may eventually get rewarded for it," and I feel like that's important to me.

Good isn't always rewarded. Sometimes good comes with consequences. I'm finding that I like the stories where good itself is the only reward, and the protagonist may not be happy with it, but they're satisfied with it.

[jarofstyles]

Can you guys do a cowboy h check in since we got the snl pics!!! Hopefully some smut... please

Yes 😎 - D

-

“Fuck me.”

Y/N felt hot. There was no other way to describe it. Nothing got her going more than seeing her man out at work.

While Harry did tend to work a lot with the business aspect of the ranch now, he always filled in duties and when it meant working the field and herding the cows, that was no exception. Today though, it was lifting and putting the bales of hay up into the loft with a few of the ranch hands and Matt.

Her eyes were glazed as she sat on the fence, petting one of their older mates who wanted some attention. Harry always looked good, of course. But there was something about him taking off his flannel after hauling heavy stacks of hay up to the loft, sweat dripping down his face and body as he wiped it with the dry bit of his shirt that had him going.

A throb in between her thighs, watching as he leaned his head back and let the cool breeze wash over his body as he finally got a moment to rest. Her mouth watered as she watched his sweat damp hair be finger combed out of his face, a smile on his flushed cheeks as he laughed at some sort of joke being told. The bottle of water in her bag was the perfect excuse to get a better look.

Harry was hot and a bit out of it from the heat he raised, only realizing his pretty girl was coming over when the wind caught a bit of her sweet cherry blossom scent and waved it over. He could recognize it anywhere.

“‘Scuse me. Got to go see what my woman needs.” He murmured, getting a pat on the back as he walked towards the girl. She wore a blue checked sundress today, actually buying into the country look- and god if it didn’t get to him. “There y’are, gorgeous. What are you doin’ out here?” He asked as he approached. She had a bit of a look on her face though, almost like she was drunk? That had him a bit confused.

“Was just walking around. Saying hi to Cinnamon.” She nodded over to the mare. “Was gonna bring yoh a water cause....” her eyes dropped down his body, taking in the droplets of sweat and making her tongue wet. “Y’look like you need it.”

Sometimes he could be oblivious, Harry. He wasn’t unaware of the fact he was attractive. It just wasn’t in the forefront of his mind. It drove her absolutely mad. She felt... he had to know what he was doing. When he took off the cap and dropped his head back, drinking the water up quick and messy, greedy, she almost moaned. The water dripped down his slick chin and her poor cunt... her clit was already swelling and needy, her body soft and ready for the taking. He needed to touch her.

The water was finished and it was sure to say, so was she. Harry watched in a bit of confusion as she approached further, wanting to warm her that he was sweaty and probably not a joy to touch. But his mouth seemed to dry right back up as he watched her glazed over eyes and her hand grab his belt buckle, coming to rest her other hand on his slightly sticky chest.

“Do you know how insane you make me?” She whispered coyly. Their bodies shielded by the truck, she pushed for him to lean against it. “When y’walk around and look the way you do? When you.... sit there and look so fucking sexy doing all that hard work?” She asked, looking nearly frustrated now. Her hand left his belt and tugged his hand between her legs.

“Feel.” She pressed it up against the damp fabric. His mouth dropped open, brows shooting up in surprise after her behavior. They’d been adventurous before and all that. But he was completely taken off guard by her risky move. They’d talked about it but... seeing it happen in practice was something else.

He curled his fingers against the fabric feeling as it was soaked through and hot to the touch. “Did you....” he swallowed, dropping his voice. “Did you get this wet just from watching me work?” His question received a whimpered nod, hips moving slowly against his hand. It was quite a victory for him. He hasn’t done a thing and he had his girl worked up to bits.

His own cock began to thicken at the mere idea of it all. Her leaning against the fence and watching him, thinking about how he got just as sweaty during their more intense sex and how she was probably wanting to bite him.

“Mhm. Yes sir.” She whispered a “just... look so good like that. It’s so sexy when you get all sweaty m’your working, all your muscle and your scruff.... and you fucked me so, so good last night.... I wanted more.” She pressed a peck to the middle of his chest before laying her tongue flat. Licking the slightly salty skin, dragging it up to his neck and ending with a bite on the smooth expanse of it.

Harry groaned, his hand closing around her hair and taking it in a makeshift ponytail. He was about to crash his mouth back on to hers when he heard a call.

“We’re showering and heading to the bar. Meet you there?” It was Matt, and Harry could hear pickup’s starting.

“Yeah. See y’there!” He managed to keep his voice steady as he felt y/n’s mouth lick up behind his ear, his hand working between her legs on its own now and her nails digging slightly into his chest as she pressed herself into him.

As soon as he watched the last of the men roll away? He was tired of waiting. Opening the backseat of his truck, he climbed up and lifted her up with him. Manhandling her and making her straddle his lap.

She giggled, hands going for his belt and trying her best to yank it off before the zipper of his jeans was down.

“Need it. Need you to be inside of me, H. You’re so... fucking hot.” She whimpered, not even taking a moment to take off her panties. As soon as he was fished out of his pants, she began to rub the tip through her folds, tugging the fabric to the side.

“Just can’t help it, can you?” Harry laughed lowly as he felt her hot pussy against his cock. Being dragged through it and feeling it slick him up, it was heavenly. But not as much as when she sank down on him with little warning.

“Oh, fuck me” he moaned, leaning his head back against the glass of the window. The door was still open. It was sundown, meaning everyone was either gone or not in this barn, and he was thankful for it- though he truly wouldn’t give a fuck right now. Not when he was balls deep in his woman.

Y/N wrapped her arms around his shoulders as she rolled her hips. So full, so fucking deep and she was feeling what she had been craving. “Yes, yeah. This is what I needed, sir. Needed this thick fucking cock inside of me again. Once a day isn’t enough.” She was on a quite horny streak lately but he couldn’t ever complain about that. Instead, he smirked, sliding his hands under her dress and take control of her ass.

“Mm. I know it is, my dirty girl. I spend all day riding... and now you’re gonna be my pretty baby and ride me?” He cooed. “S’what I thought. Such a sweet cunt, swallows me up and let’s me stretch it out... go on.” He smacked her ass. “Let’s see it bounce.”

Harry when she rode him was something out of a book. She swore it. The attractive arrogance, the way he made her want to work for it and the pure, smug satisfaction he got from it only made her want to prove even more to him. The easy smirk he had on his face, the pleasure he would show he felt, it spurred her on to give him what he needed to fall apart.

She whined, breath hitching as she lifted up to slide back down. Both of them moaned at the feeling, their indecent act being covered by her dress skirt but the danger and thrill was still there. Open car door in the middle of the barn lot. The slick sound of her pussy sliding up and down on his length, their shuddery breaths and moans.

“That’s my good girl, darlin’. Take what you need from me. Ride me. Feels so good to be swallowed up by you.” He exhaled, watching her face as her mouth dropped open in pleasure. Going in and out of her, the little squelch of her slickness costing him and making the job easier. “Have such a greedy pussy.” He kissed her deep, murmuring against her mouth.

“Better believe it’s all mine. Property of H. Hm? My girl’s perfect pussy... and this ass.” He raised one brow and slipped his thumb between the cheeks, making the strangled moan escape her. “Mhm. No one knows my beautiful girl is so utterly filthy. S’why I love her so much.��� He pressed the thumb into the rim, making her thighs shake a bit.

“Yeah.... see, that’s it. This is it. You’re riding me in the lot because you got all wet while I worked. Imagine what the people would say? Knowing that you’re a greedy, dirty girl? Wants the most filthy and indecent things.” He watched her as she nodded, leaning her forehead against his.

She was dirty. Y/N was a slut, she would say, but only for Harry. She loved being touched and fucked and used by him. He managed to check every one of her boxes and she was in love with him... so there was no reason not to be her filthiest self with him. It got her off though. Knowing Harry knew these things and got to be the one to experience them. His finger in her ass paired with the need and fullness she felt had her approaching her breaking point.

“Gonna cum. Gonna cum so hard, Sir. Please? Please, please. Can I?” She begged, fingers grabbing his wet hair as she began to fuck herself harder on his cock. The filthy sounds and the heat was getting to the both of them, her thighs sweaty and he could feel it on him. Their skin sticky and her cunt dripping around him, their appeal for both of them was getting to the end.

“Mhm. The first time.” He earned, eyes dark and full of promise. She had awoken the monster bit of him that was ready to go for a few rounds. “Cum for me.” Car sex hadn’t ever been so good. Not with her whimpers and tugging at his hair, this thumb in her ass and her cunt clenching up, sucking him over and over until- she came.

A squeal. She let out the most adorable, sexy squeal as her whole body shook. His jeans wet with her arousal, he held her down on his length as she rocked back and forth frantically to work herself through it, clit getting it’s friction and his thumb pressing in further to make her drop her head.

“Yes! Please please.... oh my god. M’cumming.” Her voice broke as she soaked him, clutching him and her cunt clenching up and keeping him locked in place. Having her sitting on him like this and shivering at the pleasure pulsing through her body only spurred him on more.

This was just the begging.

His hand worked down her back, kissing all over her head as he let her ride it out. It had taken everything in him not to cum the first time, just watching his girl bounce and her tits right in his face- but he had plans for her.

“There she is. My beautiful, good girl. Feels so good... did such an amazing job.” He soothed, letting her catch her breath. As soon as she calmed slightly, he took her mouth and kissed her deeply, tongue messily brushing hers and letting her feel his passion for her.

“Now.... want you over the hood of the pickup.”

[chiseler]

The Sound of Fury

“America, as a social and political organization, is committed to a cheerful view of life,” Robert Warshow wrote in his seminal 1948 essay “The Gangster as Tragic Hero.” Democracies depend on the conviction that they are making life better and happier for their citizens; only feudal and monarchical societies can enjoy the luxury of fatalism or a fundamentally pessimistic view of life. Praising the gangster genre as a form of modern tragedy, Warshow also accounts for film noir in his statement that, “There always exists a current of opposition, seeking to express by whatever means are available to it that sense of desperation and inevitable failure which optimism itself helps to create.” The gangster’s demise is the purest American tragedy because it is driven by his mania to climb the ladder of success. The end of his saga is inevitable, so in chasing success he is really chasing failure; his self-destructiveness expresses defiance at the inevitability of defeat, but also confirms it.

This underground river of pessimism and disillusionment unites the pre-Code films of the early thirties and postwar film noir; they share a tone of bitter gallows humor; a satisfaction in being wised-up, knowing the score; they flaunt the scars and calluses of lost innocence. Pre-Code movies reflected the free-fall of the Depression, the farce of Prohibition and the dizziness of a society edging towards anarchy. Noir exposed the suppressed anguish of WWII, the anxiety of the Cold War, the stresses of conformity and materialism.

Films like Cry Danger (1951)—recently restored to full glory by the Film Noir Foundation—depict a battered, abraded country that has turned cynicism into a running gag. A man just out of prison after serving five years for something he didn’t do trades sour wisecracks with a one-legged, alcoholic ex-Marine. They make their home in a dilapidated trailer in a scruffy park perched on Bunker Hill, where the proprietor sits around strumming a ukulele and ignoring the busted showers. The vet (Richard Erdman) falls for a pickpocket who steals his wallet whenever he gets drunk. The ex-con (Dick Powell) idealistically tries to vindicate his best friend, who’s still in jail, only to find out he’s a double-crossing liar. The film achieves an extraordinary blend of the glum and the snappy, a deadpan insolence that saturates the air like smog. “What’s five years?” Powell says of his stretch. “You could do that just waiting around.”

While pre-Code movies gleefully portrayed an “age of chiselry,” a country where everyone was looking for an angle, they never plumbed the depths of alienation, fatalism and misanthropy that noir opened up. For all their knowing skepticism, Depression-era films evoke a sense of camaraderie, a shared body heat from people huddled and jostling together—maybe cheating each other, but still sharing jokes and boxcars, Murphy beds and stolen hot-dogs. Noir, by contrast, purveys a chilling sense of isolation and social atomization; not only institutions but individual relationships are corrupt and predatory. There’s no longer a hard-times sense of being all in the same boat. As Kirk Douglas nastily smirks at his colleagues in Ace in the Hole: “I’m in the boat. You’re in the water.”

Noir used unpretentious, low-budget crime thrillers to smuggle this caustic vision into movie theaters during a time when, on the surface, America was at the height of prosperity and social cohesion. Unlike the early-thirties gangster cycle, which reflected a real wave of lawlessness, the crime movies of the fifties were made during a time when the murder rate was lower than in previous or succeeding decades, perhaps as a channel for other, submerged anxieties. Noir’s prophetic vision of disintegrating communities has become only more compelling with time, a development that may explain the passionate revival of interest in film noir in the last decades of the twentieth century.

Healthy, functioning groups don’t exist in noir; even gangs and criminal “organizations” fall apart because their members are out for themselves, ready to betray each other for a payoff or a bigger share of the take. Institutions like politics and business appear only in stories revealing their corruption. The police are the only representatives of government commonly seen, and they are often bullying and crooked, hounding innocent suspects with sadistic relish. Even films that take the side of law enforcement underline hostility between cops and the people they protect. Apart from the justice system, the public sphere does not exist: the town meetings and popular movements that crowd the screen in thirties films, with indignant and excitable citizens marching, rioting or celebrating, are unimaginable in film noir. People seem to exist in a vacuum.

In part, this vision reflects the privatization of life that accelerated in the postwar era, as cars replaced trains; television replaced movie theaters; appliances eliminated the need for servants, milkmen and ice men; suburban back yards took the place of parks, all part of the glorification of the detached home for the “nuclear” family. The homogeneity of the suburbs and the intrusiveness of media and advertising paradoxically diminished any sense of place or community. Meanwhile, Cold War paranoia meant that expressions of communitarian spirit or calls for collective action could rouse suspicions of communist sympathies.

Many of the writers, directors and actors associated with film noir were liberals, often former Communist Party members who had seen the left-wing idealism of the thirties buried by World War II and then vilified during the Cold War. Disillusioned, they used crime movies to indict a culture of rampant greed and cut-throat competition. Thieves’ Highway(1949), the last film directed by Jules Dassin before he left the country to escape the blacklist, slices open the produce business to reveal the rotten heart of capitalism. Even something as pure and nourishing as an apple becomes a poisoned agent of strife when it’s equated with money. A Polish farmer, enraged at being paid less than he was promised for his apples, flings boxes of them off a truck, screaming, “Seventy-five cents! Seventy-five cents!” The apples roll wastefully across the ground, an image foreshadowing the film’s most famous shot, when after the same truck has careened off the road and exploded, apples roll silently down the hillside toward the flaming wreck. When the dead trucker’s partner finds out that money-grubbers have gone out to collect the scattered load to sell, he begins kicking over crates of apples, fuming, “Four bits a box! Four bits a box!” Everyone in the movie is “just trying to make a buck,” and cash haunts the film, dirty crumpled bills changing hands in a series of soiled, coercive transactions.

It is easy to see why the House Un-American Activities Committee wanted to drive people like Dassin out of Hollywood. Films such as Joseph Losey’s The Prowler (another Film Noir Foundation restoration) and Cy Endfield’s The Sound of Fury, (a.k.a Try and Get Me! 1950, the FNF’s next project) are scathing attacks on a materialistic society, unmasking the American dream as a shallow and shabby illusion that breeds crime and shreds the social fabric. (Both directors fled to England in the early fifties to avoid persecution by HUAC.)

Endfield’s stark anti-lynching drama opens with a down-on-his-luck family man hitch-hiking on a dark highway; he tells the trucker who picks him up that he’s been looking in vain for a job. Howard Tyler (Frank Lovejoy) moved his wife and son out to the postwar California suburb of Santa Sierra, hoping for a better life; “I can’t help it if a million other guys had the same idea,” he complains bitterly. They live in a shabby little bungalow behind a wire fence that makes the place look like a miniature P.O.W. camp. Howard’s pregnant wife hates the idea of using a charity clinic, and frets over money owed for groceries, while his whiny little boy begs for money to go the baseball game (“All the other kids are goin’!”) A bartender at a bowling alley sneers at his cheap customer: “You take a beer drinker, you got a jerk.” If Howard weren’t so dejected and humiliated, he would never fall under the spell of Jerry (Lloyd Bridges), the vain braggart he meets at the bowling alley.

Primping and preening, flexing his muscles and showing off his fancy aftershave (“Smells expensive!”), the manic Jerry boasts about his sexual conquests and the big money he makes, and he treats the modest, submissive Howard like his valet. He offers to put him onto something good—“nothing risky”—just driving the car for his hold-ups. When Howard hesitates, Jerry snorts, “You guys kill me! The more you get kicked in the teeth the better you like it.” Their first job is knocking over the grocery store at a cheap motel (“The Rambler’s Rest”), where Jerry easily intimidates an elderly couple and pistol-whips their son. Intoxicated with the easy money—and a few stiff drinks—Howard bursts in on his family with armfuls of groceries. His wife gasps at the extravagance of baked ham and canned peaches, and he brags that now they can get their own TV, and won’t have to go over and watch their neighbors’. “And we’ll throw this piece of junk away!” he crows, pointing to the family’s radio. Soon Howard is buying his wife new shoes and dresses with hot money, telling her he has a night job at a cannery. His little boy sports a cowboy outfit and ambushes his jumpy father with toy guns.

Unsatisfied with these penny-ante crimes, Jerry comes up with a scheme to kidnap a wealthy young man and hold him for ransom. He’s overcome by envy as he fingers the victim’s suit, tailor-made in New York, and after they’ve taken him out to a gravel pit in a disused army base, Jerry panics and kills him. When Howard gets home, dazed with horror and guilt, his wife wakes and tells him about the lovely dream she was having: she had the baby and this time there was no pain at all; “I got right up out of the hospital and took her shopping. I was buying her a pinafore.” Even in her dreams she’s a consumer, subconsciously linking commercial goods with the fantasy of a painless life.

As Howard mentally unravels, the shoddy vulgarity of the culture around him takes on a sinister cast. Jerry shows him the ransom note he’s written in a diner while ordering a steak sandwich (“Cow on a slab!” the waitress yells.) For cover, they go out of town to mail the letter, taking along Jerry’s girlfriend, a glossy blonde, and a lonely manicurist she has dug up for Howard. In a nightclub, he’s subjected to a string of dumb jokes and parlor magic tricks from a burlesque comedian. “Blame my psychiatrist,” the comic quips, “I didn’t pay my bill last month and he’s letting me go crazy.”

From its opening moments, the film depicts the crowd as a mindless and malevolent force, which will eventually be stirred to frenzy by sensationalizing newspaper articles. Crowds in noir are always bloodthirsty mobs, surrounding and destroying strangers in their midst; the communal desire for security is tainted by bigotry and ignorance. This is a dark inversion of Capra’s rallying citizens, or even the all-for-one armies of bums who fight for their squatters’ rights in Wild Boys of the Road. Movies of the Depression era never saw anything wrong with wanting money, good food, a pair of shoes, or even fur coats and diamond bracelets. They are tolerant of people—especially women—who do whatever they have to do get ahead. By contrast, The Sound of Fury shows materialism—the desire to keep up with the neighbors, to make a better life for your family—as a force that corrodes souls and breaks down social decency. The deepest well of pessimism in noir is a distrust of change, desire and ambition. “I just want to be somebody,” people are always saying, but the urge to squeeze more out of life, to grab a chance at happiness, is brutally punished.

Below the surface, the force driving noir stories is the urge to escape: from the past, from the law, from the ordinary, from poverty, from constricting relationships, from the limitations of the self. Noir found its fullest expression in America because the American psyche harbors a passion for independence, an impulse to be, in the words of Walt Whitman, “loosed of limits, and imaginary lines, / Going where I list, my own master, total and absolute.” With this desire for autonomy comes a corresponding fear of loneliness and exile. The more we crave success, the more we dread failure; the more we crave freedom, the more we dread confinement. This is the shadow that spawns all of noir’s shadows: the anxiety imposed by living in a country that elevates opportunity above security; one that instills a compulsion to “make it big,” but offers little sympathy to those who fall short. Film noir is about people who break the rules, pursuing their own interests outside the boundaries of decent society, and about how they are destroyed by society—or by themselves.

The gangster, Robert Warshow wrote, is driven by the need to separate himself from the crowd, but in doing so he isolates and dooms himself. White Heat (1949), which brought James Cagney back to the gangster persona that made him a star, came out one year after the publication of “The Gangster as Tragic Hero.” It took the “man of the city” (as Warshow defined the gangster) out of the city, but Cagney’s explosive death atop an industrial gas tank is the supreme illustration of Warshow’s observation that the gangster’s pursuit of success—“Made it, Ma! Top of the world!”—is a pursuit of death.

White Heat is also a perfect example of what Edward Dimendberg (in Film Noir and the Spaces of Modernity) called “centrifugal” noir: it’s a film without a center, about a world flying apart like the cooling fragments of an exploded star. Cagney’s gang, decaying under the strains of resentment, betrayal and madness, moves between equally bleak urban and rural hideouts. After robbing a train in a rocky no-man’s-land, they hole up in a frigid, creaky old farmhouse “a hundred miles from nowhere,” as Cagney’s wife gripes. Cooped up together in this gloomy Gothic house, surrounded by split-rail fences and naked, rolling hills, they snipe at each other and grumble about their leader. Cody Jarrett (James Cagney) suffers debilitating migraine headaches and huddles in the lap of his gaunt, fiercely loyal Ma. The realization that came to Cagney in Public Enemy as he stumbled into the gutter in the rain—“I ain’t so tough”—is here amplified into an infantile weakness, perpetually on the verge of breakdown. Cody’s frailty only makes him more vicious. At his orders the gang leaves a wounded member behind, bandaged and in pain, to freeze to death once they make their move to a motor court in LA. The motel is typical of the “non-places” (in Marc Augé’s term) where noir flourishes: marginal, transient spaces where “people are always, and never, at home.”

The banality of the modern west makes room for Cagney’s majestically psychotic performance, fine-tuned and sensitive as a landmine. Cody Jarrett crumples inward under the crushing pain and then erupts, and White Heat similarly closes in and then shatters people are either cramped in suffocating enclosures (Cody shoots a man while he’s locked in the trunk of a car, cruelly offering to “give him some air”), or stranded in vacant, inhospitable spaces. At the rural hideout, the wind is always blowing bitterly around the house, tossing the trees; Cody walks alone at night, talking to his dead mother, who was shot in the back by his wife while he was in jail. He tells a friend—really a police plant who will betray him—how lonesome he is, because “all I ever had was Ma,” and how hard his mother’s life was, “always on the run, always on the move.” White Heat brings together the ultra-modern—radio tracking devices; drive-in movie theaters—with the pre-modern, even the primitive. It proves not just that film noir can thrive in the country as well as the city, but that noir was not merely a response to the new—industrialization, the bomb, etc.—but drew on deep veins in the American psyche and the American landscape: the desire to stand alone on top of the hill, even if there’s nowhere to go from there but death; and an accompanying fear of being buried “on the lone prairie,” having no one to talk to but the night wind.

by Imogen Sara Smith

[elyssebeeart]

Requiem’s End

Fandom: Transformers (Universe: Movie/Bay!verse) Rating: G Word count: ~3.3k Warnings: Death mentions Summary: Not long after the events of The Last Knight the Autobots travel to Cuba, a designated sanctuary for their kind. There they hope to reunite with old comrades and surviving members before returning to Cybertron. However, the reunion isn’t entirely sparkwarming. Disclaimer: This is to bridge the last movie and the hinted events of the [cancelled?] next film and make sense of some plotholes/unexplained things throughout the past 3 films (Dark of the Moon, Age of Extinction, The Last Knight) while keeping comic happenings/backstory in mind. Also it includes a couple of OCs who have full backstories the cinematic verse: Fyreant (c) me and Ravebreaker (c) @pumpkinachai​ (On Deviantart, Pending Ao3)

“Shouldn’t we be gettin’ a welcome party or somethin’? We’re war heroes, y’know.” Crosshairs complained loudly in his Cockney accent, looking unimpressed at their apparent new home as he transformed from his alt-mode. The green Autobot paratrooper bit at his dentapick in annoyance, “Sanctuary nothin’, this is punishment. Why we here again? Thought we’d be headin’ for Cybertron lickety-split but it’s been four days!”    

“Qui vivra verra. Be patient, mon amie.” Hot Rod encouraged, transforming next to him. The sleek black robot with orange accents tried his best to interpret his unshakable French accent, “You might like what’s inside, no? Might like it here.”      

“Anyone home?” Drift inquired as he shifted to bipedal mode, the red samurai-esque robot tilting his head. “Perhaps we got the place wrong?” 

“Shh, quiet you lot. I’ve been dying to do this.” Their burly comrade, Hound, hushed as he rolled up and transformed as well. He grabbed a grenade off his belt and chucked it into the open building, calling out, “Fire in the hole!”

There was no sound for a few moments before banging and clattering was heard followed by a string of curses as a blue robot with a blue visor scrambled outside, shouting in a southern accent, “Slag it! Who in the Pit thought it was a funny idea!? Which one of you hooligans did it? I swear-”

“Topspin, there ya are. Almost didn’t recognize ya with that new look of yours, nearly took ya for Leadfoot.” Hound identified the fellow Autobot, leaning back in satisfaction as he crossed his arms. “Getting a bit rusty are we?”

“Hound, you ole dog! You tryin’ to frag me?” Topspin’s demeanor instantly changed to one of fondness as he saw the culprit. “And I got a mod in Lead’s memory, got a problem?”

“No problem. And there ain’t be no trying if I did. Didn’t ya notice the pin wasn’t pulled?”  

“‘Course! I’m not blind, you piece of slag. Doesn’t mean I wasn’t about to frag someone.”

The two mechs proceeded to clasp arms affectionately before giving each other a friendly punch. Topspin let out a laugh, slapping Hound on the back, “Looks like you made it to Cuba in one piece! I’m never sure who’s going to end up on my doorstep; I heard Prime’s broadcast, guess radio silence is over.”

“It’s not like ya to miss out on a fight let alone multiple battles. Didn’t take ya much for a ‘Bot looking for retirement.”

“Yeah neither did I but losin’ my Wrecker crew and gettin’ wounded got me thinkin’. Then my buddy Simmons hooked me up and here I am! Still tryin’ to get him to tan those pasty legs of his; they could blind somebody.”

“Greetings, Topspin.” Drift bowed politely to the uncouth robot. “It is good to see you again. Are you alone?”     

“Hah, hell naw. Wish I was sometimes, hold on. Yo!” Topspin shouted as he turned toward another building nearby, letting out a sharp whistle. “We’ve got company, get on out here. Vámonos!”

“You know, I don’t recall you ever being made the boss.” A young husky voice called in a mocking tone, “Maybe you should get your head examined.”

“He forgets that I’m nearly as old as him and still tries to bully; his CPU must be slipping.” Another voice replied, sounding a bit older and more relaxed. “Ah, well. We just gotta roll with the music.”

“If he has any part of his CPU left. I think he does most of his cognation through his-.”

“Whoa momma! Thank you Cybertron!” Crosshairs exclaimed, looking up where the planet could be seen in the atmosphere as two figures emerged, revealing themselves to be an orange and red femme. He turned to look at Hot Rod with pure relief and excitement, “You’re right. I like it here.”

“Other Autobots?” The red femme looked interested, a smile on her faceplates as she looked over the small group, eyeing them through her dark visor. “Mmm, some fine looking mechs too. Primus is smiling on me today.”

The smaller orange femme was silent as her red gaze swept over the others, looking hardly cheerful, “Oh goodie.”

“Ravebreaker, Fyreant, meet my old comrades. ‘cept for that guy, I have no idea who he is.” Topspin gestured at Hot Rod who shrugged and bobbed his head, confirming it was true.

“Some we already know, rustbrain.” Fyreant drily informed to which Drift politely bowed.

“‘ey, I’ve got you in my sights and… I must say it’s a nice view. Name’s Crosshairs, numero uno.” The green mech introduced himself, grinning at the femmes as he gave a wink. “How’s about I let you two ladies have the ‘onor in being by my side. Best bot in the biz after all.”

Ravebreaker instantly let out a laugh and put a servo over her mouth. Her companion however looked far less amused.

“Excuse me, I need to go perform self mutilation to spare myself from repeating this experience.” Fyreant quipped flatly, equally unimpressed and disgusted. “Meeting you all was a real pleasure, like purging my tanks.”

“Mademoiselle! Wait, s’il vous plaît! Crosshairs, he is imbécile! Gros lourdeau!” Hot Rod protested, attempting to appease while shooting the offender a look. “I’m Hot Rod; I apologize on his behalf.”

“Ooo, I like your accent.” Ravebreaker purred, drawing closer, “Keep talking.”

“Figured Prime would be with you, being you fought together; heard all about it from Simmons.” Topspin scratched his head as he got a better look at the newcomers, ignoring his companions.

“Optimus will be here soon, he had something to take care of first. Didn’t fancy he needed a convoy. Besides, me and the boys were curious about this here place you got set up.” Hound informed, looking not concerned in the slightest.

“Blimey, speak of the devil.” Crosshairs grumbled as he looked back, “Can’t let a star like me shine for long on my own, can he?”

A distinctive looking red and blue semi-truck was heading toward the group. Next to the large vehicle a sporty yellow with black racing stripes car followed, keeping an even pace with the apparent Autobot leader.

“Wait… is that, Bumblebee?” Ravebreaker’s voice was full of disbelief seeing the oncoming Camero. “That has to be him! He made it! Fyre, he made it!”

Fyreant halted her retreat, her optics wide. Her snide tone softened slightly as she turned to see her old comrade, “It’s Bee?”

“Yeah, that’s him. Doesn’t like to leave Optimus’ side much when he can help it. That’s loyalty for ya.” Hound acknowledged, grinning at the approaching duo. “Kid’s got guts, but ya probably know that.”

As the two Autobots drew closer the yellow car sped ahead only to suddenly transform to bipedal mode. The robot did a somersault before landing on his feet, breaking out into a jog toward the others, giving a casual two finger salute as he joined the group.

“Bumblebee reporting for duty. Nice to see familiar faces; not so much the ugly mugs.” He shifted his gaze from his mech comrades to the two femmes, brightening, “Rave, Fyre, you’re here! Been what, five Earth years?”

“Y-you can talk?” Ravebreaker stared at the yellow mech who appeared proud and bashful as he nodded. “Like, talk talk!? That’s all you!?”

“Really? How’d you manage that?” Fyreant exclaimed, gawking as she came closer. In hearing his true voice for the first time her memory cells echoed back various audio clips he’d played previously to converse, leaving her dazed.

“It’s… hard to explain.” Bumblebee let out a small laugh, shrugging. “But yeah, this is me. This is my voice.”

“Oh, sweet-thing I’m so happy! I’m so proud you got it back!” Ravebreaker rushed over and hugged him, giving him an affectionate pat. “What a fine voice it is too to go with a fine bot!”

“Congrats.” Fyreant seemed to relax, but still managed to look semi annoyed, “A bit sorry I couldn’t repay you by fixing it but I’m glad for you; though, it’s going to take some getting used to.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going soft.” He teased, edging closer and giving her a playful nudge. “We still need our little spitfire.”

“In your dreams.” Fyreant elbowed him back, grinning deviously. She lowered her voice, “After dealing with Topspin all this time, him treating me like his personal medic, I’m rearing to get back at him. Wanna help?”

“A chance to troll? Of course!”

“Autobots, it is good to see you here.” An all too familiar deep rolling voice called out, commanding attention. Everyone turned to see their mighty leader Optimus Prime transform, revealing his towering robot self in knight-esque armor with some retrofits. “I expect more will be arriving in time in response to my call.”

“Well, it looks like everyone else is takin’ their sweet time. Whoopdeedoo.” Crosshairs sniffed, folding his arms as he looked around for some source of entertainment. “Waste of time waitin’ around, I could be doin’ somethin’ useful.”

“Patience.” Drift urged his restless companion. “Those who have yet to arrive are late, but perhaps they have much farther to come than us.”

“Including Ratchet! Can’t wait to rub that in his face when he gets here.” Fyreant admitted to Bumblebee, sounding delighted at the prospect. “So much for nagging about being first on scene!”

Instantly the demeanor of Optimus’ group changed, Crosshairs suddenly becoming still, Drift looking away, Hound hanging his head while Hot Rod looked lost. Bumblebee appeared conflicted as Fyreant gazed up at him expectantly, the mischievous twinkle still in her optics.

“He-” Bumblebee began but Optimus placed a servo on his shoulder, causing him to go silent as he glanced up at his leader.

Optimus took a moment before speaking, “It is with a heavy spark that I must inform you that Ratchet is one with the Well of All Sparks.”

The statement hung in the air like a noxious cloud as it became uncomfortably silent. The quiet appeared to invite further unease by allowing the words to echo in audio receivers as the rest of the world seemed muted.

“… No.”

The response was barely audible but it cut through the thick silence like a knife.

“Fyreant-”

“No! Pit! No!” She shouted, her voice clipping as outrage consumed her sorrow, rejecting Bumblebee’s attempt to comfort. She stepped back, her red optics flaring, looking as if she’d been betrayed; her gaze flicked in accusation to the newcomers, “He can’t! He said I was still in training! He needs to finish teaching me! How can I… NO!”

“I’m sorry.” Bumblebee hung his head, his optics closing, “I’m so sorry. We weren’t there. We couldn’t save him.”

“No, no, no! Why!?”

“War hasn’t been kind to any of us, kid.” Hound solemnly acknowledged, turning his gaze to the ground as the memory of Ratchet’s fate haunted him. “Thank Primus you didn’t see… he wouldn’t have wanted it.”

“Who did it? Who killed him?” Fyreant’s optics smoldered with hatred, her voice dripping with venom. She looked at each of the newcomers, probing for an answer as she shook, “Tell me, Primus so help me.”

“Kid-”

“Tell me, slag it!” She screamed, fluid escaping her optics as she cut off Hound. Furiously she wiped them away, trying to will the function to cease but failed. Instantly Ravebreaker was beside her, gently holding her arm out of support not restraint. “What filth took down a medic!?”

“It was Lockdown. He was workin’ together with some humans.” Crosshairs admitted, spitting at the memory. “Chasin’ us down like animals. Gutless, the lot.”

At this information Ravebreaker’s demeanor shifted, her already sad posture tensing. Though she kept a servo on Fyreant, attempting to sooth her friend who shook with fury, a tremor ran through her as well.

“I’ll burn his optics out. I’ll cauterize his nerve circuits and then scorch them repeatedly with acid!” Fyreant swore, her optics pulsing a deeper red, her original Decepticon alignment surfacing. “Then I’ll put his head in a vise and rip it off!”

“Fyre… it was five years ago.” Bumblebee softly informed, the pity plain in his optics and voice.

“I know this is hard news and I’m familiar with your rage as I also felt it deeply. But know Ratchet, my old friend, has been avenged.” Optimus knelt down on one knee to get a better look at the grieving young femme. “I personally slew Lockdown and took care of the human responsible for ordering the attacks and defilement of our kind. While I cannot say how many of our comrades fell to his cruelty he has been stopped, permanently.”

“Slag it, slag it all…” Was all Fyreant could get out as she turned away, relieved yet angry that justice and revenge by her hand had escaped her.

“What about anyone else? Surely there are more survivors.” Topspin inquired, looking upset but knew the sting of casualties too well to be surprised. “Though, y’all are the biggest group to come; usually they’re alone and it’s been gettin’ far between arrivals.”

“I am uncertain of most of our comrades’ fates.” Optimus admitted, solemn, “My hope is that they’re still in disguise here on Earth, safe until they can come to this sanctuary or return to Cybertron.”

“Sideswipe’s gone.” Ravebreaker suddenly spoke up, her casual tone cold and distant, a slight quiver in her voice. “Just over five years ago… Must have been right before Ratchet.”

This time the shock hit Optimus’ group, Bumblebee instantly shaking his head with disbelief while Optimus closed his optics in pain and let out a tired sigh.

“That bot knew how to raise hell… him and Ironhide.” Hound lamented, taking off his helmet in respect. “Primus, they were fine mechs. My condolences, little lady.”

“Rave, I’m so sorry.” Bumblebee looked back and forth between her and Fyreant, helpless as the latter closed herself off and the former, despite the steeled look, screamed raw.

“Humans attacked, I heard it over our commlink. I couldn’t do anything to help, I was too far away.” A tremor ran through her body as she took a shaky breath, “I felt it when his spark was extinguished.”

“You felt-?” Crosshairs began, confused.

“They were sparkbonded.” Bumblebee explained in a quiet voice, “Before we all split up and scattered.”

“Mon Dieu!” Hot Rod could not control his surprise, his large optics wide.

Crosshairs let out a whistle, earning an elbowing from Drift who looked just as surprised. Meanwhile Topspin was quiet, looking awkward as it was old news to him while Fyreant was still trying to control herself, her back turned.

“It grieves me to learn of Sideswipe’s demise, he was a fine comrade and a valued warrior. He chose a fine sparkmate in you, Ravebreaker.” Optimus’ tone was bittersweet though sincerity could be heard. “He will forever remain in our sparks, as well as Ratchet and all our fallen comrades. They will live on in our memories.”

“Yes, he is forever in my spark.” Ravebreaker softly spoke, placing her servo gently on her chest. “And he lives on… through our sparkling.”

At this news the others perked up, glancing at one another to affirm they heard correctly. Bumblebee’s look of sadness turned to shock and then joy, “Really?” to which Ravebreaker nodded, her servo over her spark where the apparent new life was.

“Oi now! She’s taken and goin’ to be havin’ a baby? Just my luck.” Crosshairs complained in a not so low voice to Drift, earning himself a smack across the back of the head from Hound. “Ow! Me head!”

“Zip yer lip before I bust it.”

“Despite these sad times I find joy that life continues. There is hope with this sparkling, promise that life is returning to our race.” Optimus rose to his feet, looking proud as confidence tinged his voice. “This is the mark of a new beginning.”

“Ah, good ‘cause all this melancholy is crampin’ my mojo.” Topspin declared, “This is paradise, y’all. Lighten up, sad times are behind us! We’re moving forward, amigos!” “Yeah, what he said! Ding dong, the witch is dead!” Crosshairs agreed as he sulked, rubbing the back of his head, referring to the manipulative yet deceased Quintessa.

“Not everyone is good at brushing things off.” Drift sagely commented, “Some wish to return to their roots or continue their chosen path.”

“Yeah, well this is my chosen path: I’m keepin’ my aft planted right here. Dunno about the rest of y’all, but I got over Cybertron when I thought for a while it was destroyed by the spacebridge’s implosion eight years ago. I’ve made my peace; I’m retired!”

“Could have fooled me.” Bumblebee muttered, rolling his optics at the Wrecker’s mouthiness as he mocked talked with his servo.

“I respect the decision to remain on Earth but I’ll be going to Cybertron as the Knights of Iacon have already departed for it. There is much to be done and time is short.”

“What are you here for, Prime? Obviously not the beaches.” Topspin pressed, crossing his arms. “Speaking of which, I’m losin’ good beach sun standin’ here.”

“To assemble a new team and assess this sanctuary.” Optimus informed, “I will wait here for one Earth week, giving fellow Autobots time to respond to my broadcast and choose whether to convene here for sanctuary or join me in returning to our home world. Those who choose to return to Cybertron will aid in its restoration. However they are free to come and go as they please.”

“You know, communications is just one of my many talents.” Ravebreaker placed a servo on her hip, coy smile across her faceplates. “I can help boost the signal and encrypt it so it’s harder for enemies to pick up. That should speed things up a bit too in getting the word out.”

“I’ll go.” Fyreant spoke up her voice back to its hard edge. She looked up at the Autobot leader, her red optics no longer flaring dangerously. “There is nothing left for me here on Earth despite it being my creation place. Plus I need resources to complete the frame for Rave’s sparkling… even if Ratchet isn’t here, I need to continue in his stead.”

“I understand. I look forward to having you in my company once more, Fyreant. Your expertise is extremely valuable. Ratchet would be proud of his pupil; you make a fine medic with that fiery passion.” Optimus nodded, acknowledging her resolve.

“And of course I’ll be going with her. Us gals need to stick together.” Ravebreaker announced, leaning down to the shorter femme and giving her a hug, grinning. “Can’t be without my medic, can I? Besides, Cybertron will be dying to hear my tunes once more; they don’t know how much they’ve missed this femme.”

“What about my medic?” Topspin whined, clearly not thrilled at this development, “My volleyball elbow! And my leg that locks up!”

“Go soak it in oil and stop playing slagging volleyball and do something else!” Fyreant snapped, tossing her servos up as she glared at him. “And for the last time: it’s tennis elbow, you wingnut!”

“That’s such a wussy name, and I don’t play no tennis! Simmons is wrong, I tell you.”

“Ugh, a week can’t come soon enough if I don’t die first from any more of this torture! You’re the worst patient!”

Hound let out a laugh he tried to disguise as a cough, turning away to pretend it was coughing fit that he blamed on his cy-gar under his breath. Crosshairs looked amused, grinning as he chewed his dentapick.

“Oh yeah, I’m goin’ to enjoy this.”

“I see why the young one wants to leave.” Drift observed to which Hot Rod nodded in agreement.

“Oui.”

“Autobots, today marks the start of our new mission. We shall gather our comrades and soon return to our home world in preparation for the new threat that lies beneath our feet. We will protect not only Cybertron but Earth as well, despite each’s faults. Together we will rebuild.”

“We’re with you, Optimus.” Bumblebee affirmed, nodding with conviction. “Always.”

“Thank you, my friend. Let us set forward to this dawn of a new age. An age of Cybertron’s rebirth and our people.” The imposing Transformer turned his attention toward the sky where the battered planet orbited, his blue optics serious. “It is time for this requiem’s end.”

[theprojectatedensgate]

Amnesia (Part 3)

Part 1 Part 2

Warnings: Graphic Violence, Trigger Warning, Swearing

The light glittered through their lashes, sleep lining the lids of their eyes as the open curtains let the morning light shine in.  Moments like this were pure Bliss, the drowsy, calm and disassociated before the harsh reality where they truly were set in, waking them from slumber. The bright blue hue of the wide open Montana sky greeted them as they lifted their heavy lids, the faint sound of a plane engine buzzing high up in the big sky country, Hope County.

Rook stared at the small puffs of cloud momentarily, their mind just coming through the foggy haze of sleep, the warmth of the bed seeming to increase by the minute. They shifted, noticing a weight on their chest as they did so, their vision trailing towards the book that lay splayed open on their chest. The Deputy smiled, falling asleep whilst reading, how typical. Though a War doesn’t win itself and the very few times they got to relax it became over taken by the need to rest. It didn’t matter, they needed all the sleep they could get. Rook picked up the book, placing it on the pillow next to them, their heart dropping when they noticed it and remembered. 

The radio. John Seed. Blackmail. Sundown.

Flustered, they scrambled out of bed, throwing on War suitable clothing quickly. Sparing a sneaking glance at the clock, they cursed as the time read 4:30 PM. How did they sleep that long? Though Rook already knew the answer, when it comes to daily doses of violence and constantly being kept on their toes due to the War effort, sleep deprivation became a well known friend. The Deputy grabbed their radio and gun from the nightstand, checking the Mag and tucking the firearm into their thigh holster as they sat back down on the bed, a surge of anxiety pooling in their gut and jolting in their chest. The plastic held light between their fingers as they brushed their tips over the button of the radio, nervously pushing down with a click. Static greeted them, and after what passed as a few minutes but felt like hours, they turned it off with satisfaction. Nothing. Relief washed over them, they were half expecting John to be waiting on the other end with an insult or something creepy, partly shocked he wasn’t. Happy with the silence, they pushed off of the bed, taking their pack with them. With only a few hours till sundown, they needed to prepare for another one of John’s games. The pushed open the front door, bee lining towards their truck and hopping in with ease, shifting it into gear and putting their foot on the gas, they headed for the Spread Eagle, liquid courage was a God Send.

They cranked the hand brake as they parked outside the bar, sweat glistening as the time climbed closer. Swallowing, they made their way inside the bar, sending Mary a polite nod as they entered, the smell of alcohol and cigarettes invading their senses, taking a stool at the bar. She looked of them with a hidden concern, but the Deputy sensed her perplexity, they didn’t drink often and when they did it was for all the wrong reasons, this time was no different.

“Nice to see ya’ Dep’, what can I get ya’?”

“Oh, just Whisky, please Mary.”

She nodded, picking up the studded bottle and a small glass, pouring the liquid inside. 

“You okay, Dep? You’re never in here unless something hasn’t gone your way, the Cult pissed you off some more?”

She passed the drink over and Rook huffed as they took a sip, exhaling sharply. If only she knew...

“Yeah well, I have an outpost I need to be taking care of in a few hours it’s a difficult one so I need my strength.” The twirled the glass and raised their brows, Mary chuckled in response. 

“Fair enough, bless you Dep’. You’ve done more for us than we can ever repay you for.”

Rook tittered awkwardly, guilt gnawing at them as their mind flooded back to John and his bruised body in the dirt. They gripped the glass tightly, Mary furrowed her brows.

“You sure that s’all that’s on your mind?”

They snapped too, looking over Mary’s worried expression, waiting for an explanation.

“Oh? Yeah! I just... Ah.” They shook their head, forcing a smile on their lips and shaking their head in dismissal. “Just this outpost will be... Unguarded at sundown, which means it will probably be  quick and easy job but I can’t help but think...”

The Bar tender leaned in, bracing her forearms on the wood, focusing on the Deputy. 

“Think what?”

“That maybe it’s a trap and I’m just going to get my self killed.”

She nodded, biting her lip slightly as she pondered over the problem, hemming and hawing.

“Well. To be honest. I can’t tell you how to do your job. But if it’s unguarded then there shouldn’t be much of a problem. It is definitely unguarded right?”

“That’s the thing, I’m not sure. The Intel wasn’t really reliable.”

“Where did you hear it?”

“Around...”

“Here’s my two cents, you’ve been through some really tough shit. This? Won’t even leave a mark. Just make sure you go armed and for God’s sake’s Dep’, come back alive.”

Rook nodded and smiled, finishing up their drink, placing their glass back down on the counter.

“Another.”

After a couple of drinks and a conversation about Peggies later, the sun started to set, and as a contrast Rook’s anxiety only rose to meet it. Thanking Mary for the drinks, they headed out, climbing inside the truck and roaring it to life, they set off down the road to the Lamb of God church. Eden’s Gate hymns blasted through the speakers and with a fumble they changed the station, letting the sound of guitars fill up the vehicle. The church appeared in the distance, growing bigger by the minute. Bile rose in Rook’s throat as the slowed the truck to halt, stepping out of it. This was wrong. It was all so wrong. Their eyes scanned over their surroundings, flicking behind gravestones, tombs and over the church itself. Nothing. Silence. Part of them relaxed as they became comfortable in their own company, another part suspicious and a slight bit of anger seeping in at the thought this had all been some kind of joke and John was laughing at them. The Deputy strode over to the doors, leaning back against them as their mind ran over the conversation they had the night before. John had mentioned bringing Boomer but there was a fat chance of that happening, Boomer was safer away from this whole sordid affair. 

The sound of engines coming closer brought them to attention, pushing up off the doors and standing tensely. Rook clenched their fists as the vehicles made their appearances. A Cult truck leading the way in front, behind it an expensive, dark, stormy blue muscle car that matched the colour of the night sky, the engine louder than the seven horns, safely tucked in the middle, a second truck pulling in behind it. The Deputy raised a brow as the realised that must be the Baptist’s car. Over the top and full of arrogance. It suited him perfectly. The three vehicles pulled up next to the Deputy, braking suddenly. The cultists exited the trucks, two of them staying put and watching the Deputy silently,fully automatics slung over their shoulders, eyes narrowed upon them. Rook placed their hand on their holster, looking them over with warning. Alarm bells started to ring as the cultists started to approach them, Rook stepped back, increasing their grip on the firearm.

“You get the fuck back, do you hear me?! I won’t hesitate but to put you in the ground!” 

They hissed at them and the Cultists shifted their guns to point at the Deputy and started shouting orders to drop the weapon. The commotion froze at the sound of a car door slamming shut. The Cultists stood to attention.

“My, my ,my! Such Wrath!”

Rook grimaced as their eyes settled on him. Jacket swaying in the breeze, smug grin upon his expression as he strode towards them, shooting a heated look towards his men, making them lower their weapons.The Deputy caught the sight of the pistol in his holster, filing it away for later. The Confessor stopped short of them, leaving a gap between them both, Rook’s hand still on their gun.

“Now, Deputy. My men have shown more than enough restraint to not simply kill you right here and now. Could you at least show the same courtesy?”

“You must be fucking joking.”

John placed a hand over his heart, a look of mock offence breaching his expression as his lips parted slightly. 

“Temper. Deputy. You need to tame that Wrath of yours. Besides there’s no need to be so on edge, we’re all here for the same reason. And how do I know you haven’t brought any of your friends? That being said, after seeing their precious Deputy threatened they would have all jumped to your side but I see no one rushing to your aid. Still ashamed from your heroic endeavour?”

He chuckled lowly to himself, tension sparked in the air, eyeing Rook and looking them over. The Deputy swallowed, John stepped forward. “Speaking of which... Shall we head inside?” He extended an arm to beckon towards the door, Rook’s defensive stance only increased.

“No. We do it out here. No games. Just give me whatever it is and then I’m leaving.”

John titled his head at them, turning around to glance a smile at his men. He hummed, nodding and walking towards them slowly, the tension building with every step. Rook held their ground, not taking their eyes of off the Sadist as he made his approach. He came close, looking down at them as they stood only a few inches apart, the smell of after shave and iron filled their senses, and unknowingly they stepped back, their back hitting the doors of the church.

“Hmm, perhaps it is not only Wrath that flows through your veins, but greed also.” He tsked. “You really are full of it, Deputy.”

“Don’t try it, John.”

He smiled, malice shining in his eyes. 

“Of course not. Here, I have something for you.”

Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a small box. Rook’s mouth dried at the sight of it. He opened to box to reveal a dark blue watch, dark leather band slinking under the glass face. The Deputy’s mouth dropped open, an arrogant smirk appeared on John’s face. It was all too easy.

“... John...”

“I know. It seems like too much and for you, maybe it is. But,as much as I loathe to admit, you did save my life remember? I had to repay you somehow and considering your little lie in you had today... You could use it.”

The Deputy scowled at him, the box still open in John’s tatted hand. 

“How did you know about that?”

He only grinned in response.

“Whatever. I can’t take that. It’s too much! Also what am I supposed to tell people? John Seed the fucking Sadist gave me this watch? I don’t even know where you got that from.”

“Gift horses, Deputy. Don’t look one in the mouth. Here.”

He took the watch from it’s home, reaching forward and wrapping his hand over their wrist and bringing it forwards. The Deputy tensed under his touch which held rough but didn’t fight it, they stared as he fastened the watch around their wrist, their skin tingling against the cool glass. He held onto their wrist as they looked over their new possession, trying to keep their delighted reaction hidden. But John noticed their excitement and hummed with approval.

“Perfect.”

Rook’s mouth flapped slightly as the reality of the situation overwhelmed them. John Seed, long standing enemy and torturer gifting them such a dear item. It was all so... unsual.

“I- I don’t know what to say.”

“Say Yes, Deputy.” His favourite syllables hissed from him, his grip on their wrist tightening.

Panic coursed through Rook now, they had let him get too close, let him take hold of them as he bound them with his gratitude, their heart thudded against their chest. The looked over him at all of his men standing guard, claustrophobic wasn’t a grand enough word. Feeling the heavy watch of everyone around them, they flinched, attempting to tug their wrist from his grasp.

“I need to go.”

John’s expression darkened at their resistance, keeping their wrist firmly in hand, blunt nails digging into flesh. 

“So soon? What a pity. Perhaps you feel differently about my other gift.”

“Your other gift?!”

“Yes, I suspected this reaction from you, so I brought something else along to help make this all easier.”

Before they could react, John had reached into his holster, pulling out his pistol and shooting them in the upper leg. Rook cried out, stumbling against the church as the pain sunk in. He fucking shot them. After all the caution they exerted and even keeping the location of his weapon locked in their brain, their awareness failed them. They marched into the spiders web, of their own volition.

“You fucking asshole! I’ll kill you! I-”

The words became lost on their tongue, their vision blurred as white stars danced around them, their head became heavy as everything became distorted. Their legs ceased balance, their whole body losing the ability to hold it’s self, it toppled to the ground. Before it could greet the dirt they were caught, feeling a firm grasp holding them up, the familiar scent of iron. John watched them bemused and intensely, smiling at the way they fought back even in hopelessness, Rook’s eyes became dark as they sunk into the weight that held them, drifting further and further away, the distance sound of car doors opening and engines roaring to life, the weighted sensation of dragging on their feet.

“That’s not the magic word.”

They should have known better. They should have left there to be found by wolves. They should have hung up on him when he called to brag, they should have avoided this whole calamity. But they didn’t, their choice was made when they plucked him from the wreckage and now they paying for it. Maybe he was right in a way, all sins must face atonement and this was the repentance of their betrayal. One that will cost them their life and all they ever knew. One that would change it all forever.

They should have known better.

But they didn’t.

Thanks for requesting! And please stay tuned for part 4! This is really turning out to be something!

[biketrash]

Hotter ‘n Tandems Hundred

 With the sun still asleep, we were unloading the tandems. Many might think it to be ridiculous to be awake this early. For us, that barely scratched the surface of our insanity. Today, Marde and I, were riding our second Hotter than Hell Hundred on our tandem. In a year’s time we have forgotten the sting of the saddle sores, the heat of an unrelenting sun, the never ending headwinds. All we could recall was the satisfaction of finishing a hundred miles on our bicycle. At least that’s how we sold it to Donald and Amanda. “Get a tandem” we said. “Ride a hundred miles” we said. “It’ll be fun” we said.  Donald and Amanda have a natural talent for the tandem. Whatever their weaknesses may be on single bikes, they are quickly overcome on a two seater. They ride faster and can go farther working together. In the few months they’ve shared the horsepower at the rear wheel, they’ve clocked in several high milage rides. Today, however, would be their first triple digit ride. That is, if they made Hell’s Gate in time.

Pre ride smiles

 We find ourselves packed in with many other tandems, along with recumbents. Among our ranks are even a few recumbent tandems. The organizers are well aware of the herky-jerky start hundreds of tandems and recumbents initiate. Starting us with the 10K+ single riders that will participate today is a recipe for disaster. Instead, the Cat 1&2 (pros and pro like) take off first, quietly and without fanfare. At an average pace of nearly 30mph, they are not worried about making Hell’s Gate on time. Marde and I will focus on a 12-15 mph pace. That will keep us on track to make the gate. Donald and Amanda should have no trouble pacing with us.

Marde’s view

Hell’s Gate is a timing strip laid out at mile 62. This imaginary gate closes at 12:30. If you are late, you will be turned to a shorter (75 mile) route. Donald is determined to make it. Everybody needs a good challenge every now and then.  At roughly 6:45, they release our rag tag renegade fleet of odd looking bicycles. The race for the gate is on! Thinking in race terms, makes the first miles hard. It’s not as tough physically as it is mentally. You have to pace yourself. Start too fast and you just won’t last. With the cool morning air and relatively flat road, it’s hard to not push yourself. This is, after all, the best you’ll feel all day.

EZ chair riding

 In the initial chaos, we lose Donald and Amanda. The nice thing about the tandem is that I won’t lose Marde. We wind our way through a sea of flashing red lights and catch up to our tandem friends. Before we realized we’ve made it very far, we arrived at the first rest stop. We were ten miles into the ride already. Donald and Amanda were as excited as they were at the start, they were ready to hit the road again. A quick photo with the Beatles, a banana, and we’re off just behind the first surge of a 10K+ armada of single bikes that had finally caught up to us. With the weeble-wobble bikes spread out, it was easier to keep up with Donald and Amanda. That is, until the hills began. North Texas doesn’t offer the worst hills ever cycled. Still, a tandem is a slog as it progresses up them. The slog turns into a rocket as the handlebars angle back down though. This super speed will be thwarted time and time again, as single riders will eclipse us as we make our way up each hill. Brakes will get much use as we avoid running over the (now) much slower pack of riders. Occasionally, we are able to get around, but the slope turns back skyward and the tandem slows to molasses. This yo-yo effect continues all the way to mile twenty and rest stop two. 

The Force was strong at the second rest stop

 Pickles and cookies are scarfed down. Our metabolisms have ratcheted to high boil. From this point on, everything consumed will be turned directly into energy. Still feeling great, we get back on the road. The gate waits for no one. The sun has been up for awhile now. Luckily, we can’t see it. An overcast is hiding it from us and subsequently keeping the temps not so Hell like. We are not complaining. Well, except for the headwind that has developed. I’m complaining about that. This isn’t my first HHH though. Headwinds come with the ride. I know that and I still come back. The ride is definitely worth it, yet for this moment I will bad mouth this wind.  A hard left takes us off a narrow two lane and back on Business 287. A shoulder and a recent repave has us clicking off the miles with little effort. The surrounding riders are now a mixed assortment. Mainly single riders, but still a fair number of recumbents and tandems remain. A plethora of color. I enjoy seeing the many different brands of bicycles and their approach to finding what works for the consumer. Marde is enjoying the latest train we’ve seen today. Donald and Amanda are simply enjoying the  ride on roads the’ve never seen before.

A stampede of singles

 We are coming into the sleepy town of Electra. Marde’s phone begins ringing. It’s our daughter Makaidi attempting to FaceTime us! Having just recently enlisting in the Navy, we are adjusting to a new life of not having her home. It’s a tough transition, but Marde and I are extremely proud of her choice to join the Navy. “What are y’all doing?” Makaidi asks. “Just riding” is Marde’s response as she pans the phone around allowing Makaidi to see the cyclists all around us. The conversation is all too short. Marde and I will take what we can get. The third rest stop is in Electra. There is an endless line of people doing the pee dance. Legs crossed while shifting side to side. Marde hears the music and joins in. I find myself making repeat trips back to the cookies as I kill time. I also top off our waters. With Donald and Amanda by our sides, we head out of Electra. A hard right sends us due north along with a tailwind. Oh, blessed free speed. If only for a few miles, we will savor this beautiful thing.

It’s a tandem life

 Heading east on Texas 240, we are in full push to make Hell’s Gate before the 12:30 deadline. The clouds are beginning to break up, revealing a bright blue sky. We are still twenty plus miles away and the clock is ticking. The wind is hitting us on our right side. I miss the push of a pure tailwind. With the increasing sunlight, I am appreciating the cooling breeze though. A pure tailwind has a stagnate feel because you are flowing with the wind and not feeling it actually move. Find the silver lining. The cool breeze is our silver lining.  Determined to take in the day’s full suffering, we push hard. We could easily pull back a little and miss the cut-off. It would mean twenty-five less miles. Our mental stress would be eliminated. It was, after all, completely self imposed. We could ride through the Sheppard Air Force Base. We have heard great things about riding through the base. If only we’d slow down and hurt less. Instead, we embrace the challenge a century presents. We want that one hundred miles!  We make it to Burkburnett knowing we are close on time. Still full of excitement, we keep the speed up, blowing by the final rest area prior to Pyro Pete. “You still have plenty of time!” a voice calls out over a PA system. We are taking no chances. Full of hot air, Pyro Pete towers over cyclists anxious to get their picture taken with him. We too, are anxious. We are also relieved. We made it to Hell’s Gate! Donald and Amanda will make their goal today, provided they can tough out another thirty-eight miles.

Hell’s Gate with Pyro Pete!

 After the gate, Marde and I relax a bit. At our more relaxed pace, we fall behind Donald and Amanda. Regret from skipping the last rest area creep in. This fat boy needs a break and takes one. Marde shares a protein bar with me. We don’t want to bonk now. A few miles later, we arrive at an official rest area. With the realization that we could have easily made it without our impromptu rest stop, we share a laugh. As we refuel, Donald and Amanda are prepared to leave. Pushing seventy miles and they are still smiling. Marde and I will spot them a head start while we grab a chair in the shade.  Partly cloudy skies and vast expanses are easier to take in with the current pace. Farm houses, windmills, and strange old trucks catch the eye. We can also take advantage of what a tandem really allows a couple to do. We can talk. We won’t solve world peace or figure out the mathematics of flying to Mars. We don’t need to. Just the simple conversations that keep a relationship working.  With just over twenty miles to the finish line, we are reunited with our fellow tandem travelers. With a catch in his back, Donald was taking an extended break. This allowed Marde and I to catch up at our meandering pace. A century is a hard goal to achieve. It gets especially hard in the last fifteen to twenty miles. From saddle sores to cramps, and even a catch in the back, a tired body finds the final miles hard to manage.

Ready for the final push

 Donald will need an impromptu break along with the official rest areas to make it to the city limits of Wichita Falls. The rest of us need it to get our butts off of saddles that have turned evil. As the city’s skyline comes into view however, our pains all seem to recede. Rolling through the downtown streets, numb hands regain feeling. Crossing the finish line, the excitement from the day’s start hits us again. We made the century! It was a long hot day full of fun, bicycles, and friends. This is my third Hotter than Hell Hundred in a row. Two years ago I rode it solo. Last year Marde joined me, making it all the better. Now, my friends Donald and Amanda came and conquered the hottest hundred miles in North America. I like the trend. Perhaps next year, you’ll cross the line with us!

[ramajmedia]

Alfred Hitchcock Presents: 5 Best & 5 Worst Episodes, According To IMDb

Good Evening. Besides Rod Serling’s Twilight Zone, there was one other profoundly clever anthology hit starring a charismatic host. The Master of Suspense himself, Alfred Hitchcock decided to bring his wry, dark humor to television. However, the stories themselves were generally pretty stark, frequently dealing in murder, suicide, rape, and other crimes. They were small slices of sharply written suspense, rather than Serling’s sci-fi meditations on morality.

RELATED: The 10 Most Bingeworthy Anthology TV Series, Ranked

Although, they did incorporate a witty sense of irony, great performances, and clever twists. Hitchcock only directed a handful, and didn’t write his own material. But he consistently provided charming intros and outros, accompanied by an iconic theme song and brilliant comedy. Here’s how fans rated the highs and lows of this 50’s thriller anthology.

10 Worst: Sylvia - 6.4

In this episode, a rich father worries that his daughter Sylvia may commit suicide after purchasing a gun. However, she has threatened to kill her ex-husband Peter if he doesn’t take her back. It’s basically a narrative game of Russian Roulette, wondering who will end up dead after all.

Unfortunately, there’s an obvious issue with the casting, which is very distracting. The father and daughter are too close in age, and the latter has a totally different accent. It’s quite strange. The story itself is ultimately somewhat rote, and worse, moves like molasses. Also, the weaker performances simply aren’t up to the task of carrying essentially unsympathetic characters.

9 Best: Man With A Problem - 8.4

This is a story about a man on a ledge, and the skilled officer aiming to help him down. But the backstory slowly weaves an intriguing tapestry of secret truths behind the encounter. It achieves superb suspense by gradually revealing the mystery of the motivations piece by piece.

The episode boasts some deft direction, and compelling performances. The actual premise of the story results in a very clever and rewarding twist. But the episode works throughout because the false pretense is just as engaging as the hidden reality. It’s pure Hitchcock, making it clear why he eventually entrusted Psycho to his television team.

8 Worst: O Youth And Beauty! - 6.3

In this episode, a middle-aged former athlete struggles with drinking and depression at his local Country Club. The performances are pretty impressive throughout, and Gary Merrill actually conjures some degree of sympathy for his protagonist. Of course, it’s ridiculous that the character’s name is literally “Cash.”

RELATED: 10 Best Horror Anthologies

That is shamelessly on the nose. And overall, the story is somewhat of a chore, with all that self-pity. The man has more money than some, a wife, and a child. This story is merely a lesson—Cash pays dearly for attempting to relive the old days. It’s a slow, dreary episode that just doesn’t generate the typical intrigue.

7 Best: Road Hog - 8.5

Once again, we revisit a well-motivated, sympathetic and clever plan of revenge. The episode begins with a mean-spirited salesman, which is actually an odd conceit. How would he make a living? Either way, he doesn’t much care for people passing him on the road.

The salesman delays a truck behind him, resulting in the death of an injured child. This catalyst serves up some fantastic intrigue, and when revenge is served well, it’s guiltily satisfying. This episode digs into the darkest impulses of humanity, regarding selfishness, grief and cruelty. It almost feels like an urban legend—carried by gifted actors, and great pacing.

6 Worst: The Hidden Thing - 6.1

This is quite a weaker entry, which is a shame, because the striking premise had enormous potential. In this episode, a man’s fiancée is randomly killed by a hit-and-run. The protagonist, Dana, is unable to recall any identifying information of the culprit. He’s ridden with guilt, until a complete stranger pesters Dana with promises of a memory recall solution.

It’s a brilliant premise, but the acting doesn’t support it. And even worse, the ending offers no resolution regarding the stranger, which is very strange. Usually, this show deliberately goes out of its way to summon a clever, unexpected answer. Sadly, the satisfaction of mysteries is defined by their solutions.

5 Best: The Glass Eye - 8.5

Jessica Tandy is probably best known for Driving Miss Daisy. But she also collaborated with Hitchcock in one of his most iconic films, The Birds. And before that, she delivered an absolutely stellar performance in this stunning episode, as a lonely old spinster. She pines for a traveling ventriloquist, but all is not as it seems.

RELATED: 10 Best Netflix Original Horror TV Shows

It’s a considerably poignant lesson about isolation, which older people can be no stranger to. But the episode also has an aura of tense, supernatural mystery about it. The story manipulates your familiarity with horror to subvert expectations. And at the same time, the tragic twist also warns how desperation and fantasy can lead to harmful, regretful ends.

4 Worst: Appointment At Eleven - 5.9

This dull episode is about a young man suffering an emotional breakdown at a couple bars. The promise is that something terrible will happen at eleven o’ clock, but the twist isn’t rewarding enough. There’s no sense of mystery, and the protagonist just doesn’t deliver a strong enough performance to carry consistent outbursts.

Such behavior can really get out of hand among lesser actors, and so it does. All of the actions are nonsensical until the big reveal. Per Hitchcock himself, the best suspense is generated when the audience knows more than the characters. Perhaps if we were informed, rather than leaving the end a mystery, the story would have played better.

3 Best: Man From The South - 8.7

This episode is headlined by two exceedingly iconic actors—Steve McQueen and Peter Lorre. The latter was actually in Hitchcock’s original The Man Who Knew Too Much. Both actors deliver convincing, engaging performances. McQueen’s character hits it off with a woman at a casino, played by his real-life wife.

RELATED: American Horror Story: 10 Biggest Twists & Reveals, Ranked

Their chemistry is correspondingly organic. Then, Peter Lorre does his “thing”, making an unsettling gamble—a convertible for a finger. All McQueen has to do is light his cigarette lighter ten times straight. The stakes are pretty high, and Lorre preys on the victim’s attempts to impress his new girl. It’s a simple premise, but appropriately morbid, suspenseful, and well-performed.

2 Worst: The Children Of Alda Nuova - 5.8

This episode was set in Italy, which was a strange decision. The show clearly didn’t have the budget for it, with unconvincing sets and actors. In this episode, a wanted criminal takes refuge in a small Italian city and meets his comeuppance. Consequently, the protagonist is totally unlikeable throughout, and we end up urgently waiting for his demise.

That doesn’t create any form of suspense since we need to be invested for that element. The signature twist is absent, as well, which is equally disappointing. The episode simply plods through, as if disinterested in its own story.

1 Best: The Right Kind Of House - 8.7

Interestingly enough, the highest-rated episode of the show is hinged on a mystery. Why does an old house-owner ask such an unreasonable price for her home? When someone is finally willing to pay up, the dark history of the residence is gradually revealed. Given that a murder occurred there, over a great sum of stolen money, the twist is somewhat telegraphed.

However, it also allows us to comprehend the chess match the main characters are playing with each other. The episode moves quickly, and the cast is fantastic. It essentially encapsulates everything desired of the show—crime, wicked people, revenge, deceit, and stellar acting. Not to mention, Hitchcock’s monologues are brilliant, as usual.

NEXT: The 10 Best Historical Cameos In Once Upon A Time… In Hollywood

source https://screenrant.com/alfred-hitchcock-presents-best-worst-episodes-imdb/

[2016-17creativewriting-blog]

I’ve been dreaming weird.

I can’t hear you, the cicadas are so loud.

Wind twisting the trees,

blowing through the open window and scattering my papers

across the floor,

around the house. The lighting bugs showing off, love.

Next to this river before a storm.

The stars in their hiding places

the morning pushing away the night, upstream

the unforgiven are pure didn’t mean much

didn’t mean you. Either the dew didn’t set

last night or the sun pulled it up before we woke.

Blank skies away in their own minds,

walking down the street.

They didn’t see you there, or worse,

not walking, not looking.

The river’s dam has been porous since

back when the dam didn’t do much and the river was high

like the times my dad talks about, when he was a kid and the old

man told my dad of when the river was higher even before then,

when the old man himself was a kid.

Old man, how did you die? They said you went

night fishing and the boat got away. You jumped in and drowned.

My grandfather fished for silversides on this river.

He said they found an old river boat floating downstream.

They kept it tied up and built a dock around it. Then the river

froze one winter and that spring it washed away.

Comparing water to past

shoes to strangers

landscape and time

weather and others

spiritual autobiography

short history of my time

Short history of time

landscape was never the subject matter

language was the subject, God.

You’re walking in the water and down the street

Your pants rolled up, your hair shorter

That old church in roan mountain,

Someone shot one of the men singing.

I don’t know why, it was back in the time of riding horses.

On the radio,

why does medication hurt this kind of hurt?

He said he stole all the rhinestones out of Carolina

Don’t look back. Turn the channel.

I lost myself in the corn field and yelled my way out.

The moonshine in the evening rising moon

circle my uninvited.

Hotel in the desert.

Strange dream.

Floating down the canals of cities I have never seen,

boats floating, for no apparent reason, just to say they can.

Water sloshing up the walls. Girls that sit and watch

from the boats and from the streets, their lizard boots,

black jeans with slits cut in the knees,

How to not find someone in this?

There was plenty to chase after, but not for you.

Stealing the evening from time once in our life,

while I spent half the summer looking for shoes.

Someone asked me if they should cut their hair and I don’t

know it’s just boring how all girls look the same.

Don’t be mean to yourself

came from the meanest one,

even worse to herself.

Blue, white morning

waiting for me now alone in the subtle way

people leave you in your sleep.

Mexico must be made for us to hide.

My mind keeps running over in a rusted pickup truck,

sun at noon drying me out.

Blue mist coming up after the sun

river disappearing in the summer

snapping turtles laying on the grass

shooting down when they see me coming out the other side.

That box of things you kept

with a name in it. I figured,

you wanted to be remembered.

I don’t know the fun in that.

Do I understand?

Car driving away from my self

I can’t be my own back seat driver,

with nothing to trade.

Dry south wind blowing in my face and through the long dead grass on this mountain

the sun coming down at the end of a picture book

I’ve been scratching against this paper the way a dog licks

water out of a bucket, or more like, the way a trout

rises to the surface, and lifts it’s upperhalf out of the water.

Nothing to trade with and little nothing at that.

Mad fingers in a haunted house on a bloody fret broad

sunset loser with a sensitizer

Pack up my laugh like drug I can’t stop.

All the sudden,

I don’t want it anymore.

I don’t feel like wearing shoes today.

All the sudden, the night is slipping into the morning

I packed my shades to leave.

Upper corner of the book with the theme standing on the roof

looking down through my hair

darkness after the evening redness in the west.

Black and white theaters

selmer glowing light flashing in my mind.

Slow tremolo.

Nashville cooking my mind. Summer heating the mornings

quicker as the leaves turn strange.

I think you’re more ready than anyone.

I think you’ll greet the end of the world like an old friend and hug his neck.

I think you’ll see him and if not,

you’ll die anyway.

Robbers stealing the night away like all my Beatles records I needed.

Not cool man, not cool.

I’d kick those kids in the neck,

if they didn’t exit so quickly any way.

Soundless and effortless, or at first, but not afterward maybe.

No, definite, like tying down a boat and losing your watch.

Signals.

The world I’ve been sitting in silence wasting

I wanted time to move slower

Rubber Soul tripping up my stairs

lost in Los Feliz with some kid, standing for double meanings.

When will you come back, again in the night for me to hug your neck like death on a train?

Love in strobe light black light. Nobody else came close.

I’m taking a nap for once in my life,

hang up the phone, pull your cover up tight.

Mascara in the rain—

margarita like lemonade.

Shaggy happenings.

Rain sleeping through the day and then coming to me in the night.

With umbrellas we went out in the mud and jumped off the ledges

dark cameras with no moonlight and no alibi.

What’s coming to me,

you or the rain?

Get in my truck and we’ll drive out to lost crystal canyons.

You were lost and I was chasing my own imagery,

where I found out where you got off,

now, do you wish you were lost, question-mark.

All my stunts still look like someone else anymore.

I got an apple watch and some Jack Daniels.

Looking out the window my neighbor

running the trash down the driveway, the legs of her pajamas

tucked in her shoes, hair in her mouth.

Walking to the tennis courts,

someone ran over a rattle snake,

tiny massasauga eyes looking up at me.

Sistrurus Cartnnatus Edwardsii

we’re just making it worse.

Fashion keeps biting its tail, because it tastes good.

What is Boxing Day? The day after Christmas,

good to know.

I’ve got itchy bones and I’m going to New York.

I’ve been told they’ve got something in the air,

intangible and sparky that makes October sunshine a little less or a little later.

The way the Tennessee river has something hotter than the same thing here,

a difference in dialect or handwriting.

Putting on makeup in the dark.

You’re not coming back again

standing all alone in the corner with his antennas up.

Mister I want to disappear like you.

I’m not paying taxes and I’m not talking anymore.

I’ve been dreaming to an Ex-Beatle album,

waking, hanging off the bed by 5 AM.

Funny smile running through my telegram

Break your feet heels.

Everything I’ve started, I’ve not liked

                                 I’ve stopped

I’ve got some aces up my sleeve.

Not waving, drowning.

Presentation of fashion and comp. of words.

Laying on your cot, but no train whistles and you’re not alone.

Is she going to impress me, art?

God or the measure of yourself by self infliction?

God. Everytime.

Tie my shoes.

I keep forgetting it’s Halloween-

         make noises.

Walking in the dark with too much grace,

us fools on parabellum,

reading Frankenstein commentary in the dark.

Someone rolled toilet paper around my truck.

I think it was Haden McMillan.

Tapping on my desk.

Snapping my fingers. Slow.

Looking out my least favorite window.

2nd grade I looked at my least favorite face for about 7 hours a day.

What satisfaction, what hot bowl of ice cream,

freezing just in time,

do people get from cutting the grass

growing from their dirt?

Third party insight … I guess.

Sprouting seeds wanting only an inch or two, but I look down and feel the half inch or quarter

between my toes. Yes … I would guess.

It is good.

I keep cutting my face in the shower, shaving.

If I didn’t shave in the shower I wouldn’t.

I saw a man wearing lipstick. No vanity.

Daylight savings and smoke this fall.

It rained Tuesday night and I woke with leaves on my windshield,

But the fires started again on Friday, on Holston Mountain and the smoke got worst on Sunday

night. It’s been so hot tomatoes grew until November.

Playing on the floor with your wheelchair in your mouth

says the one in muddy boots

Sleight of hand keep me guessing

there is something against the protagonist

off the streets

up in an apartment for the right lady to wander her way around.

World War II in photographs,

aesthetics of the dark, there’s nothing to lose when you can’t see

what you’re stumbling around.

The right eyes in the right place.

middle part girl with a diamond shaped face.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled

you’re here, but I’m a little lost

I’m, doing it and I still don’t understand.

It could change at any moment, but I don’t like thinking that.

I could run around, but instead

I sit at home and read the dictionary in the dark and change up my hair

She plays guitar with her left hand in aching pain.

Strip off your heels and put on your avocado mask.

I had a nightmare last night

you were in the paper again.

It sounds like a dirty chord in the minor bond girl’s Christmas song

Your mother’s a fish.

><(((“>

Guitar solo, you drink too much

Makes him drink just the same

Yabba dabba doo

I know the weather in heaven. To bed, early, with no dessert.

That’s what it’s like.

Making fun of the dead in all our free time.

I don’t want to live in a city and I don’t want to work.

Oh lord, how the evening falling,

the world standing still, watching a finger turning the lights

Low, just low enough to see, two eyes looking down on me.

White teeth grin, extra teeth.

I’m not enjoying the street lights so far,

when it should be dark, at least outside.

I want to be able to use a telescope.

That should be a measurement in find the luminance of darkness.

Enough lux for a telescope to function-

when buying a house one should take this into account.

I keep finding myself standing in corners,

Around the house, or in an unfamiliar room,

I’ll find myself there. And if there is some obscure corner in the space of all your things,

I’ll be there in your clutter of corner objects, if you’re looking, or if,

You find me, by chance alone.

Upside down, in your closet, I scratched my name into your wall.

I feel tall when I see you in there. And the only mark

I’ve made in this world was stretching my shirt and the construction of a gazebo

that has yet to be built, but all the elephants are sitting around, waiting.

I read a book of poetry by an old painter’s

widow, which broke my soul and left me

shaking in my skeleton.

How conviction came to be in a used book sale,

I decided was the result of the death of the previous

owner, which I’ve concluded must happen to us all, and certainly me.

I remember sitting on the floor in the kitchen,

Don’t call me. I hate you.

That’s funny.

What’s funny?

That’s sad.

What’s sad?

                                             The French

                                             Rock and roll

                                             Genius

Moved from Paris to L.A.

That’s not sad, that’s funny.

What’s funny?

The French rock and roll genius moved to L.A.

I’ve got something sad to make me

lie in the floor and form sentences that don’t end with punctuation, but run

on in the space around my head and hang there.

The washouts that think they’ve discovered a new sadness.

Rain forests, and the shortness of time.

I’m waiting for them to have something real to think,

I’ll have it all figured.

I’m a step ahead.

I’m across the river,

(8>/–< in my flying saucer.

I’ve laid on the floor for three weeks and now

I’m ready to wrestle an alligator.

Show your teeth and put your lippy on.

Hoffner guitars and slimy pizza,

I’m going to use the edge of my hand, cut out what I

don’t like looking at. What’s in my head that I don’t love?

Every spring my dad watched the trees fill up the top of Beck Mountain,

from the road, just a few inches of the top divisor between the sky and the new green leaves.

he took one or two added to mean summer is here and planted tomatoes, but he

doesn’t do that anymore.

He doesn’t look for the trees, he just knows when it’s ready, and time to plant.

Dodging bullets,

your rapid fire questionnaire.

I’ve been caught,

what a slippery slide guitar,

I knew there would be music but I had no idea the rhythm.

I knew you’d take me by surprise but you cheated the cards and still lost.

Looking from behind the eyes of a painting in a haunted house at the lounge

lizard holding onto the dark iced scotch,

Mister Goodnight behind the black and white telecaster,

howling at the moon from the bathtub to the bar.

Make sure you ain’t got a tail and you don’t look like a ghost.

Organ Halloween

something spooky in my rear view mirror.

Long finger nails, the little flames and sparky girls.

Pattie Boyd.

fingermonkey.

Grace Kelly.

Alexa Chung.

Preextinguishing the celestial bodies and flicking the cigarette out early.

Spitting at the camera. Old film—as long as I keep gravity downhill,

I’ll find something to write about.

As long as I keep inertia far away, I can find a girl.

I think so.

By the end of the novel I consider the antagonist to be immoral.

Summer again, hanging things out

mixing our potion under moonlight again.

Blonde and shirtless

fuzz French thin toast

18” Paiste 505 chaos and confusion

I’m the aviator, the fully qualified survivor.

My parents are arguing over a dog’s smile.

I’ve got sand in my hair and you’re in a movie star trance,

making noises in your sleep in the passenger seat,

you have no idea how much I drink in my sleep.

I wrote a letter in the desert

that I’m not going to send until Christmas

If you go to jail, I won’t bail you out, but I’ll come visit,

          I’ve got a hole in my pocket.

I’ve got some money hiding in the lining of my jacket.

I’m going to spend everything on deeply superficial

               put the queen out of power.

I’m turning into a natural actor

waking up in places different to those which I’ve fallen asleep to, and these strange sitcom scenarios

in which I play the part so well,

have no meaning at all and feels like a script you’d rather read than watch.

[floridaprelaw-blog]

Ahmaud Arbery and Racial Injustice: To Be Silent Is To Surrender

By Matthew Ginsberg, University of South Florida, Class of 2021

May 14, 2020

Nearly 100 years since Martin Luther King Jr. was born and many of the issues that became prominent during his lifetime continue to be locus points of concern in modern day America. Martin Luther King Jr. was a firm believer that “violence never brings permanent peace. We must always adopt means of nonviolence because our end goal is a community at peace with itself.” Arrested and detained on 29 separate occasions, MLK understood that no jail cell or imperious authority could keep him away from advocating for the overturn of systemic segregation and racism across the United States. To fight back with violent action would only further escalate tension and prevent progress. To create change, Martin Luther King Jr. understood that conducting civil protests was the most effective strategy to show southern states that African Americans were done tolerating discriminant policy, aimed purely to belittle differences in skin color. So if African Americans, who suffered from slavery and have every reason to resort to violent action, continuously pursue civil means of engagement, then why is it that white people use their privilege to vigorously attack those who want nothing more than a fair and equal playing field? 

Well, maybe that’s because many white people live in a utopian world, where they indulge in entitlement and believe they are immune from the law… and unfortunately, in many instances that seems to be the case. Ahmaud Arbery, a 25-year-old African American man, was brutally murdered in Brunswick, Georgia on February 23, 2020. Reporters have referred to the killing as a “modern- day lynching,” yet the two men accused of committing the attack have not been arrested or detained. According to prosecutors, the justification for allowing Gregory McMichael and Travis McMichael (the accused suspects) off free of charges is because in the eyes of the law, they did nothing wrong. Claiming to have acted in self-defense after confronting a threatening burglar, the McMichael duo painted a picture of propaganda that could not be further from the truth. But in a southern state that continues to suffer from racism, it is no coincidence that not a single charge has been filed after three months of investigating. Something to be cognizant of as the investigation continues is that there have been several cases like Mr. Arbery’s, where African Americans have been brutally murdered,with white perpetrators facing little to no punishment. From media favorites like Treyvon Martin to less popular, but every bit as influential cases like Kenneth Chamberlain and Sean Bell, we’ve seen clear consistency in the way the law handles black men being killed by white men (or by any race other than black); the perpetrators face little to no consequences.

Since slavery began back in the early 1600s, white people have been addicted to racism. From treating African Americans as property to brutally beating slaves when they failed to obey orders, white people have consistently gained satisfaction from abusing and dehumanizing innocent black people. Living in modern day America, where citizens claim to be accepting of one another, it is quite appalling that the criminal justice system continues to support systemic racism, that directly attacks African Americans. The key difference between the 1600s and present day is that technological innovation has created avenues of proof that force perpetrators of unnecessary violence to be held accountable for their actions… Well, that is unless of course the perpetrators are white, and the victim is African American. 

 Through video footage posted by an anonymous source, it was revealed that Ahmaud Arbery was jogging down a street, when a white pickup truck stopped in front of him. The video shows Arbery trying to run around the vehicle, until the suspects pull out their guns and aim them directly at the soonto be victim. Seconds later, an altercation breaks out and multiple shots are fired, resulting in the death of Mr. Arbery. According to a Glynn County police report, “Gregory McMichael first spotted Arbery on foot hauling ass down Satilla Drive and immediately thought he was a burglar targeting the neighborhood.” Allegedly, McMichael proceeded to arm himself with a .357 Magnum, his son grabbed a shotgun, and they quickly jumped into their pickup truck to chase after Arbery. 

The fact that Mr. Arbery was murdered in cold blood for supposedly “hauling ass down the road,“whichmade two ignorant white men suspicious of criminal activity, shows clear indications that the victim was racially targeted for a crime he did not commit. The investigation went on to state that “Mr. Arbery was not armed with a gun and did not possess any weapons at the time of the incident.” Although Arbery was a defenseless civilian on a mid- day jog, “Neither Gregory McMichael nor his son Travis McMichael have been arrested or charged.” It has been nearly three months since the homicide was committed, yet neither suspect has been arrested, let alone brought in for questioning. If racial roles worked in reverse that day, and two black men killed a white man for “hauling ass down the street” and “giving off the impression of being a burglar targeting the neighborhood,” then there is no doubt that arrests would have already been made. 

So why? Why is it that three months after the incident neither Gregory nor Travis McMichael have been arrested? The simple answer is because they are white... butbefore jumping to conclusions of race playing a role, it’s important to observe counter- claims that attempt to justify why neither suspect has been arrested. A district attorney for the Georgia Police Department spoke out stating that “obtaining an indictment poses a challenge because of the Coronavirus outbreak.” Well if it really posed that much of a challenge, then nobody would have been arrested since January 21, 2020 (which is when the first confirmed coronavirus case was found in the United States). Since January 21, “an estimated 200,000 citizens have been arrested and incarcerated, even though most of the crimes committed were not nearly as severe as second-degree murder.” Another counter- claim presented in the investigation was that “the case needs to be taken to a grand jury, before any decisions can be made on either suspect.” But, as lawyers of the Arbery family have already pointed out, the law clearly states that authorities do not have to wait for a grand jury to make arrests. This validates that racism played a role in this case and reaffirms the notion that Mr. McMichael and his son should have already been arrested and served time behind bars. 

Martin Luther’s King Jr. set the example. To create the change you seek, it’s about being a leader and demonstrating the power of speech, so that politicians have no choice but to listen. It’s about buildinga platform to help make a difference. Silence is the enemy and Martin Luther King Jr. proved that until his final breath, he would continue to speak with honor and courage, exacerbating a movement. His legacy continues to live on in modern day African American celebrities, who use their access to millions of people to be advocates of change. Since Arbery’s murder made national headlines, celebrities like Lebron James, have used their social media platforms to express empathy and anger toward a system that betrayed another helpless victim. In a tweet, James wrote “We’re literally hunted EVERYDAY/ EVERYTIME we step foot out of the comfort of our homes! Can’t even go for a damn jog man! Like WTF are you kidding me?!?!” Through media and celebrity exposure, the outcry from citizens around the country to put64-year-old Gregory McMichael and 34-year-old Travis McMichael behind bars has been incredible. With all eyes on the Georgia Police Department, it is only a matter of time before the McMichael duo gets the comeuppance they deserve. 

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Admin. “Georgia Shooting of Ahmaud Arbery Spurs Outcry.” 1010 WCSI, 7 May 2020, 1010wcsi.com/fox-politics/georgia-shooting-of-ahmaud-arbery-spurs-outcry/.

Butler, Lawrence. “Martin Luther King, Jr. Was Arrested 29 Times For Committing These ‘Crimes.’” Black History - Facts and Untold Stories About Black History, Culture, Inventions, and More, 2 Apr. 2008, www.blackhistory.com/2019/11/martin-luther-king-jr-was-arrested-29-times-crimes.html.

Christian, Tanya A. “Disturbing Video Released Depicting Ahmaud Arbery's Killing.” Essence, Essence, 6 May 2020, www.essence.com/news/video-released-ahmaud-arbery-black-georgia-jogger/.

Fausset, Richard. “Two Weapons, a Chase, a Killing and No Charges.” The New York Times, The New York Times, 26 Apr. 2020, www.nytimes.com/2020/04/26/us/ahmaud-arbery-shooting-georgia.html.

Olson, Tyler. “Georgia Shooting of Ahmaud Arbery Spurs Outcry.” Fox News, FOX News Network, 7 May 2020,www.foxnews.com/politics/georgia-ahmaud-arbery-outcry.

Photo Credit: www.smashnewz. com

Smalls, Bernard. “Modern Day Lynching: The World Reacts to Brutal Video of Ahmaud Arbery Being Hunted & Gunned Down.” Hip, The Latest Hip-Hop News, 7 May 2020, hiphopwired.com/playlist/ahmaud-arbery-hunted-and-gunned-down-in-video/.

[itsworn]

What it Means to Finish Pikes Peak + Results

With no small amount of effort, RJ Gottlieb and his infamous Big Red Camaro came back from the ashes to finish in Open Class with an 11:08.857 (placing Fourth), while PPIHC Time Attack veteran Kash Singh brought his street-driven (3,590 round-trip), twin-turbo 2017 Ford Mustang GT, supported by AMSOIL and Tire Rack, with a personal best of 13:22.636 after dodging a few goats and fog. Full results here.

“If you ain’t first, y’er last!” is probably the most well-meaning quotes in racing, but to the guys and gals who truly understand what sweat equity is while under a race car, that’s not what it’s all about. Some races are about pure survivalism, our Gear Vendors HOT ROD Drag Week, powered by Dodge, is one of them. More than climbing to the top of the podium, seeing the peak of the mountain is worth more weight in respect and satisfaction than just about anything else — winning is just the bonus.

It’s a logistical nightmare for everyone. Think of a nine-hour work day that begins at 2am and ends sometime after 11am — that’s how long we’re on the mountain just running cars during the four-day practice. A team has to figure out how to get their car up the hill (meaning, a smaller truck and trailer, or sometimes both; others drive their cars up), unloaded, prepped, practiced for about three runs, repacked, and off the main roadway by 9am (so that the Pikes Peak Highway can open to the public for the day).

Assuming your morning goes well (it usually doesn’t), you’ve still got to inspect and maintain the race car, but then it’s a third-shift work schedule at minimum. And if the day doesn’t go well? Stack that 9-to-5 work-day block on whatever madness you’ve got to fix for tomorrow’s practice (again, starting the day at 2am), because for many drivers there’s no choice in dropping practice days for fear of disqualification (be it meeting a minimum number of practice days for rookies or making sure you can run your day of qualifying). There’s more stories of 48-labor-hour days than there are of smooth ones, but it’s the blurred nights of masochistic work that mean you make it to race day.

This, of course, after you’ve gone anywhere from 3,000 to 8,000 feet higher in elevation from where you woke up  — in the thin atmosphere, the oxygen deprivation not only slows your body, but also your mind. Simple things, like “where’d the torque wrench go?” become SAT tests, and anything more complex turns into a brain train-wreck. Add up the weeks of stress coming into an event, and you have a recipe for some wrench-tossing shouting matches. But good race is dependant on a good team with good communication, and Pikes will test every bit of that and you might not even be cognizant of why you’re mad at the little things — and it might ruin friendships. It’s these bands of misfits, however cohesive, that must maintain a self-destructive machine over the course of the week in order to finish.

Then there’s the mountain itself: In just the 12.4-mile course, there’s 156 corners with varying elevation change, camber, and radius changes. Guys who see the newly-paved mountain as a home for their road-paint-scraping Time Attack or Prototype-class cars are rudely awaken when their belly pans crash into the rough pavement or lift tires through the corners due to the crazy articulation needed in highly-banked hair-pins (some racers use rally-inspired suspension combinations to get the travel they need). There’s no run-off, only rocks, guardrail, or sky — and there’s a whole lot more sky than there is of the other two.

If you have an off, it’s going to ruin your day — or worse — and if you need parts, you’re sourcing them in a mountain town that can barely find internet service, much less an oil pan to your Audi or a one-off intercooler that you just crushed after spinning at Boulder Park.

On any given day, you’re facing rain, hail, goats, marmots, deer, and fog, just to throw a wild car (or three) at you every day. Every green flag in practice, no matter how bad you need that seat time on the mountain, is throwing the how-can-this-all-go-wrong dice. The risks are the same as race day, by and large, but the reward is still waiting for you at 14,115 feet on Sunday.

Remember how you’re already starving for oxygen and sense when you unload the car? The engine and its cooling systems are struggling worse. Not only does air density affect horsepower, but it also affects how much heat can be shed from the car. With less air density, there’s less matter to absort heat with. This not only raises cooling temps to some hilarious levels, and often ones impossible to reach at sea-level, but also raises under-hood air- and braking-temps well-beyond what you’ll typically see. The catch-22 of Pikes is that the longer into the run you are, as the car builds heat in every system, the thinner the air gets with your increasing elevation. This can be an annoyance during practice or a back-stabbing surprise during race day — as we learned in 2017.

Right — if you haven’t crashed, overheated, or threaten to divorce someone you’re not even married to, then you’ve made it to race day. More than likely, by this point, you’ve inadvertently relied on some new friends to get here (call it the Pikes Family), and the weight of the week’s (month’s… year’s…) stress is certainly felt in the 5-point harness belts as they pull you into your seat. The past five days have felt like an endurance race in their own, you’ve maybe got 18 hours of sleep since last Sunday, and you’re inching closer and closer to that timing clock.

When the flag drops, it all stops.

The rest of the game is on the driver, from then on out. The foundation has been laid, but it’s time to see how far they can build their run up the mountain. Where stress has peaked, sleep has bottomed-out. The car, scarred from a week of practice and hustle, is right there with you. The best of course memorization and notes falls way to subconscious actions and mistakes, but as the scenery changes from dense forest to moon-like rockscapes, you know progress is being made. While the car grasps every oxygen molecule it can, your lungs are doing the same as you fight the wheel and wield the rest.

Nothing is exactly like it was in practice, and you don’t know if that’s from the everything-deprivation or the incoming weather, but fog begats a lot of hell from mother nature, and the imperative mission is to get to the top. Sometimes there’s a friend’s car pulled off safely, with them waving you on; but other times, you may not know why they’re upside down in a ditch, and you have to maintain concentration in the drive and trust in Pikes Peak’s safety crews (them being one of the most dedicated groups out there is no small relief).

Once at the Peak, you feel about as light as a cloud — there’s a group of racers who’ve all been through the same hell you have, and there’s cramped cozy little donut shop to huddle in as the day’s weather continues to roll in. Who won? Who knows — better yet, who cares? You’ve all just survived a hell week like no other. If you’ve made it to the top, you’ve proven more than a few things about yourself as a driver — and more importantly — how strong you and your team is. Not every week or run is perfect, and “… that’s Pikes for ya!” is how more than a few folk write the year off, but the race is more than just the time spent between green and checkered flags: eating those fourteen-thousand-foot donuts with your fellow racers means everything else from here on out is just a little bit easier, even if you can’t always have that Pikes family around you.

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