#and watching miles play it is like double homicide

[daddy-long-legssss]

an hour long compilation of miles playing the 'used to be my girl' riff

[therealvinelle]

As a casual Agatha Christie fan, I am delighted by that recommendation. Do you have any other favorite books from her?

Sure!

And Then There Were None Ten people go to an island, it does not go well. This one stands out in that it has a good adaptation!

Appointment with Death The murder is ingenius and all in this one, but what I particularly enjoy is how well Christie captures the power an abusive mother can have over her adult children, it's a dynamic you don't often see in fiction (at least not played out this way).

Cards on the Table M. Shaitana has a fantastic idea: he's going to invite four murderers and four law enforcers to his house for a night of bridge, and he's going to stir up as much drama as possible. Things do not go well for M. Shaitana. (Stay miles away from the Suchet adaptation)

Crooked House The patriarch of an affluent family dies, and his twelve-year-old granddaughter decides to investigate. I was the same age when I first read it, which made the ending uh interesting.

Curtain Poirot finds the perfect murderer.

Death on the Nile Makes the list for many reasons, it's such a classical Christie but also because nobody agrees with Jackie's life choices, not even Jackie.

Hallowe'en Party A child claims to have witnessed a murder, no one believes her. A few hours later she's found murdered. I mostly like this one for the utterly insane murderer. What a champ.

Murder on the Orient Express There's a murder on the Orient Express. (If you want a film version, the 1974 version is the best. Suchet's version is... melodramatic, I don't like its ending but it had a fantastic opening scene, while the Branagh version is an atrocity, do not watch.)

Ordeal by Innocence Five years ago Arthur Calgary nerded about penguins to some random guy then left for Antarctica the next day. It was great. Now he returns to England only to find that the man was Jacob Argyle, and he was accused of murdering his mother that night. He kept claiming his alibi was some penguin guy and could give very specific, identifying details that five years later make Arthur Calgary "yup, that's me!", but Calgary was in Antarctica at the time so he never came forward. And uh Jacob died in prison in the meantime. But, Calgary tells himself, the important thing is that Jacob was innocent, right? Right? The Argyle family, who had finally put this behind them only to learn that their brother was innocent and one of the remaining members did it, don't agree.

Sad Cypress Elinor Carlisle is sad. She's about to hang for a double homicide she might not have committed, but even without that she'd still be pretty miserable.

The Secret Adversary I felt I had to recommend a Tommy and Tuppence, and while I don't remember much of any of them I'll just recommend the first one in the series. Tommy and Tuppence books are more political thriller than the usual fare, great fun if you want to switch things up during your Christie binge. (Do not touch ITV's By the Pricking of My Thumbs, though.)

The Mirror Crack'd One of my all-time favorites and weirdly formative. Miss Marple is grappling with the realities of old age, and solves a murder along the way. It's more character heavy than many of Christie's books, people do the things they do because it is in their nature and they can't escape it.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles The very first one! It makes the list for that. And because if you plan to read Curtain, you should read this one first as it references this one a lot.

Towards Zero Following the logic that the murder isn't the beginning of the story, but rather the culmination of one, this story is building towards the zero point - the moment the murder will occur.

Honestly, anon, I'm just listing Christies I fondly remember, I can keep going but the post will just get unreasonably long. Go read Agatha Christie, she's great.

Hercule Poirot's Christmas and A Pocketful of Rye get special shoutouts because while I haven't read the books, the ITV adaptations were really good, the former particularly with the casting and the latter particularly with the way the reveal was done. Same goes for One, Two, Buckle My Shoe, haven't read it but the adaptation was great.

(Overall I'm ambivalent about ITV's adaptations, the Poirot series wanted to be a fairly light, feelgood show the whole family could watch after dinner, and while both series liked to change things from the books and overall make them more daytime television, the Miss Marple series changed a lot more than the Poirot series did. They both have a nasty habit of putting Poirot and Marple in stories they weren't originally, usually to the story's detriment (passive aggressive shoutout to By the Pricking of My Thumbs). It's annoying, though does make it hilarious that they couldn't put Poirot in Crooked House.

They're still entertaining and I don't turn off the TV when an episode is on unless it's one of the bad ones, but... well it's daytime television-ified Christie.)

[poisonpicked]

@ghostofaformerself is getting a serial killer wren starter because we love pain

every night since amelia died felt unending. some nights he spent in silence locked in his office, staring off into nothing or throwing himself into his work. other nights he could do nothing but cry and cry and cry until there was nothing left and he would sometimes be lucky enough to finally catch a couple hours of sleep. and then there were nights like this where, for someone unaware of the circumstances looking in, things appeared normal. he and rayne were lounging on either side of the couch as if amelia was still there to lay between the two of them like she always did watching tv. things were silent except for the ambient noises from the tv, dialogue, soundtracks, commercial breaks. if wren let his mind wander, he could almost pretend that things were normal and amelia was just in her room sleeping and he and rayne were just mindlessly watching tv until they too turned in for the night.

at some point, the show they're watching goes off the jingle of the local news plays. wren shifts from his lounging position to retrieve the remote from the coffee table in front of them, but the words that come from the news anchor stop him dead.

"we have some breaking news to bring to you tonight following the ongoing story of the double homicide that took place in an upscale apartment complex earlier this year. the body of the prime suspect in the crime, 25-year-old troy morrison, was discovered by hikers in the outskirts of the city. though the investigation is still ongoing, preliminary reports are suggesting that he was murdered at least two weeks ago and disposed of shortly thereafter in a wooded area miles outside of the nearest major highway or town. at this time, that is the only concrete information we have. law enforcement is requesting that the public—"

without even realizing it, wren had finally grabbed the remote and shut the tv off, leaving he and rayne in the silence of the apartment, the two of them only illuminated by the small nightlight plugged into the nearby wall. wren was trembling, the dark amber colored liquid in his glass swirling as he brings it to his lips. as the warm liquor burns its way down his throat, wren is surprised with the realization that he doesn't feel anything. no panic nor fear at the possibility that he could be caught now that the body was discovered and, more than that, not any degree of regret or disgust for what he had done, despite a lifetime of condemning those same actions.

glass now empty, he sets it down on the coffee table next to the remote and finally turns his gaze to rayne. "are you okay?" when he speaks, his voice is calm, almost troublingly so. of course, one could argue that there was no single emotion that anyone could expect him to feel in that moment — whether that be joy at the death of the man who killed amelia or anger that he never faced justice in front of a jury, or really any other emotion for any reason — but there was almost a complete lack of emotion in this voice, besides the slightest hint of concern for rayne's well-being.

[ging-pegger]

Ok heres a wild one : Pouf falling in love with a human

OH MY GOD I FUCKING LOVE YOU FOR THIS i think about this often, my toxic trait is thinking i would be his exception LMAO so here, ill give it my all ♡ i reccomend listening to elegy of the dynast while reading this ♡ warnings: mild gore, a bit of a stray from canon word count: 774 (a little short i know, i apologize)

inside the royal palace of east gorteau, a beautiful yet melancholic song echoed throughout, being played on a violin.

a tall and lanky figure danced throughout the room as he played, his shadow flickered on the wall as he moved, his thoughts were running a mile a minute, and he was overwhelmed by an emotion he didn't know the name of.

at the conclusion of his melody, he sat the violin against the wall, and left the bow beside it. out of frustration he pushed open the double doors and stepped out onto the balcony, the drapes now fluttered in the wind which rushed into the palace via the open doors.

he leaned against the guard rail, looking out to the empty palace yard. no matter what he did the thought of this mysterious human consumed him.

earlier, he had been making his rounds around the palace and surrounding territory when he had seen a human lingering in the nearby wooded area.

he should have notified the king, perhaps even killed this tresspasser, but he didnt. Instead, he found himself lingering above, watching their every move, becoming infatuated with them. they consumed his brain. he knew they were an enemy, but he was so taken by their beauty.

weeks later and this human still flooded shaiapouf's thoughts. everything he did he wondered when or if he would see them again, whether or not they would be fearful of him, or if they were a human whom wanted to cause harm to him and the king.

however when he least expected it, that face reappeared again.

shaiapouf had once more been playing his violin, he had been neglegent to the palace, and was caught unawares by unknown intruders in the palace, once his attention had been brought back out from his fantasies by the same human he had seen prior, he could hear what sounded to be youpi fighting with unknown entities on the stairwell.

shaiapouf froze, looking into your eyes. they looked malicious and homicidal, he recognized that look. it was in the eye of the king when he killed that child weeks ago.

you had been sent to the NGL with knov and morel by the hunter's association to eradicate the chimera ants. you were not a beast hunter, the preservation of species did not matter to you, in fact, after hearing the heinous acts made by these monsters, you could care less about them entirely.

you had been hoping to find the king, but had stumbled upon one that seemed to be a royal guard, there was no doubt this ant was not fit to be cutthroat, or at least in your eyes.

"where is your king?" you knew he wasn't likely to give up this information so easily, but it was worth a try anyhow.

"i'm afraid i can't volunteer that information to you." shaiapouf felt something inside him shatter, he knew it was too good to be true.

he had hoped that just maybe, the human he found could be as special to him as komugi was to the king. but it was nothing like that. you wanted to kill his king, and he was now faced with a dilemma.

protect his king, or try to form a relationship with this human he knew so little about?

he had made up his mind, he was not going to let you harm the king, his beloved, generous king. no harm would come to him while he wast there, it was his soul purpose.

what he would give to get to know you inside and out, know the compassion and the flaws of human nature, but it was simple. he was born to protect his king, and he would do so until his dying breath.

however unfortunately for him that would be soon, he charged at you, and everything went into autopilot from that point forward until eventually a gutwrenching sound of tearing flesh.

a blue viscous liquid sprayed everywhere , covering every surface in the room, and from afar he could see his body laying on the floor, chest flush with the cement.

he had been decapitated...

his body had been severed from his head.

that blue liquid was his blood. it was different than the blood he had seen come from humans, it didnt smell sweet to him. It made him sick, well if he could have felt sick, he would have.

in that moment he wished that within his species that death came immediately. he envied humans, yet at the same exact time , cursed them.

how could something so captivating and beautiful cause such destruction and harm to his body?

[whirlybirbs]

“ so , how does it feel to know me? a blessing , isn’t it? “ with hopper? please!

—-  SO MUCH FOR THAT  ;

summary: hopper interrupts a home invasion. cue the bullets, russians, injuries, freak-out’s... everything you didn’t want. date night, ruined.word count: 2.2kpairing: hopper x teacher!reader, from my fic moonrise radio.a/n: we love some good ol’ action to further the drabble plot machine.

Hopper knows something’s not right -- he can feel it in his gut, sitting there like hot, molten piece of lead that makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand upright. 

It’s a feeling he’s never really gotten used to. Even after Vietnam, even after all those years working homicide in New York, even after The Upside Down, the feeling still makes his skin crawl. It’s one that can only really be described as dread -- a deeply-rooted recognition of something being wrong. 

He knocks on your front door again, only to be met with silence.

His watch reads 6:43pm.

If Jim knows anything, it’s that you’re not standing him up -- especially when you’d excitedly accept his offer for the ride to the drive-in’s. You’d been nothing but honest and kind and sweet and pretty and an absolute dream, and even though doubt bites at his mind, Jim Hopper pushes it far away.

He decides to snoop.

Snooping is what he does best. 

He leans, peaking around through the front window and spies nothing out of place, really. The lights are off, as if no one’s home, but your faithful jet-black Camaro sits a few feet behind him in the drive-way to contradict that possibility... unless someone came along and picked you up? 

Hm.

Then, something catches his attention.

Light flickers, blue and inky black, across the window in nothing more than a passing reflection. 

Over the couch, your television sits.

It’s on.

Jim chews his lip. 

He has two options in that moment -- walk away, decide this was maybe never meant to be, go home, and order take-out from King Chef. Or, he can reach for that doorknob and hope you don’t bear spray him again. 

He exhales, planting his hands on his hips. 

Then he sees the boot mark right below the deadbolt.

His eyes widen in realization.

There’s no question in his mind when he doubles back to his Blazer and pulls out a handgun from the center console -- he’s fast to check off the safety and pull the hammer back; he bites his tongue, wishing he’d just trusted his fuckin’ gut from the get-go.

The door is unlocked.

It swings open without a sound.

The T.V. is loud -- blaring some MTV music video that echoes off the walls of the house. It’s late now, nearly 7pm, and the sun has crept below the hills of Hawkins and drenched your home in all types of shadows. Jim’s footfalls are quiet as they can be as he raises his gun and begins to move through the home.

He stops short at the couch, noting the remote on the floor feet away and the mess of blankets dragged from the pastel pink sofa. 

In front of the television, that old radio you’d first heard those faux-Russian communique's on lays. 

It’s smashed to smithereens.

Hopper turns, then, and sees you in the kitchen.

Your eyes are pulled wider than a mile in fear as you rock in the high-back chair, trying desperately to scream something, but it comes out as nothing more than a muffled cry. There’s a tight strip of black duct tape along your mouth, a matching strip across your torso and hips. 

If there’s anything Jim’s learned from moments like these, it’s that your brain never really understands what’s going on until it’s too late.

In his circumstance, he doesn’t realize what’s going on until he’s being charged by a man a little smaller than himself, decked in all black, screaming in a language that sets off thirty thousand red flags in his head. He sees the knife first -- Jim doesn’t even have time to react when he’s tackled into the sofa. 

His gun clatters across the foyer, sliding onto the patterned linoleum of your kitchen floor.

Your eyes widen, trained on the handgun sitting feet from you. 

This has not been a good hour.

When the doorbell had rung at 5:30, you’d excitedly chirped that Hop was early for your date -- not that you minded -- before you were suddenly being forced backwards at knife-point by two men screaming in Slavic tongues. 

They’d then, unceremoniously, searched the house for that damn radio after binding you to the kitchen chair and interrogating you about some Energy Department in the most broken English you’ve heard in a while.

On MTV, Bonnie Tyler’s Holding Out For a Hero begins to play.

And now, here you are, hopping up and down in this fuckin’ chair, trying to get closer to the gun as the two grown men in your living room recreate Street Fighter and make quick work on destroying all of your furniture. 

Almost there.

Sqreeak, sqreaak, sqreaak. 

Jim takes a nasty upper cut to the jaw and hits the floor so hard the whole house shakes. 

You freeze, panic lighting up in your chest as the assailant leaps onto him -- in a well-timed moment of mis-calculation, you forget about the lip in the kitchen and suddenly, you and the chair are toppling to the ground. The sound is loud, followed by your muffle groan of pain, and it sends the Russian’s head snapping to the sound. 

Jim plants a hard kick to the guy’s groin, sending him into a feeble curl as Jim rolls away, hair wild and nose bleeding profusely. He’s fast to punch the guy while he’s down, absolutely wailing on him.

You’re kicking now, trying to get Jim’s fuckin’ attention -- and only once the man before his feet has stilled completely that Hop rises from the ground and moves into the kitchen, knife in his hand.

“MOO!” is the sound coming from your mouth as Hop plucks you and the chair up, squinting at you, “MERE’S MOO!”

His lips part and his brows knot.

“Moo...?”

You serve him a look and he’s fast to rip the duct tape from your nose and mouth, wincing slightly as you curse and hiss, eyes ringed with make-up from the tears that had gathered there -- you speak so quick, Jim has to gawk.

“There’s two,” you gasp for air, “Jim, Jim, get my hands free --”

“You gotta be fuckin’ kidding --”

He saws at the tape. 

Then the footsteps start from the stairwell. 

You both freeze, gazes connecting.

Back door, you mouth.

Jim nods.

You claw at the tape on your ankles, jaw clenching as you stand -- Jim’s hands are on you in an instant, worry lighting up his face; he’s quick to note the black bruise forming around your left eye and up your cheek. 

You’re fast to snatch up the gun by his feet and hand it to him, though, moving past the fear in your chest and gesturing for him to follow you towards the back sliding door. 

“дерьмо!” you hear from the living room, rolling from the larger Russian’s tongue in a carnal bellow, “вернитесь сюда!”

You, then, unceremoniously shove Jim Hopper off your back deck.

You follow, hitting the soft grass with a groan as gunfire suddenly lights up the back of the house and the windows shatter, raining down through the slats in the wood -- for a moment, you both roll in pain; but it doesn’t last. 

“Time t’ go!”

“No shit, Jim!”

He snatches your hand, dragging you from the grass and around the house -- you both break into a sprint towards Hop’s cruiser, ignoring the man who’s now in chase.

Jim muscles the gun from his waistband and chucks you the keys. “Drive!”

You catch them, by some grace, and fumble to find the ignition key on the ring as Jim lays down fire that seems to not phase the huge Russsian coming right at him in a ski-mask. 

“Shit, shit, shit shit shit shit, shit shit --”

“Ты мертв!”

“FUCK OFF!”

Your hands are shaking, keys jingling as you try each and every fucking one. Anger flares in your face, eyes darting to Jim on the front lawn popping off rounds.

“Jim, what key!?”

“GOLD!”

You finally get the key, the Blazer roars alive.

The second Jim’s ass is in the seat, you floor it. 

You skirt around the cul-de-sac as gunfire ricochets off the side of the car, your own scream fading into the peel-out as Jim curses and flies into the side of the door. An apology flies from your lips as you put the pedal to the metal and fly out of your street, onto the main road. 

Jim’s twisted around the back of the seat, eyes set on the fading house and figure standing on your front lawn. He doesn’t even try to follow.

“Where should I go?” you ask, panic hitched in your tone.

“Starcourt,” Jim barks without hesitation.

“What?!” you cry, flinging your head around to look at him with an exasperated look, “What the hell do you mean, Starcourt?!”

“Just,” Jim seethes, jaw set tight, “Trust me --”

“You said --” you screech, finger raising as you head down the main straight in town at 80mph, “You said that... that those communications are fake!”

“Yeah,” Jim snaps, “They are!”

“Oh, okay, great, Jim, then why don’t you explain to me why the fuck I was just bound and gagged in my own kitchen! By two men! WHO DON’T EVEN SPEAK ENGLISH --”

“Murph’, calm down --”

“No! No, nope, no,” you shove his arm, “Do not tell me to calm down, Jim Hopper --”

His mouth snaps shut and he turns, sitting forward and exhaling tightly through his nose. His eyes flutter shut as he speaks, trying to imitate the same calmness he wish he had.

“I’m sorry.”

“I am freaking out --” your voice cracks and you regret it immediate, facade of fearlessness cracking under the sudden dive in your adrenaline. 

Jim’s face softens, finally getting a good look at you. You look like hell. He’s sure he does, too, after the royal beat down he was served by Svedka in your living room. His hands move, carding through the blood matted tendrils by your temple. There’s a mean gash along your hairline that’s slowed up. The blood flakes away and Jim can’t help but wish he’d fuckin’ got to your house sooner. 

“Hey, hey,” he calls, voice soft, “Look at me.”

You blink his way. You shrink.

The tears making your eyes swim break his whole heart on sight. Your lip quivers. Jim feels like he’s been punched in the gut. When you speak, your voice is as meek as a mouse.

“... That was really scary.”

“It’s over,” Hop says confidently, “Over. We’re going to go see the people who can make sure it’s over.”

“The Scoops Ahoy people?” you ask weakly through an attempt at a laugh.

Jim exhales softly in a chuckle, leaning to press a firm kiss to the side of your head. “Yeah, sweetie, you could say that.”

The rest of the ride is relatively quiet, filled by your sniffles and Jim turning to peek over his shoulder ever few minutes. When you finally pull up to the bustling Starcourt, you’re surprised when Jim gestures to the back and points.

“Head to the loading area.”

You squint, but follow the direction.

Rounding the parking lot, you see hordes of folks coming in for some Sunday evening shopping -- lone teens and families alike. The neon of the store fronts bounce off the windshield in slivers of purple and green. 

Suddenly, as if out of no where, a gate appears around the back of the building and you’re pulled to a stop by four guards in Starcourt Mall gear. Jim’s face pulls into a heavy frown as he rolls down his window, flashing some sort of identification in his fold-out wallet. 

“I’m here to see Owens, it’s an emergency --”

“And who the hell is she?”

Jim’s eyes narrow. You wring your hands on the steering wheel.

“... Officer Collins, is it?” Hop says slowly, “Do you see the bullet holes in the side of my cruiser?”

Silence flies between the four of them.

“And do you see the injuries on both myself and the lady driving?”

More silence.

“And did you not hear me say,” his voice raises an octave, vein in his neck popping as he begins to scream, “That this is an emergency?!”

The gate lifts with a BRRZZZZT. 

And that’s how you find yourself in a very sterile interrogation room, pacing back and forth and back and forth for what feels like hours. It’s horrible -- the lights buzz and flicker fast enough to give you an even worse headache than the head injury does and it’s cold and you just wanted to go see a damn movie with Jim. Maybe kiss a little, fool around, have fun. 

But, no. Here you are.

Finally, after an hour and a half, the door opens mid-conversation.

Jim is looming behind an older man.

They both look apologetic.

“And this must be our new Bond Girl, huh?”

“In the flesh,” Jim rumbles, “Murph’, this is Dr. Sam Owens. He’s a friend.”

You narrow your eyes. The man offers his hand and you shake it, speaking slowly. “I guess Jim and I are gonna miss our double feature, huh?”

“I’m afraid so, Miss Murphy,” he says, gesturing to the table and chair in the center of the room, “Now, why don’t you tell me about those men that broke into your home?”

He pulls the chair out for you.

You sigh.

This is going to be a long night. 

So much for that date.

[racingtoaredlight]

RTARL’s 2020 NFL Season Week 10 Extravapalooza

This week’s NFL slate features 5 early games and 6 late games, and allow me to add my voice to the chorus of those asking “Why can’t it be like this EVERY week?” Is it really THAT necessary to try to herd viewers to whatever game Romo or Aikman are calling? Honestly, I hope this is one of the first issues tackled by the incoming Biden administration. If nothing else, a more even game dispersal would make for a more visually symmetrical Extravapalooza, which is a good enough reason for change in and of itself, if you ask me.

My picks are in BOLD, and the lines come to us courtesy of our friends at Vegas Insider. I use the “VI Consensus” line, which is the line that occurs most frequently across Vegas Insider’s list of sportsbooks. Your sportsbook of choice may offer a different number, and if you’d like my opinion on said number A) you are insane, and B) leave a comment below and I’ll try to answer at some point before things kickoff today.

EARLY GAMES

Houston Texans at Cleveland Browns (-4)

Much like Cleveland’s last home game (a 16-6 Week 8 loss to the Raiders), this game is going to be played in extremely shitty conditions, with strong winds and rain expected. The Browns were TERRIBLE offensively in that Raiders game, but this week they’re getting both studly RB Nick Chubb and G Wyatt Teller back, which should be huge for their run game. Facing the Texans’ worst-in-the-league rush defense won’t hurt either. The wind is likely to rob us of the majesty provided by DeShaun Watson-to-Will Fuller bombs, which is a real bummer both for us as viewers and for the Texans as a football team attempting to win games.

Washington Football Team at Detroit Lions (-3)

The Football Team has a pretty good pass defense as it is, and this week they get a somewhat scuffling Matthew Stafford leading a Kenny Golladay-less Lions offense. If the Detroit braintrust were smart, they’d run the ball a bunch and D’Andre Swift would get the bulk of these carries. The Detroit braintrust is not smart. Alex Smith is starting this game for Washington and I hope he makes it through without getting his leg pulverized into ham salad.

Jacksonville Jaguars at Green Bay Packers (-13.5)

Here we have another game expected to impacted by high winds and precipitation. Fun! I’m putting my faith in Mother Nature and Jacksonville’s very decent run game conspiring to keep this one within 2 TDs. The fact that Green Bay’s best defensive player, CB Jaire Alexander, is unlikely to play certainly helps.

Philadelphia Eagles (-4) at New York Giants

The Eagles are getting RB Miles Sanders, DT Malik Jackson and LT Jason Peters back from injury for this one, and they might also get RT Lane Johnson back. This is after getting good-looking rookie WR Jalen Reagor and TE Dallas Goedert back recently. Philadelphia is getting healthy, and it really seems like they should pull away from their truly horrific division mates as the season winds down.

Tampa Bay Buccaneers (-6) at Carolina Panthers

Man, Tampa Bay got their asses WHOOPED by New Orleans last week. Does that mean they were extra motivated in practice this week and they’ll be super fired up to redeem themselves with a big win on Sunday, or was their performance an on-field manifestation of a locker room beset by strife and disharmony beginning a downward spiral that will last the rest of the season and cause everyone involved in the team’s various splashy roster moves to regret their choices? It’s probably the former, but the latter would be immensely entertaining for me, personally. 

LATE GAMES

Buffalo Bills at Arizona Cardinals (-2.5)

I don’t want to say that Arizona’s defense is good, because they really aren’t, BUT they do have a bunch of ball-hawking, risk-taking guys in their secondary that are likely salivating at the thought of snagging one of Josh Allen’s patented “Fuck it, I’m goin’ deep!” attempts. I’d like the Bills’ chances a whole lot more if their defense was playing anywhere near the level they were at the previous couple of seasons, but for whatever reason they’ve been thoroughly average at best here in 2020. This game has so many wildly entertaining ingredients that I can’t imagine it being a dud regardless of which way it goes.

Denver Broncos at Las Vegas Raiders (-3.5)

The Broncos have been plagued by slow starts this season, and have found themselves down double-digits at halftime in 5 of their last 7 games. The Raiders are seemingly built explicitly to play with a lead, so if it happens here they should be able to grind the injury-riddled Denver defense into dust with RB Josh Jacobs as the game clock, as well as the life of anyone watching, dispassionately bleeds away.

Seattle Seahawks at Los Angeles Rams (-2.5)

The Rams are 5-3, but their wins have come against the 4 NFC East teams and the Bears. They are true bumslayers. On top of that, it genuinely appears that Jared Goff cannot make any decisions on the field without Sean McVay barking them into his helmet, which is truly hilarious. Fortunately for Goff, McVay, and the Rams, this week they get to run it up against a Seattle team missing the top 3 CBs from its already cataclysmically shitty defense. Russell Wilson, D.K, Metcalf, and Tyler Lockett are great, but the L.A. defense is no joke and I think they’ll be able to prevent Russ from cooking enough to feed everyone. That analogy doesn’t even make sense, let’s just move on.

Los Angeles Chargers at Miami Dolphins (-1.5)

Oh hell yeah, we’ve got ourselves quite the sexy young QB matchup here. The Fins are smoking hot right now, having won 4 in a row and 5 of their last 6, and it’s long past time for me to move them from  “Frisky” to “Actually Good” in my personal Power Rankings. The Chargers will have G Trai Turner on the field for the first time since Week 2, and T Bryan Bulaga appears to be good to go after leaving last week’s game with an injury. This will be very helpful for QB Justin Herbert, imo, especially against Miami’s 8th-ranked pass defense (according to Football Outsiders). Common sense says that Miami should be the pick, but my desire to see Herbert actually WIN one of the rollercoaster games his team constantly finds themselves in has commandeered this selection. This game will be a good place to park your eyeballs.

San Francisco 49ers at New Orleans Saints (-9.5)

I’m trying not to overreact to a single game, but I can’t get past how thoroughly the Saints wrecked the Buccaneers last week. In particular, their defense was GREAT. If they’re gonna start locking teams up anywhere near that completely on a consistent basis, all of a sudden they’re firmly in the mix to win it all. I think they keep things rolling defensively against a Niners offense missing its top 2 RBs, its All-World TE, and its #1 WR, all with a backup QB at the helm.

Cincinnati Bengals at Pittsburgh Steelers (-7)

I’m picking the Bengals based on nothing more than the Steelers’ insistence on keeping practically every game close. For as good as Pittsburgh is, the only blowout win they have this season is a 38-7 beatdown of the Browns. They’ve allowed teams like the Giants, Broncos, and most recently the Garrett Gilbert-led Cowboys to hang around for a full 60 minutes, so I don’t see why my man Joe Burrow can’t keep his squad in it til the end.

SNF: Baltimore Ravens (-7) at New England Patriots

I have visions of Baltimore racing out to a lead early and Cam Newton and the Pats offense trying to play catch-up against a good defense for the bulk of the game. It’s not a pleasant thing to think about and I don’t enjoy it. I think that’s what’s gonna happen, though. New England hilariously has 17 players listed as Questionable headed into this one. We might get N’Keal Harry back, though!!!

MNF: Minnesota Vikings (-3) at Chicago Bears

Man, this is a tough one. One one hand, inexplicably getting trounced by a team that’s lost 3 in a row and will be without its starting RB and possibly its #1 WR would be an extremely Vikings thing to do. On the other hand, the Bears are currently being quarterbacked by a man whose play drove Troy Aikman to the brink of homicidal insanity a week ago. I guess I’ll go with the team who can complete forward passes at a reasonable clip, but I don’t feel that great about it. A fun wrinkle to this game is that due to the aforementioned absence of Chicago’s primary ball-carrier, Cordarrelle Patterson is expected to get extended work out of the backfield as a runner. This may really only be exciting for myself and Soused, as we’re longtime Cordarrelle fanboys. WE WILL BE VINDICATED.

Last Week’s Record: 4-9 (Shit!)

Season Record: 58-63-4

[crowdvscritic]

round up // OCTOBER 20

Hubie Happy Halloween, friends! I’m not sure what October’s been like for you, but here’s a quick summary of my month:

Re-acquainting myself with my collection of (mostly gray and navy blue) sweaters

Ordering an embarrassing—like, I lost count kind of embarassing—number of lattés

Alternating between enjoying the ombré of the fall trees and cozying up with the first logs in the fireplace

Revisiting all-time favorite stories like The Scarlet Pimpernel by the Baroness Orczy, the extended Lord of the Rings movie trilogy, all three seasons of Stranger Things, the 1995 Pride and Prejudice miniseries, and several Harry Potter movies

In short, this month has been all about finding joy in the little things, which is the essence of our search for coziness in autumn. Since these monthly Round Ups only focus on pop culture that’s new to me, that means this month’s list is shorter than usual, but many of the movies and shows feel like warm blankets I’ll return to again. Though, as you’ll see, a few are not…

October Crowd-Pleasers

Enola Holmes (2020)

A movie so charming, I’m on the verge of rewatching even though it’s only been a few weeks. (It’s a rare occurrence for me to return to something so quickly.) It lets a stacked cast of performers known for dramatic roles flex their comedic muscles, including Henry Cavill, Sam Claflin, and—most spectacularly—Millie Bobby Brown. You can read my full review of the new Netflix movie at ZekeFilm. Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 8/10

Murder, She Wrote (1984-96)

This entry comes with a bit of an asterisk* because Kyla and I watched this murder mystery procedural in 2018 for our podcast, SO IT’S A SHOW? At the time, I was open to watching more episodes, but it was never so easy as with the launch of the Peacock streaming service. All 12 seasons are available in the free tier, and I never thought a show about murder—and in the procedural format, which I don’t typically love—could be so enjoyable. Angela Lansbury’s mystery writer/amateur detective Jessica Fletcher has become a non-ironic role model for me—I aspire to be as gracious, intelligent, humble, uncynical, and assertive. Also, who says I’m not aspiring to spending my 60s writing, traveling, and solving crimes while wearing a fabulous collection of cardigans?

The Return of SNL

When Saturday Night Live returns in the fall, I always squeak out during the premiere’s opening credits, “My friends are back!” It’s a silly thing to say about an ever-rotating group of people I’ll never meet, but when you’ve been watching Kenan Thompson do his thing for close to two decades, you can only be delighted to see him after months of absence. While the “At Home” episodes this spring were a treat I didn’t think possible, it’s even better to have my friends back at it in their usual environment with the high production value of Studio 8H. These were the skits that made me laugh the most month:

“VP Fly Debate Cold Open,” mostly for the Jeff Goldblum tribute (4602 with Bill Burr)

“New Normal” (4602)

“Dr. Wenowdis on Weekend Update” (4602)

“Enough Is Enough,” a bit which explains my feelings about almost all celebrity political takes (4602)

“Canadian News Show” (4603 with Issa Rae)

“Election Ad” (4604 with Adele)

“The Bachelor” (4604)

For more on how this season has come together back in the studio, you can read the Vulture interview with Lorne Michaels about it.

Coach Carter (2005)

A based-on-a-true-story movie about an unconventional basketball coach (Samuel L. Jackson) who wants his players (including a baby Channing Tatum) to succeed on more than just the court. It’s a straight-down-the-middle story that shares DNA with many of the inspiring sports movies that came out in the wake of Remember the Titans, but it’ll scratch that itch if that’s what you’re looking for. Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7.5/10

Double Feature — Early ’90s Halloween Classics: Edward Scissorhands (1990) + The Addams Family (1991)

Both of these movies start at Christmastime, but both are spooOOooky movies in their bones. Not all Halloween movies are Tim Burton movies, but all Tim Burton movies are Halloween movies, including Edward Scissorhands (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 8.5/10). Tim Burton is hit-or-miss for me, but I was pleasantly surprised at how moving this idiosyncratic fairy tale was. Johnny Depp is at his most tortured as a Frankstein’s monster whose inventor (Vincent Price) gave him scissors for hands, Dianne Wiest finds the heart and comedy in your local Avon representative, and Winona Ryder is a queen. The Addams Family (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7/10) might be even more idiosyncratic. I’ve never watched the TV series, so it took me a minute to warm up to its twisted sense of humor (“Are they made from real Girl Scouts?”), but once I did, I started laughing as often as my nostalgic parents.

The Magic iPod

A nostalgia kick you didn’t know you wanted. I have no idea why or how this site exists, only that it brings me joy. Try mashing up “Ms. New Booty” with “A Thousand Miles,” “Get Low” with “Float On,” “Tipsy” with Bring Me to Life,” “99 Problems” with “All Star,” “Country Grammar” with “Complicated,” or any other combo that brings your favorite songs from your first iPod together.

Hubie Halloween (2020)

You know those dumb movies that just hit you in the right spot? Adam Sandler has a knack for those kind of movies, and Hubie Halloween fills the void of Halloween fun you’re probably missing this year. Sandler plays Hubie, a not-very-bright do-gooder with a very big heart whose self-proclaimed purpose is to keep everyone safe in his hometown of Salem. But there are spooOOooky threats on Halloween night this year, and only Hubie and his thermos (which rivals a Swiss army knife in all its functions) will be able to save it. Don’t miss it you’re like me and love a good celebrity cameo and a Hollywood-designed Halloween costumes. Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 6/10

Double Feature — Are We Sure These ‘80s Movies Are for Kids? Gremlins (1984) + Who Framed Roger Rabbit (1988)

After seeing Gremlins (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 7/10), I know why parents were clamoring for the PG-13 rating—this movie may be short on the scares for adults, but I have no idea what I’d do for a tyke not expecting the cuddly Gizmo to spawn homicidal ghouls. In what may be the most ‘80s movie I’ve watched yet, we get a legit bonkers story, both in premise and execution—and it might also be a brilliant and scathing satire of consumerism? Perhaps another spoof of consumerism: Who Framed Roger Rabbit (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 8.5/10), which creates an impressively specific world that’s part animation, part live action. It’s a parody of classic film noir with no shortage of innuendo or just plain weirdness—its artistic achievement makes it worth watching, but since when have kids cared much about any of those things?

Double Feature — So-Bad-They’re-Good Action Flicks: Gone in Sixty Seconds (2000) + Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (2012)

If Gremlins is one of the most ‘80s movies, then Gone in Sixty Seconds (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 5.5/10) is one of the most Nicolas Cage movies. He’s a good guy caught on the wrong side of the law in a ridiculous plot engine where he has to steal 50 cars in less than a week. His pent-up frustration lives just below the surface, and his performance is so committed, you’re not sure if he’s knows  the dialogue and plot twists are zany—in fact, you’re not even sure he’s acting at all. Also committed to whatever the heck it’s doing is a movie that’s exactly what it sounds like, Abraham Lincoln: Vampire Hunter (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 6/10). An over-qualified cast (Mary Elizabeth Winstead, Anthony Mackie, Rufus Sewell, and more) just goes for it in a story with the premise that Abe Lincoln fought oppression caused by slavery and by immortal blood-suckers. I think my favorite part is when a vampire throws a pony at our 16th president—I couldn’t make this up if I tried.

October Critic Picks

Triple Feature — ‘60s Horror Classics: Village of the Damned (1960), The Haunting (1963), Night of the Living Dead (1968)

In Village of the Damned (Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 8/10), everyone in a British village passes out at the same time for hours, and weird events continue for years, centering around a mysterious group of children. In The Haunting (above, Crowd: 8/10 // Critic: 9/10), a group is studying events at a haunted house, but it may be the house that’s in control. And in Night of the Living Dead (Crowd: 8.5/10 // Critic: 9/10), the zombie genre dawns with a group huddled away from the undead in a farmhouse. All of these are thoughtful, well-made films, but I recommend them with asterisks* because I’ll never watch any of these groups again. The Haunting made me scared of bumps in the night as I was falling asleep, and Night of the Living Dead gave me zombie-filled nightmares. If you’re looking for a dose of heebie jeebies, these are the movies you’ll be needing!

2001: A Space Odyssey (1968)

I’m not sure I understood any of it, but I think I liked it? If you don’t mind a film that feels more like poetry than a plot, this visual stunner is worth the long runtime and straight-up weird sequence of scenes. Fortunately, I was prepped for my viewing with the help of Turner Classic Movies host Ben Mankiewicz and writer/director Brad Bird, who selected as part of this season’s Essentials lineup. While Bird loves the film, Mankiewicz admitted it’s not one of his favorites because it’s such an obtuse head-scratcher. Both acknowledged it’s an important one to cinema, so unless The Tree of Life is still making your brain hurt almost a decade later, it’s worth trying to parse through a story that covers the dawn of man, man’s fight against machine, and, um, a lot of other things I couldn’t explain if I tried. Crowd: 5/10 // Critic: 10/10

The Trial of the Chicago 7 (2020)

If you’re a fan of Aaron Sorkin’s idealist monologues and ideological pitter-patter, then pause your latest binge of The West Wing to watch his latest writing/directing outing, now streaming on Netflix. Based on the true story of protesters who clashed with the police outside the Democratic National Convention in Chicago in 1968—which, yes, doesn’t seem to difficult to imagine these days—it captures the spirit of a wild trial about political activism, healthy debate, fairness in government, and even the importance of grammar. If you watch it and think there’s no way this really happened, be sure to read up on the real trial to see how the film toned down the judicial circus. While this Oscars season will be unusual, we can predict this film will be in the awards conversation. Crowd: 9/10 // Critic: 9/10

Also in October…

My fellow ZekeFilm writers and I collected our favorite Halloween movies and TV specials for your enjoyment. Not-a-spoiler-alert: My pick is not very scary. In fact, it’s a zom-rom-com I’ve only come to love more since reviewing it upon its release.

Though Kyla and I always talk about Gilmore Girls on our podcast, we don’t just talk about the murder mystery TV shows it references like Murder, She Wrote. This month we talked about an ‘80s prime time soap full of shoulder pads and catfights as well as a ‘70s movie starring Rocky and the Fonz. Then we decided there were so many confusing pop culture references in an episode we couldn’t pick just one, so we researched a mish mash of topics like Punk Planet magazine, workout guru Jack LaLanne, singer Blossom Dearie, Manson cult member Leslie Van Houten, and a whole lotta board games.

540 movies and counting! You can follow real-time updates in what I’m watching in quarantine on Letterboxd.

[bravevulnerability]

au prompt: Castle or Beckett is a secret service agent to President Castle or Beckett. who plays what role is up to you :)

The terrorist attack on the White House comes totally and utterly unexpected, in sync with the wave of horrific explosions and decimation sweeping over a slew of major cities across the nation.

And all he can think about is the job he’s had for the last four years: keeping her safe.

Rick Castle, head of the secret service team assigned to protect President Beckett, moves into action the second the missile hits the East Wing of the White House. He hustles Kate out of the Oval Office and scans his eyes over the unfolding chaos before it can touch her.

“Castle,” she gasps, jerking on his hand, slamming them both into the wall as a spray of bullets begina to rain through the air.

“Shit,” he breathes, withdrawing his own piece, aiding in the returning fire of his team, trying not to watch the bodies of government officials falling dead in the halls. “Go ahead of me. Keep going-”

“No,” she hisses, her fingers hooking at his forearm, and he growls, hates now more than ever how stubborn she is. 

“I’m covering you, go,” he commands, keeping both hands on his gun, his arms in position as she leads them down familiar corridors.

At least she knows the drill, isn’t trying to be a hero-

He hears her grunt, the slam of her body into another wall.

Castle immediately spins, sees her pinned by a man in all black riot gear and a gloved hand around Kate’s throat, a knife in the other.

Her knee pistons up into the man’s groin, has him doubling over just as Castle fires the shot into his head.

“Are you okay?” Castle questions, hearing the wheeze of her lungs as she coughs, but she’s already nodding, returning to the mission at hand, running.

-

She waits for Castle to unlock the panic room with his gun cradled in her palms, her heart rabbiting but her finger steady on the trigger as she waits with bated breath.

“Okay, we’re in. Hurry, before someone sees,” he murmurs, his hand at the small of her back.

Kate lowers the sig, but doesn’t give it back until they’ve slipped inside the secret room embedded into the wall, until the door that blends all too perfectly with the wall slides back into place. 

Castle is one of the only people on the planet who knows about the panic room, one of the selected few allowed to know, and probably the only person she’s always trusted would never turn on her. 

He proves her right.

Castle keeps one hand on her arm as they descend down the stairs, the pathway long and dark, foreboding. She feels the cool air embrace her the lower they travel, the weight of moisture clinging to her skin.

The underground safe room was built over a mile deep and by the time they finally reach the floor, the second security enclosed entryway, she’s panting.

“You okay?” he asks, his own breath quickened, his eyes glimmering in the barely lit corridor.

“Let’s just get inside,” she murmurs, but Castle lifts a hand to her face, his palm a familiar fit to her cheek.

“We’re surviving this, Kate.”

“Maybe, but no one else is,” she mutters, scraping a hand through her hair. “I ran like a coward. I’m supposed to keep these people, this country, safe-”

“By dying for your cause? Because that’s all you would have accomplished up there,” he reminds her with a narrowed look. “We’ve gone over this multiple times-”

“Doesn’t make it easier,” she snaps, stepping away from the caress of his hand and punching the code into the lockbox. “How long are we staying in here?”

“As long as it takes,” Castle sighs, following her in as the vaulted door swings open. He slams it shut behind him and enables every lock equipped to withstand all forms of enemies. “We should have electricity down here, so I can have eyes on the outside.”

She reclaims his hand again as they start down the final corridor that will lead them into a safe room the size of a studio apartment, stocked with food and weapons, and hopefully enough hard walls to keep them alive. 

He laces their fingers, squeezes a little too tight, but she welcomes his firm grip, the confirmation that they’ve survived. For now.

-

Kate is curled on the sofa against the wall, her heels and pantsuit gone in favor of jeans and a black sweater, boots better suited for running, fighting. He’s trained with her for years now, knows she can hold her own against a man twice her size. But right now, with a throw blanket he knows once belonged to her parents tugged up to her chin and her eyes so hollow, she looks so small, fragile.

Castle was recruited to lead the security team for President Beckett during her first month of presidency, his knowledge of terrorism after losing both his mother and daughter in the 9/11 attacks profound, aiding him in his career in counter-terrorism.

He didn’t want to work in secret service, to spend his days guarding some woman, but then he met her. He made the deal to work for a year with her and then act on the opportunity to return to his original unit. But after getting to know Kate Beckett, learning her story of rising from homicide detective to senator, the source of her drive born from the grief of losing her mother, he chose to stay.

He chose her, always her.

“Thank you,” she murmurs after he’s set up the security feed and finished sorting the guns and ammunition he stocked down here over a year ago.

Castle glances up from a pile of grenades, rises from his haunches, and mutes the monitor showing them a live feed of the horror unfolding across the property. “For what? Getting down here was a mutual effort.”

“For keeping me safe, not just today,” she answers, biting down on her bottom lip. “For making this job more bearable.”

“You’ve been an amazing leader, an extraordinary president,” he says, his brow still knit in confusion. Her job was the most stressful position in the world, but she’s good at it, and he thought she enjoyed it. “You’ve done right by the people, by justice. Today? This was completely out of your control, Kate.”

She sighs, not wholly convinced, and Rick crosses the room to ease down next to her. 

“Stop thinking like the president, hoarding all the guilt,” he murmurs, earning the turn of her gaze, the shift of her body towards him. “Just be a normal human being who survived nearly being assassinated. You’re alive, that’s all that matters.”

“What about you?” she inquires, her knees bumping his thigh as she faces him now. “Castle, I hate that your entire life has become centered around protecting me-”

“Even if this wasn’t my job, it’s what I’d be doing,” he states, shutting down that line of thinking before it can begin. “Keeping you safe… it’s all that matters to me. You’re - you already know.”

Kate raises her fingers to graze along his cheek and he catches the back of her hand, turns his lips into her palm. It’s been too long since he’s had the chance to touch her.

“I love you too,” she whispers, leaning in to nudge her nose to his cheek. She sighs out in familiar appreciation when he brushes his lips to her mouth, buries his fingers in her hair and deepens their kiss. 

Kate’s soft moan has him desperate for more, but he remains glued to the spot, waiting for her to make the first move even as he suckles on her bottom lip. All it takes is a stroke of his tongue over hers to gain the surge of her body in his arms. 

“I think it goes without saying that I’m done hiding it,” she mumbles, dragging him down on top of her, cradling his body in the embrace of hers.

“Good, because I wasn’t sure how we were going to make it another four years like this,” he breathes, smirking against her mouth when she chuckles. He chokes on a groan when her hands slide beneath his shirt, splay at his shoulder blades. “Kate, I should-”

“Remind me why I’m alive.” He drops his forehead to rest against hers, closes his eyes to the flames of sensation she elicits with the innocent touch of her fingers down his spine. But he’s helpless when her mouth opens beneath his, when her chest lifts to press against his. “Rick-”

“You’re alive because you’re too good to die,” he mumbles, kissing the skin between her brows, dusting his lips down her nose. The whimper that climbs her throat is muffled by the kiss he layers to her mouth. Her ribcage stutters beneath his hands as he skims his palms to her flesh, caresses the taut muscles and sinewy curves of her body. He should be watching the door, guarding her, but the world is crumbling around them and all he wants is this, her. “Because I love you too much to let you, Kate Beckett.”

-

She remains tangled with Castle on the couch for a long time. Her eyes often drift to the monitor on the table across the room, to the chaos that has gone quiet, but the White House grounds are still roamed by murderers. She knows she has responsibilities, duties as a leader of the country, but Castle has a point - the only thing she can accomplish by taking any course of action now would be adding to the bloodbath with self-sacrifice. 

Castle has explained their exit strategy and has plans to communicate - once the chances of having a phone call intercepted have lessened - with Ryan and Esposito. The two secret service agents have apparently owned a role in this emergency game plan concocted between her three men since the early days of her presidency.

“They love you too, you know,” he murmurs the explanation into her hair while he brushed his hand up and down her spine. 

She nods before lowering her head to his chest, fighting off thoughts of loved ones, her lack of them. Her mom’s been gone for fifteen years, her dad passed last September. Castle’s been without his eight year old daughter, Alexis, and his mother, Martha, since long before she ever knew him. 

The list of those she cares about has only continued to shrink, but her ferocity to protect those she has left has grown.

Kate curls in closer to him. “We’re a family.”

Castle’s fingers bury in her hair, circle along her scalp. “Does that explain why they call us mom and dad?”

She scoffs, turns her head to brush her upturned lips to his collarbone. 

“We have contacts across the globe,” he picks up, circling back to their original conversation. “They’ll send reinforcements. It’s just a waiting game right now.”

“If we get through this, I don’t want to run again,” she confesses, feeling him shift beneath her, attempting to catch a glimpse of her face, but she keeps her cheek pressed to the spot above his heart.

“This isn’t a new idea, is it?” he murmurs, curving his palm at her nape. She shakes her head.

“I want to change the world and I - I feel like I had a good run these last four years, but this job… I’m tired, Rick. And after this?” She sighs, unfurls her arms from her chest and lifts her head to meet his eyes. Soft and understanding and so very blue. “I just want to live for me for a little while. I want to go back to New York and collaborate with the NYPD again, I want - I want to get a loft in the city and a beach house in the Hamptons like the one you always gushed about-”

He huffs a laugh, his cheeks warming with a hint of color. Kate balances a hand on his chest, cranes her neck forward to rest her forehead to his, nudge her nose to his cheek.

“I want a life. With you.”

“All you’ve ever had to do is say the word,” he replies, stroking his thumb to the hollow spot at the base of her skull. “I want all of that and I - I want to try writing again.”

Kate sucks in a breath, can’t help the smile. He’s been writing her short stories for years now, snippets of characters and enticing political thrillers that she’s never been able to get enough of. His writing career was cut short after the national tragedy that took his family and she never questioned it, didn’t have to. But to witness his passion for the written word and weaving of a tale renewed… it has her heart fluttering with excitement.

“Man, we really have to make it now,” he chuckles, grinning at the press of her kiss to his mouth. 

“We’re going to make it. We’re going to stop the bastards who bombed my house, took strikes at our city, our country. We’re going to rise again as a nation, like we always do, and then you and I are getting our happily ever after,” she lists, feeling her heart skip and accelerate at how badly she wants it. “And years from now, you can publish a loosely inspired novel about it.”

“Ah, President Beckett, you get me.”

His phone buzzes from the pocket of his slacks and Rick quickly leans over to snag the device.

“It’s Esposito, we need to get ready,” he murmurs, his chest expanding with a deep breath as he lifts his eyes to hold her gaze. “You’re glued to me the second we step out of here. I’m not letting anything happen to you.”

“It’s mutual. I’ve got your back out there, Castle,” she reminds him, nodding her head towards the arsenal of weapons. “No more overprotective bullshit. You’re my partner.”

He sighs, but doesn’t argue. “Deal, Madam President.”

She shoves lightly on his shoulder as she reaches past him for her clothes. “And stop calling me that.”

[littlespoonevan]

broadcast the boom, boom, boom (Preview)

so here’s a lil sneak peek at the beginning of the Never Been Kissed au!!! I’m hoping it’ll be finished by saturday/sunday but for now, here’s the first scene. i hope you like it!!!! <3

*

Isak would like the record to show he never actually signed up to be a part of the uni newspaper. After an ill-fated decision at one of Eva’s parties where he’d drunkenly stashed the boys’ weed in her living room when the cops showed up, Sana had cornered him in their biology lecture and blackmailed him into joining Vilde’s editorial team.

It’s been six months since then and Isak is still stuck here. (At least he’s managed to rope Jonas in too in the interim.)

Right now, they’re in a meeting. It’s the beginning of January and the beginning of the second semester and Vilde’s high pitched voice is getting significantly more shrill as different people on the team suggest ideas for stories. He doesn’t really get why she cares so much. The newspaper isn’t anything special – Blindernbladet is a fortnightly editorial that you’re more likely to see clogging bins on campus and abandoned in lecture halls than anywhere else.

But Vilde runs the office as if they’re working for the fucking VG.

“Do you not understand how important this is?” Vilde snaps at some first year that had suggested they do a story on the new menu options in the student centre.

Vilde turns to the room at large, eyes wide and mouth set in a firm line. “Our funding is going to be cut if we don’t start drawing in readers. We need hard hitting stories.” She smacks her hand on the table to emphasise her point though it’s somewhat hampered by the way it clearly makes her palm sting.

“Why don’t we do an exposé then?” Noora, their resident social affairs writer along with Jonas, suggests.

“Yes!” Vilde exclaims, pointing her pen at Noora with a gleam in her eyes. “Good. This is what we need. What about?”

“Youth culture?” Eva offers as a follow up.

“We could do interviews with students?” Sana chimes in. “From different courses and year groups to get the wider perspectives.”

Vilde nods fervently, dismissing everyone to their posts while she holds Sana, Noora, Eva and Chris back. Isak suppresses the urge to roll his eyes and retreats to the safety of his desk. He usually covers the science section with Sana but since she’s currently preoccupied he fucks around on the internet, messaging Jonas – who’s sitting on the opposite side of the room at his own desk – on Facebook.

Eventually he does actually start doing his work, skimming through the list of article ideas he and Sana had brainstormed earlier before Vilde had called a meeting. Selecting one at random, he opens his browser again and starts researching. A couple of hours later he’s neck deep in notes and half-formed paragraph plans when Vilde suddenly appears behind his computer screen, flanked by the girls.

“Hei, Isak!” she says far too enthusiastically. “Do you mind chatting in my office?”

Vilde’s “office” is a tiny box room with a glass wall that allows her to monitor the entire editing room while also separating her from the rest of floor and boosting her air of importance. Deciding it’s easier not to argue, he dutifully stands up and follows the girls into her room, dropping into the seat in front of her desk that she gestures to.

Vilde sits in her own chair on the other side of the desk with the girls taking up residence on either side of her once again. She looks like a mob boss. A mob boss with a pink bow in her hair. “So we’ve been discussing the exposé idea in more depth and we realised that interviewing university students may not be the way to go.”

“Okay…?” Isak says. He doesn’t really understand why he’s the one that’s being let in on this project.

“Popularity, cliques, those kinds of things don’t really impact you in university, you know,” Vilde continues matter-of-factly. “The campus and the courses are far too big to allow it to even be an issue.”

Isak agrees. He doesn’t think he’s heard the word popular since he started uni. No one gives a shit in college; everyone has their own friends and their own parties to go to and that’s enough. He privately thinks they’d have a better chance of exposing binge-drinking or drug use or something than they would some non-existent social hierarchy but Vilde clearly already has a plan in mind.

“Therefore we realised we need to go back to the source,” she continues, pausing dramatically as she bores her eyes into Isak’s. “High school.”

Isak just stares at her, still waiting for her to get to the point of her little spiel.

“We can all agree that the competition in high school can lead to a very toxic environment,” she says primly and the uncomfortable look on her face suggests she’s remembering the girls’ own difficulties with Sara, Ingrid and the Pepsi Max girls back when they were at Nissen.

“When we were in high school it was too difficult for us to look at the broader picture objectively. But now that we’ve been gone for a few years we have a wonderful opportunity to really delve into how this social hierarchy works and how it impacts on students’ mental health.” Vilde looks to the girls for approval when she pauses and they all nod meaningfully at Isak, making noises of agreement.

“Okay, I think so too,” Isak says uncertainly. “But what are you telling me for? I write for the science section.”

Vilde shares another look with the girls and Isak doesn’t miss the ways Sana is biting back a smirk and Eva is watching him like she’s just waiting for him to explode. Jesus christ, what have they done?

“Well,” Vilde starts hesitantly. “We’ve decided this would be most effective if we had someone on the inside to actually write the article.”

Isak doesn’t speak, waiting for Vilde to elaborate, because he refuses to believe she’s suggesting what he thinks she is.

Then, like ripping a bandage off, she says it. “We want you to enrol in Nissen for the month.”

It takes Isak a second to react, mostly because his brain short-circuits as soon as he hears the word “Nissen”.

“What,” he says flatly. It’s not a question.

Vilde takes a breath, flitting her gaze away from his no-doubt homicidal expression as she stands up. “We’ve already called the principal; you know Chris’ dad is on the board. We’ve discussed it. They will allow you to enrol for the month; they’re very interested in how the article will turn out. They’re hoping it will open the eyes of the students, especially if it’s written by someone close in age to them. The only caveat is that we have to keep all students anonymous, of course.”

She can’t be fucking serious.

“Why do I have to do it?” he snaps. He’s pretty sure there’re plenty of people who’d be happy to avoid uni for a month.

Vilde clears her throat. “We all agree you’re the only person on the team that we trust who could also actually pass as a seventeen year old.”

And that’s just fucking rude.

“I don’t look seventeen!” he insists indignantly.

“Isak, you do have a bit of a baby face,” Noora says gently. And wow, okay, she’s so not getting any food from his shelf whenever she runs out starting from now until the end of eternity.

“We’ve only been gone for three years, won’t all the teachers still recognise me?” he points out, desperately looking for a way out of this.

“The principal will inform your teachers so they don’t make a scene,” Vilde tells him. “Honestly, Isak. This is a great opportunity, we can’t squander it.”

“Vilde, what about my classes?” he asks wearily, deciding to redirect to the real matter at hand. He’s hanging onto his patience by a thread at this point. He’s in his third year of a bio-chem degree; he’s not some fucking first year taking a political science class and only showing up to college when it suits them. He actually takes his education seriously.

“Sana spoke to your professors,” Vilde hastens to explain.

“We may have conflated some details and hacked your email account,” Sana adds, waving a hand. “Don’t worry about it.”

Vilde shoots her a look before returning her gaze to Isak with a winning smile “You can take your lectures online for the month and all your labs take place in the evening so you can still go to them after school.”

“So you expect me to double my own workload and make my life a living hell for a month just so you can write some stupid article?” he demands. Honestly, what the fuck kind of parallel universe did he wake up in this morning?

“You’ll be on a reduced timetable,” Sana says exasperatedly. “And taking mostly science classes which will be a walk in the park for you. Besides, like we said, your teachers will be informed. You won’t have to do homework; stop stressing about the academics. We need you to focus on the social side of it. Join the revue, meet people.”

And oh no. No. They can fuck off. He’s not doing that.

“I’m not joining the revue,” he says in horror.

Vilde rolls her eyes. “You don’t actually have to play a role,” she says impatiently. “Join the PR group or paint the set, it doesn’t matter. But get involved.”

“It’ll be the quickest way for you to make friends and get invited to parties,” Chris adds.

“I’ll help you with uni for the month,” Sana sighs like he’s causing her a great inconvenience. “Okay? Whatever you need. Just get us the story.”

Isak wavers, contemplating his options. Would one month really be so terrible? He knows it’s not so much about the workload and more to do with his own experience of high school. High school to him is marked by three major red flags: his father leaving, his mother’s breakdown, and shoving himself ten miles deep in the closet.

He fucking hated himself in high school. His life was a complete train wreck and he’s only just started to actually feel good in himself again. He doesn’t want to go back to that.

“One month, Isak,” Eva says softly. “Just four weeks. And if you write this, you can leave the paper. We won’t try to make you stay.”

The dismayed expression on Vilde’s face says she hadn’t quite agreed to that term but it makes Isak consider it. One month and he could be completely done with all of this. It’s not even that he dislikes the paper at this point; he just feels like it eats up too much of his free time. He barely has a fucking social life because he’s always either researching for articles or researching for his own assignments. But that could all be over by February…

Pushing down the itch of panic beneath his skin, he grits his teeth. “Fine.”

He’s going to regret this.

*

[kentuckertv]

Law & order menendez murders true crime nbc

Law & Order True Crime: The Menendez Murders

Law and Order True Crime: The Menendez Murders is killer trash TV Killer tabloid television, Law & Order True Crime: The Menendez Murders inaugurates yet another Law & Order franchise and does so with a highly entertaining version of that perennial topic of true-crime curiosity: the 1989 murders of Jose and Kitty Menendez by their sons, Lyle and Eric. Packed with familiar faces in small roles and large wigs, The Menendez Murders—based on the first two episodes made available for review—gets producer Dick Wolf’s new anthology series off to a good, sordid start.

You may recall that sons Lyle, here played by Miles Gaston Villanueva, and Eric, played by Gus Halper, killed their parents after enduring years of abuse. They were defended in court by attorney Leslie Abramson, played by Edie Falco in hair that looks like giant exploding dandelion. The eight-episode series premiering Tuesday begins with the deaths and the subsequent interrogation of suspects by cops including Parenthood’s Sam Jaeger and his porn-star moustache. Among those questioned by the police is Eric’s therapist, Dr. Jerome Oziel, played by Josh Charles in a hairdo that looks like the prow of a yacht entering a harbor. Bonus points for casting Heather Graham in the small but showy role of Oziel’s emotionally distraught patient-mistress. (Other easily recognizable pop-ups: Anthony Edwards as a judge and Julianne Nicholson as Abramson’s defense-team partner.)

Written by L&O veteran Rene Balcer and directed by Leslie Linka Glatter (Homeland, Mad Men), this Law & Order has the trademark chung-chung two-note riff to introduce scenes and deploys the brand’s dramatic structure, with cop scenes followed by lawyer scenes. At the same time, Wolf and company are striving for something a bit more ambitious–a well-wrought piece of exploitation-TV in the manner of FX’s American Crime Story: The People v. O.J. Simpson. The result, at least early on, is a solid merging of the two: Glatter’s direction is cleanly efficient, which serves to showcase the hammier performances well. Which is to say, Falco is good, but Josh Charles is doing the stuff that made me smile. Of course, smiling is not something you’re supposed to be doing while watching a show about a double homicide, but the pleasures of familiar facts presented in a lively, engaging way will not be denied.

Law & Order True Crime: The Menendez Murders airs Tuesdays at 10 p.m. on NBC.

[svubloods]

Imagine being Rafael’s tailor

(A/N: I hope you Anon and everyone else enjoys this! Sorry it’s short!) 

Imagine being Rafael’s tailor

“Mr. Barba?” You questioned confused, coming down the stairs of your store and seeing him in what was supposed to be your empty waiting room.

“How many times have I told you to call me Rafael?” He smirked, getting up to greet you as you walked over to him.

“Too many times,” You chuckled as you reciprocated the light hug he initiated, “What are you doing here?”

“I was wondering…” He began.

“Today's appointment is the third one you’ve missed,” You interrupted you remind.

“I was in court.” He offered sympathetically.

“You said that last time,” You reminded, “You should really stop booking appointments right after court appearances,”

“They keep running over,” He insisted.

“Shouldn’t you know the extent of your legal talents by now and now how long it’s going to take?” You quipped.

“Ouch,” He said playfully.

“Anyway, why are you here at this hour?” You asked, glancing down at your watch and seeing it was 9:00 pm, two hours past closing time.

“I was wondering is you could slip me in, just quickly?” He inquired, with a surprisingly desperate look on your face as he grabbed a garment bag from off the chair.

“Anastasia has already left for the day.” You informed, referring to his usual tailor.

“Oh,” He said dejectedly.

“But,” You continued, smiling at his suddenly intrigued expression, “I guess I could fit you in, no pun intended, just this once.”

“Really? How?” He questioned, tilting his head in confusion.

“I can do it,” You clarified.

“You can?” He asked impulsively before a look of regret flashed carries his face.

“I wasn’t always the allusive owner who sits in her office all day. There was a time where this was a one-woman operation,” You grinned, “Come on up,”

You waited at the edge of the staircase for him to get across the room and head up the circular staircase.

“I had no idea you were a tailor yourself,” He commented, “I thought you just owned the place,”

“My mother was a seamstress, she taught me how to do it when I was young. I wasn’t great at it but good enough that I could alter clothes, couldn’t make them though like her. So I decided why not start a business doing the thing I semi good at.” You explained. “Well, you’re very good at what you do,” He complimented.

“I must be to dress the most stylish ADA in the city,” You teased, as you held the door open for him.

“I wouldn’t be without you,” He smiled, holding up the garment bag.

“What color tie did you choose this time?” You questioned playfully, taking the bag from him and opening it up, “Burgundy, very nice.”

“And…” He prompted.

“Paired with a navy blue Tom Ford,” You continued before flashing a very impressed look, “You’ve out done yourself, Mr. Barba,”

“Well, I knew I needed to go the extra mile and  impress you or you wouldn’t be doing this for me, right now.” He confessed.

“Very true. You’d be on the streets with a suit too big for you and city of admirers extremely disappointed,” You joked, as you grabbed a tape measure, “Step up on the podium for me,”

You’ll be honest, you were quite nervous. It had been a while since you had done this yourself with a client. But as soon as you started it, it became second nature again. You started this business almost ten years ago after dropping out of college and being broke. Using the only skill you had and the only one your mother ever taught you. Starting out from inside your small Bronx apartment to now in your store on 46th Street.

It had been a long road and a lonely one at that. You’d dedicated the past ten years to building this business into the famous powerhouse it was today, with a full staff and a list of wealthy clients. You hadn’t been interested in dating up until recently. Everything was going great and it was busy but your life slowed down, you were spending more and more time alone and you figured that it was time to get back into the dating life.

You’d been a couple of dates set up by your friends but they never went anywhere serious. You didn’t like any of them. They were boring and talked about politics and other stuff that bored you. You were a simple girl at heart, coming from a working-class background, you worked your way up unlike the men you were going out on dates with.

You and Rafael had very similar upbringing, working class backgrounds and being raised by single mothers. You think that’s why you got on so well because you both worked your way up and now you were surrounded by people who were born into this world. You liked Rafael a lot. He had been using your service for about two years and you had developed quite a good friendship full of a mutual love of fashion and merciless teasing.

You’d be lying if you said you didn’t find him attractive. You’d even go as far as to say that you had a small crush on him but you would never pursue him. Mostly because you were sure he only saw you as a friend or maybe even an acquaintance. And you wouldn’t want to make things awkward between the two of you.

“So, what was the case that kept you away about?” You asked as you were leaning down and measuring his inner right thigh.

“It was a double homicide,” He informed looking down at you.

“Well, that’s not good.” You commented, looking back up at him form your crouched position.

“Yeah,” He chuckled with a gentle nod, putting his hand over his face to cover his expression. “What?” You questioned, confused by the fact he was laughing.

“I’ve never encountered someone who has described a double homicide as ‘not good’,” He continued to chuckle, though he was trying to stop himself from doing do due to the severity of it.

“Well, it isn’t,” You giggled guiltily, “I forget that your area of law isn’t exactly one you can have a casual conversation about.”

“You’re are something else,” He commented, composing himself.

“What can I say?” You shrugged before scolding, “Keep your legs open!”

“Can you not say that while crouched down?” He winked.

“Mr. Barba,” You sighed in mock distaste, “It’s not my fault you were trying to close them,”

“Yes, it is,” He countered, “You keep on making me laugh.”

“You need to cross your legs to laugh?” You teased.

“I don’t know how anyone could put up with this constantly,” He commented teasingly.

“Nobody does,” You informed with a grin.

“What are you not seeing anyone?” He asked.

“No,” You confirmed, “No-one at the moment.”

“I can’t believe someone like you is single,” He stated.

“What do you mean by that?” You prompted.

“I mean someone as smart, accomplished and beautiful as you,” He smiled, as you moved to his waist.

You were pressed up against him slightly as you took the measurement, you could feel his gaze on you.

“You’re very sweet, Mr. Barba,” You blushed, avoiding eye contact with him.

“Call me Rafael,” He reminded, still looking at you.

“You’re very sweet, Rafael,” You repeated, taking a step back as you were done with measuring his waste.

“I’m only saying the truth,” He continued to compliment.

“You’re making me blush,” You confessed, before stepping back up to take a measurement of his right arm.

“I can see that,” He smirked.

“Well, since we’re on a first names basis now,” You began, “I’m only entitled to do the same to you.”

“Okay…?” He said confused. “So, how about you? Are you seeing anyone?” You interrogated, partly to play along but mostly because you were curious yourself.

“No, I’m unattached,” He admitted.

“What about that pretty brunette I saw you with once?” You quizzed.

“That’s my colleague Lieutenant Benson,” He informed.

“Good to know,” You commented.

“Which part, the fact that I’m single or the fact that you saw me and my colleague?” He questioned.

“You know,” You began, ignoring his question and finishing taking his measurements, “You never did tell me what this suit is for. It’s much fancier than the suits you wear to work. Is it for something special?”

“It's for a date, actually.” He replied.

“Oh,” You said, slightly dejected, “That’s nice”

“Well, it would be,” He sighed in mock dramatics, “If she knew.”

“What do you mean?” You asked, confused.

“Well, she doesn’t know that we’re going out yet,” He half clarified.

“I still don’t understand.” You confessed.

“She doesn’t know that we’re going out yet because I haven’t asked her out, yet,” He continue dot confess.

“It’s a pretty bold move to get a suit tailored before you know you’re going out,” You said, walking way and heading to your desk to jot down the measurements.

“It is,” He agreed, “But I’m pretty sure she’ll agree to go,”

“Confidence, is key,” You said, not looking at him, “When do you plan on asking?”

“Right now,” He said simply.

You looked up at him in confusion. He stopped off the podium and watched him walk over to you.

“Would you like to go to dinner with me, Friday night?” He asked sincerely, inches away from you and looking you right in the eye.

“Was all this…?” You went to ask as you gestured to the room ambiguously.

“I’m not denying the fact that I may have asked Anastasia if there were any times where you would be here and alone,” He admitted hypothetically before asking again, “Well?”

“Yes, yes, of course,” You agreed suddenly remembering what was actually going on, “I’d love to.” 
 “Great,” He grinned.

“I knew you liked me,” You winked flirtatiously, “Ever since we first met.” “Well, that is true. I have liked you for a while and I've been working up the courage to ask you out. But then Ana told me you were dating again and I thought why not? And regardless I knew you liked me too,” He countered suggestively, “You were too obvious about it. Don’t think I didn’t catch you giving me the eye when we first met.”

“But not as obvious as you,” You smirked, “I caught you watching me walk away.”

“I wasn’t that bad,” He denied.

“You think that I didn’t realize that you’d come only come in on days when I’m here,” You reminded.

“That’s every day,” He refuted.

“Exactly,” You chuckled, “But you know what I can’t believe!”

“What?” He asked, curious.

“That you expect me to tailor the suit you’re going to wear on our date.” You continued.

“Well, I was actually hoping that you would do it for free,” He flirted, expertly.

“You must be crazy.” You stated.

“Only about you,”

[backtothestart02]

The Burglar in My Kitchen - 3/3

The final part to my fic for the @westallenfun Westallen-at-the-Movies event. I officially got it all finished, beta’d & uploaded in one day short of a month. lol. This one’s super lengthy, but I’m sure you’ll enjoy it. Lots of fluff, and AU makes it enjoyable even now during angsty canon times. :P

*Many thanks to @valeriemperez for being an incredible beta.

Barry watched her pour over her notebook – though he tried not to be obvious about it.

The fact was he was fascinated. More than he’d been at age ten when her intelligence, positively bouncy curls, and bravery had gotten the best of him. Now he was enthralled by her curiosity. The way she’d hung onto every word he’d said, sometimes asking him more questions when she didn’t understand, was an aphrodisiac. More than once he had turned away from her to explain what he’d found in his research, stood directly in front of his microscope, and even sat down to avoid his tented pants becoming obvious.

You’re nearly twenty-seven, Allen. Control yourself.

But God, how could he? She was breathtaking, and she didn’t dismiss him as some nerd with no social life. Both true, the voice sounded off in his head, but he ignored it.

Iris didn’t think so. And that was all that mattered.

“So,” he cleared his throat.

“Yeah?” she responded without looking up.

“Do you have any other questions?” he asked, sure a squeak had snuck into his voice. Thankfully she didn’t notice.

“No, I, uh…” She stopped writing and turned to look at him.

She stared so deeply into his eyes, he was positive even blinking would ruin the moment, so he tried desperately not to.

She blinked first.

“I think I have everything,” she said, beaming.

That smile was going to kill him if he didn’t look away, he was convinced. It sent his heart into overdrive, at what felt like a million miles a second.

Iris closed her notebook and walked over to him, clutching the book to her chest and smiling brightly. Barry felt obliged to stand – felt drawn to was more like it. Her eyes were so pinned to his with so much excitement he felt he might burst.

“I…I’m glad.” He grinned, unable to contain it any longer. “It’s nice to find someone as interested in the technicalities of a case as I am.”

“If you’re as much of a shoe-in as my dad is letting on, I may have to consult with you on further cases.”

His eyes sparkled. “I’d love that,” he said, nearly breathless.

Iris stepped away first, clearing her throat. Barry wondered if she’d become aware of just how close they were standing, how they couldn’t look away, and how difficult it had been to not let his eyes sink to her lips.

Women couldn’t sense that sort of thing, could they?

She pursed her lips together and briefly avoided his gaze, but he saw she was fighting a smile and it made it impossible to hide his.

“I…should get going,” she said, slowly starting to back out of the room.

His brow furrowed and he frowned, asking the question without vocalizing it.

“To work,” she clarified. “Not all of us get half days.”

He grinned shamelessly. “It’s my first day.” He slid his hands into his pockets and leaned back on the table. “And apparently I’m very good.”

She raised her eyebrows, amused.

“So am I. Which is why I should get back to it.”

She played the annoyed card, but her eyes were still twinkling when she left.

“See you at dinner, Barry,” she’d said on her way out, and he couldn’t help thinking she sounded just a little bit flirtatious.

 …

 This time when Iris fell into her seat at CCPN, she had a blissful smile on her face. One she didn’t even try to hide when Linda began her taunts..

“Iris Ann West,” she said a breathless coo. “Did you make out with our new CSI?” She raised one eyebrow.

Iris’s jaw dropped, but she couldn’t come off offended in the slightest because her smile wouldn’t go away.

“Oh my god, you did.” Linda was nearly euphoric.

Iris laughed. “I didn’t.” Linda looked on in disbelief. “I swear I didn’t.” The look only barely dissipated. “But Lin, I reeeeally want to.”

Linda laughed. “I knew you were into him.”

“Guilty.”

Linda grinned and brought out two water bottles from her desk drawer, handing one to Iris.

“So why don’t you? Make out with him, I mean. And what happened to all your suspicion? Did you sit him down and get the truth out of him?”

Iris closed her eyes. “Dammit.” A seething sigh slipped out. “No.” She hesitantly opened her eyes, only to find Linda’s questioning expression staring back at her. “I did not. I got distracted.”

Linda couldn’t contain her amusement.

“By what? His ass? From what I saw, he doesn’t have much of one.”

Iris’s head whipped up. She opened and closed her mouth multiple times, but nothing came out.

“When did you meet him?” she finally managed, feeling completely unwarranted jealousy start to simmer to the surface.

“Girl, he’s all yours,” she assured her, because as always she could read her mind. “I googled him after you left.” She took a swig of her water.

“You what?”

“His effect on you intrigued me, so I did some research. He has a very impressive professional resume, I must say. And he’s cute.” She raised a finger when Iris opened her mouth to interject. “Still yours, don’t worry.”

Iris felt heat gather in her face. With an effort she cleared her throat.

“I got distracted by the case he was working on – well, the one he and my dad were working on today.”

“Oh?” Linda asked, intrigued. Iris couldn’t tell if it was by the case itself or what might have gone on with Barry.

“Double homicide, just this morning.”

“No kidding.”

Iris nodded. “When I asked my dad for more info, he said I should ask Barry because he knew more about the case.”

“Oh, God.” Linda sank back into her chair, not bothering to hide her grin or the plain as day amusement on her face. “Don’t tell me.” She adopted an over-the-top seductive tone. “’Iris, want to come up to my lab and check out my test results?’” She winked deliberately.

Iris reached across her desk and smacked her best friend, but she couldn’t help laughing too.

“It wasn’t like that.”

“No? Were you hoping it was?”

“I wanted to interrogate him!” she insisted. “That’s why I went over there.”

“You mean, not just to say hi to your dad like you told me?”

Her mouth hung open. Linda snorted.

“Were you hoping he wanted to do more than just show you legitimate test results for a newly opened case?”

Iris started to sink back into her chair.

“Not at first,” she muttered under her breath. Then she sat up suddenly. “And he got cocky, Lin! He didn’t do that last night. So maybe he isn’t really my type, after all.”

Linda rolled her eyes.

“Enough with the denial, Iris. He probably got cocky because you were feeding into his ego with how you reacted to him.” She paused and looked at her best friend until she met her eyes. “Am I reaching or am I right on target?”

Iris pursed her lips tightly, unsure of how to proceed.

“Thought so.”

Iris huffed and crossed her arms.

“So, what do I do?” She kept going when Linda looked about to speak. “I can’t just go the precinct and…attack him.” Linda gave her a pointed look that clearly said ‘why not?’. “We just met last night and not under the friendliest of circumstances either. Plus, he’s staying in my house a couple more nights at least. What happens if my dad walks in on us…”

“You’re assuming Barry feels the same way,” Linda said, just to mess with her.

Iris gasped involuntarily. “Oh my god, you’re right. He probably d—”

“Oh my god, he does, Iris, okay? He’s totally into you.”

Her brows furrowed, and she frowned.

“How do you know that? You haven’t even seen us together, or met him.”

Linda shrugged. “I’ve heard you talk about him. Mr. Humble going from I Hope I Didn’t Overstep My Boundaries to I Am The Best CSI You’ve Ever Seen during one conversation?” She shook her head. “You’ve got him wrapped around your finger.”

Iris bit her bottom lip. “You think so?”

“I know so.” She reached across their desks to pat her friend’s hand. “And hey, if you’re not feeling bold enough to jump him, then just ask him out.” Iris’s lips parted, but once again she kept going. “You can tell yourself it’s to interrogate him, which you know, is what you still want to do, right?”

Iris blinked. “Right.” She paused and sank back into her chair. “Thanks. I forgot.”

“I know.” Linda’s amused smile turned into a laugh. “No worries. I got you.”

 …

 “Damn, what smells so good?” Joe demanded on walking into the house later that evening.

Iris was two beats behind him. She stopped just inside the door and took a whiff.

“Yeah, what does?”

Barry walked out of the kitchen, big grin on his face and messy apron covering half the front of his body.

“I made dinner.”

Both the West’s eyes bulged as they looked at each other before turning the gaze back to their house guests.

“I hope that’s okay,” Barry said, nerves blossoming across his face. “I know I maybe should have asked, but this Grandma Esther’s recipe book you’ve got here looked to have some really good stuff, and—”

“Grandma Esther?” Iris’s jaw dropped. “You cooked…” She walked right past both men and into the kitchen. She took another whiff and promptly started to drool. “You can cook.” She went straight over to the pasta dish, grabbed a plate, and deposited a piece. She dug her fork into a chunk of it and started to lift it to her mouth when—

“Don’t, it’s hot!” Barry warned, coming over to her, but it was in her mouth before she could stop it. He was torn between getting her a glass of water and waiting to see if she would give him a nod of approval on his cooking skills.

Iris’s eyes started to water from the temperature, so Barry quickly ran to the sink and brought her a glass of water, which she promptly brought to her lips to soothe her burning tongue.

“I told you it was hot,” he reminded her.

Iris looked up at him, eyes shining, not a hint of anger in them. Then, she looked at her dad who was watching the scene playing out before him, looking as on edge as Barry was by the sight of his daughter inhaling food straight out of the oven.

“It’s good, Dad,” she assured him. “It’s amazing.” She looked back up at Barry. “My grandmother would be proud of you.”

Barry’s shoulders relaxed and he grinned.

“I’m glad I did it justice.”

He went into the other room, grabbed some plates and utensils and brought them to the table.

“C’mon, Detective West. Tell me if I passed the test.”

Still a little hesitant, Joe headed over the table, then took a seat next to his daughter.

“If Iris likes it, I’m sure I will too.” He held up a plate, and Barry deposited some of the noodles onto it. “Thanks, Barry. You didn’t have to do this.”

“It’s the least I can do since you’ve let me shack up here for a couple nights.” He froze. “That’s probably not the right term, is it? Shacking up?” He turned beat red.

Joe fixed him with a confused gaze, wondering if he should be offended. To make the moment pass, Iris reached across the table and took his hand in hers, ignoring as best as she could the sparks that crackled through her when she did.

“Come sit, Barry. Have a slice of your masterpiece.”

Barry turned to her and grinned, then obliged and sat down, fixing himself a plate. At the last possible moment their hands separated, neither one noticing the glare on Joe West’s face.

 …

 Joe turned in early that night, having fallen asleep halfway through the ‘quality time’ movie he’d promised Iris after dinner. Iris didn’t mind. Under normal circumstances she would have, because her father was just so busy all the damn time. But this time she hadn’t been overly sincere in wanting quality time, considering she’d wanted to jump Barry’s bones since the second she walked into her family home and smelled her favorite dish being delivered by the hands of the stranger she never wanted to let out of her sight.

“We could finish watching the movie,” Barry suggested after the walking zombie that was Joe West disappeared at the top of the stairs.

Iris bit her bottom lip and nodded.

“Just…let me change into my pjs first?”

He smiled. “Sure. I’ll change into mine too.”

“‘Kay.” She was smiling so much her cheeks hurt and no matter how many times she told herself to stop, she couldn’t. “I’ll…I’ll be right back.” She managed to push herself off the couch and head towards the stairs herself.

Barry couldn’t take his eyes off her the whole way up. As soon as she was gone, he sank into the couch and tried to slow his racing heartbeat. She was into him. She was so into him. She had to be into him, right? She couldn’t stop staring, couldn’t stop smiling, and had definitely been blatantly flirting with him at CCPD.

Maybe he was reading into it too much. And maybe she was just grateful for the information he’d given her on her story and the dinner he’d cooked earlier that apparently was her favorite.

Got lucky on that one, Allen.

Or maybe not. Since he remembered overhearing her talk about how much she loved her Grandma Esther’s dishes all the way back in elementary school. It was more than pure luck though that he’d chosen the right one.

He shook his head and grabbed his own set of pajamas, taking them with him to the bathroom, so he’d be ready upon her return.

“Barry?” he heard her call out, just as he got his t-shirt over his head.

“I’ll be out in a minute,” he called back, sticking his toothbrush in his mouth and brushing faster than he ever had in his life. He smoothed down his hair so not a single lock was out of place. He had to be ready to impress and receive whatever she had to give him, even if it was just finishing the rest of her movie and heading to bed.

He stepped out of the bathroom, re-entered the living room, and one thought occurred to him.

He was not ready.

Because there Iris stood. No robe. Short satin pajama shorts. A black cami that hugged her figure. And her hair in a messy bun that left little tendrils of hair drifting by her ear and the nape of her neck.

“Jesus.”

Iris turned to him at the sound.

“Hey,” she said softly. “You coming?”

He nodded, because he knew speaking would be a bad idea.

“What?” she asked coyly, as he eyed her figure even as he told himself not to. “Like what you see?”

He blushed a pretty red and swallowed.

“Iris…”

“Yes, Barry?” she grinned, very aware of how suddenly nervous he had become.

“Are we—” He stopped and cleared his throat when the squeak came out, making her dark eyes all the more dazzling and her lips more tempting than ever when they curved into a seductive smirk.

“We’re watching a movie, right?” he tried again, meeting her eyes – forcing himself to.

She nodded once and plopped down on the couch.

“Yep.” She patted the spot beside her. “Come sit by me.”

It was hesitant, but Barry hobbled over to her and sat where she had indicated. Immediately, Iris curled up next to him and snuggled her face against his shoulder. He had to fight to breathe, slowly counting the seconds away in his head. She must have registered his tension, because she paused the movie and slowly pulled away.

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Her brows furrowed in genuine concern.

“What?” he squeaked again, briefly avoiding her gaze. “No way. I like…cuddling.”

Her lips twisted ruefully.

“It doesn’t make sense, does it? Last night I try to pummel you with a baseball bat and tonight I’m all over you like some horny teenager.”

He blushed fiercely again.

She sighed and sank back into the couch.

“I forgot to interrogate you again too,” she said aloud and shook her head. “God, I hate when Linda’s right.”

Barry’s brows furrowed. “Who’s Linda?”

“My co-worker,” she said. “And my best friend. She guessed—” She stopped herself before she spilled every thought that was pouring out of her head. “She just knows me really well.”

He nodded once. “‘Kay,” he whispered, mostly to himself.

Iris turned her face away, thoroughly embarrassed, and mumbled incoherently to herself.

“What are you doing, Iris?”

Barry’s eyes widened, panicked. He moved to reassure her.

“Hey, you’re not doing anything wrong,” he assured her. “Okay? You’re not.”

She lifted her head cautiously.

“I’m not?”

He laughed, but more at himself than anything.

“You’re not. I’m just…” He cleared his throat. “I’ve had a crush on you since I was a kid.”

Her jaw dropped. “You have?”

He nodded.

“But how? I don’t even remember you.”

His lips twisted ruefully.

“We didn’t exactly run in the same circles, Iris. I was bullied a lot. You weren’t.”

She sat up more and turned to face him.

“People notice who the bullies and the victims are though, Barry. That fact alone should’ve made me sit up and take notice. I would’ve put a stop to it.”

He smiled and looked down at her adoringly.

“I have no doubt that if I was near you would have tried. Your dad told me how hard he had to fight to make sure you didn’t end up a cop.”

“And that’s another thing,” she continued, dismissing the cop jab. “How come I don’t know anything about you? I get the impression my dad has visited you.”

Barry nodded once. “He has.”

“So why not tell me? It’s like you’re this other family he’s ashamed to talk about.”

Barry sunk in on himself, and Iris closed her eyes regretfully.

“That’s not—I didn’t mean—”

“No, don’t.” He took a deep breath. “I can see how it would look that way.”

“Barry…” she whispered softly.

“Look, I guess the reason your dad never said anything was because he was so involved with our family when my mom was dying. He probably didn’t want to bring you into that situation and have to explain what was going on, especially after you lost your mom.”

She lowered her eyes and started to fiddle with her hands.

“He told you about that, huh?”

“Not me. My dad. I just eavesdropped.” He chuckled slightly, hoping to lighten the mood, but it didn’t work.

Iris sighed and laid her head on the couch cushion.

“I guess I can see that. But that doesn’t explain why I didn’t even know you before that happened. You lived in Central City too. We went to the same school. Why wouldn’t our parents want to set us up?” Heat rushed to her face again. “I mean, on play dates when we were kids.”

“Probably because I didn’t want to,” he admitted sheepishly.

“What?” she gawked. “I thought you said you had a crush on me.”

He blushed. “I did. But I wasn’t real extroverted, Iris. I liked to keep to myself and work on my many science experiments. Having to interact with the only person that left me more spellbound than the mysteries of science?” He laughed nervously. “It was terrifying.”

“So we didn’t become friends because you didn’t want to.”

He shrugged. “I was scared.”

She watched him, still a bundle of nerves, his long eyelashes shielding his beautiful green eyes from her sight.

“I wish I’d noticed you then, Barry. I wish somehow we’d met. I know we would’ve been friends.”

He glanced up at her. “I was in accelerated classes if that makes you feel better. And I know for a fact that my locker was on the other side of the school.”

“But you noticed me.”

He sighed and shook his head, drinking her in with an awe that stole her breath.

“How could I not? I took one look at you campaigning for fourth grade student president and knew exactly where my vote would go. Iris West is the Iris Best. Vote for me. I’ll take care of the rest.”

Iris put her face in her hands.

“Oh my God, that was my slogan, wasn’t it?”

Barry nodded and she lifted her head, smiling.

“Sold me,” he said to which she laughed.

She put her hand on his face and her smile subdued into softness.

“I think I’m done interrogating you, Barry Allen.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She pursed her lips. “I may not exactly understand why my dad chose to keep his visits to your family a secret all this time, but maybe the answer isn’t all that important. Maybe our dads drifted apart, and it wasn’t until your mom got sick that they felt drawn to each other for support.”

“Could be,” he agreed. “It probably is.”

“And I don’t have to go prying.” She rolled her eyes and smiled playfully. “I mean, prying is pretty much second nature for me, so it’ll be hard, but…” Her smile widened. “I think something else might be even more rewarding.”

“Yeah?” His eyes twinkled down at her. “What’s that?”

Her hand on his face wrapped around the back of his neck, she bit her lip and fixed her eyes on his, then pulled him to her and stopped just a breath away from him.

“Kissing you,” she whispered, and he obliged before she could get out another word.

“This is going to be hard,” he murmured between one kiss and another.

“What is?” she said between two others, shivering when his hand cupping her face moved down to the small of her back.

“Restraining myself when your dad’s in the room.”

Iris pulled away, lips swollen and eyes dazzling.

“I have great news for you, Barry Allen.”

He gave her a crooked grin. “What’s that?”

“My dad is upstairs faaaast asleep. And I’m right here.” She brushed her nose against his. “With you.”

He captured her lips again, his hands roaming, and went with her when she laid back. She pulled him with her and wrapped her legs around his waist, her hands roaming too.

She moaned into him, and he groaned into her, and several minutes later when they were nearly out of breath, they parted.

“What the hell is going on down here?” Joe’s voice boomed from the bottom of the stairs.

Both Barry and Iris’s eyes widened and they sat up abruptly, frozen and quickly moving apart when their eyes fixed on his. They said nothing.

“You are moving out tomorrow,” he pointed at Barry, then switched his gaze to Iris. “And you…” He seemed at a loss at first of how exactly to punish her. “Not in my house.”

He turned and went back up the stairs.

Barry and Iris looked back each other and burst out laughing.

“He’s right, you know,” Iris said, trying to contain herself. “We probably shouldn’t…”

“You have only known me a day, technically speaking,” he pointed out.

She pouted. “Feels longer than that.”

His brows furrowed, but he was smiling. “How so?”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and sealed her contented feelings with a single, sweet kiss.

“Feels like I’ve known you forever.”

…

 Later that night, when Iris was reluctantly tucked away in her bed and Barry was supposedly asleep on the couch, Iris heard a clatter like the night before. Fairly sure of the source of the noise, she didn’t fetch her bat and instead gleefully tiptoed down to the first floor.

When Barry closed the fridge, jar of pickles in his hand, he found Iris standing there, brilliant smile on her face. He froze.

“Why, look, there’s a burglar in my kitchen. Whatever am I going to do?”

He smiled slowly, then sat the jar of pickles on the nearby counter. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close.

“I can’t help but notice that you came unarmed, Miss.”

Her eyes dropped to his lips and then lifted again, mischief glittering in her gaze. She stood on her tip toes until her lips reached his and rejoiced inside when he returned her kiss enthusiastically.

She pulled away suddenly, giddy when his lips chased after hers.

“In that you are mistaken, Mr. Allen.”

He tried to kiss her again, but she pulled back just in time and laughed.

“You drive me crazy, Iris West.” He tightened his arms around her. “What am I missing?”

She closed the distance between them and brushed her lips lightly against his, answering him in one seductive whisper before succumbing to his hungry kisses.

“There’s more than one way to catch a thief.”

*Also available on AO3 and FFnet.

[baxterholmes]

Round-up of fine sentences from This Land:

Josh thought Pastor Bob wanted to say he was sorry for what had happened. He also thought Pastor Bob was taking him to lunch. But it soon became clear that Josh was paying his own way, and Pastor Bob was not there to apologize. Josh ordered a glass of water and watched Pastor Bob eat.

“He quoted scriptures about how I was sinning against God for coming against his church, his ministry,” Josh remembers. But Josh came prepared with scripture passages of his own, about the responsibility of a shepherd to protect his flock. The message fell on deaf ears. Josh drank his water. Pastor Bob ate a big meal and ordered dessert.

-Grace in Broken Arrow by Kiera Feldman

Oral doubled down: If Richard left, he’d walk away with him—arm in arm with his anointed son. Oral called on the faculty to forgive Richard, to take a “fresh start.” He was 89-years-old at this point. His hearing was going, and he needed a walker. But ever the benevolent dictator, Oral demanded obedience. He asked everyone who agreed with him to stand—an old power play from his repertoire. One professor stood and bravely ventured, “I don’t know what you mean by ‘fresh start.’ I can forgive Richard. But I am not going to allow him to come back as president.”

One by one, Oral started grilling the few professors who remained seated. Suddenly, he stopped.

“No, I shouldn’t do this. I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his head in his big, wrinkled hands.

-This is my beloved son by Kiera Feldman

The memory of the Silkwood incident lurks far in the background of life in Crescent–for the most part people don’t particularly care to talk about it, and, polite that Crescent locals are, when they do, most don’t have much to say. Still, the story remains unsettled. When Bradley Manning was growing up it was 20 years less settled.

-Private Manning and the Making of WikiLeaks by Denver Nicks

Jack Taylor does not appear to concern himself with people’s accusations he is a hatchet man for publisher Edward Gaylord. He plods along in his juggernaut fashion, putting in 17-hour workdays, sometimes five, six, seven days a week. He is a sedulous researcher, scouring public records for hours on end, compiling minutiae, interviewing sources (always anonymous and “well-informed”), spending great spans of time at the Xerox machine on the fourth floor of the Oklahoma Publishing Company. Hardly is he a flashy interloper. He is not apt in imitation of Carl Bernstein, to brazen his way into a taxicab, pounce on a public official’s lap, and nonchalantly request an interview. Dramatics like that befit neither his nature nor his bulk.

Taylor, however, is a tenacious journalist, magnificently disciplined and somewhat of a fanatic organizationalist. He diagrams and charts every connection involved in a story, whether it be people or corporate entities. He clips articles from national and local newspapers on the discriminating premise that one day the information might be of some use. He also writes memos of Faulknerian length and files them away in his private office, the sole office at OPUBCO reserved for a single reporter. Jack Wimer, formerly investigative reporter at the Tulsa Tribune and one who cooperated with Taylor on several stories, recalls how “he once wrote a 30-page, single-space, typed memo to himself on a story that he never wrote.” He also once drew up a list of every Freedom of Information Act request that he had ever made, to which governmental agency, how many were approved, how many were denied, how many were denied in part, and what section of the law was cited for denial. These kind of pedantic efforts leave the impression that he is attempting to document, for posterity’s sake, his own endeavors in addition to merely substantiating the stories. Though his meticulousness certainly pays off, the surplus of wasted effort must be enormous.

-Stalking the Smoking Gun by David Fritze

Between statehood and 1923, Oklahoma was America’s largest oil-producing state, and even after it lost its perch to California and later Texas, Oklahoma still managed to increase its share of American output until 1929, when Oklahoma accounted for 750,000 barrels of oil a day and 35 percent of all the oil produced in the United States. Wells in Oklahoma City spat oil ferociously, so high that one out-of-control gusher—the Indian Territory Illuminating Oil Co.’s Mary Sudik No. 1, aka the “Wild Mary Sudik”—managed to sprinkle droplets on students in Norman, 11 miles away. Cushing alone produced 17 percent of American oil in 1919 and 3 percent of the world’s output between 1912 and 1919. And all of this time there was plenty of appetite for new oil. The world’s economy and its demand for petroleum and its distillates were increasing, and oil prices were holding steady for the most part, making Oklahoma’s goliath output enormously profitable. Scores of millionaires were created. The Osage Nation managed to hold onto their mineral rights during the allotment phase. They charged oil companies a flat 10 percent royalty fee and paid each tribe member annual distributions equivalent to more than a million dollars today, which attracted scalawags and con men from all over the country eager to marry an Osage heir, which kicked off a string of killings that would come to be known as the Osage Reign of Terror. Meanwhile, the high wages paid by the oil industry led hundreds of thousands of former sharecroppers to descend on cities like Tulsa and Oklahoma City and the tiny boomtowns that would pop up whenever a new field was found. Oil money created architectural blooms and secondary and tertiary industries: engineering, manufacturing, insurance. There were counter- flows of capital and labor. Universities and colleges sprouted, which in turn revealed new methods of refining petroleum and natural gas. This stoked the economy even more.

-Petro State by James McGirk

A soft-spoken woman from Oklahoma City first saw the pattern. Terri Turner is a Supervisory Intelligence Analyst with the Oklahoma Bureau of Investigation. In September of 2003, a homicide case landed on her desk: a body found along I-40. Turner immediately put out a teletype seeking other female bodies found, like hers, nude, near interstates, and with signs of having been bound. Within 72 hours, two responses came back from Arkansas and Mississippi. At that point, Turner knew she might be looking at linked crimes. She had her communications specialists monitor the teletypes for further cases. In seven months, they had seven homicides. She calls them “my seven girls.”

-Drive-By Truckers by Ginger Strand

With Operation Midnight Ride behind them, Walker and Hargis turned their aspirations to the national political races, making it clear that their choice for president was the libertarian senator Barry Goldwater. In August of 1963, Martin Luther King, Jr. delivered his momentous “I Have a Dream” speech in Washington, D.C.; its hopeful message of peace and unity was in direct opposition to Walker and Hargis’ aggressive calls for civil uprising. Two months later, in October of 1963, Walker attended a conference in Dallas in which he once again bashed President Kennedy and his policies. He was probably unaware that Lee Harvey Oswald was in the audience listening.

-The Strange Love of Dr. Billy James Hargis by Lee Roy Chapman

Contrary to the widespread misconception that it is a late twentieth-century invention, developed as a humane alternative to the medieval barbarisms of the electric chair and the noose, lethal injection hails from older and more ghastly origins. During WWII, Nazi Germany carried out its euthanasia program, granting “mercy deaths” to Jews and Gypsies, the disabled and the mentally ill. In the early stages of the Action T4 program,2 the Nazi regime used an injection of lethal drugs to kill infants and children suffering from physical handicaps and mental impairments. Eventually this method of execution was deemed too slow and expensive, as Hitler would turn to the hyper-efficient gas chambers in his quest for Aryan purity. The experimentation with lethal injection was for the most part lost to history, ceding both spotlight and stigma to the notoriously prolific gas chambers. That is until a few Oklahomans, keen on cutting the costs of Old Sparky and modernizing state-sanctioned executions, resurrected it nearly 40 years later.

-Tinkering with the Machinery of Death by Mike Mariani

One of the detectives just pulled me aside and said he found a syringe in your pocket. I can see Taco, by the way, outside, and he’s still walking around the front yard, mumbling to himself.

He’ll be the next one to die; you know that, don’t you?

Until then, that little fuck, that little shit, gets to go home; he gets to see tomorrow and lie to his parents about needing money for something other than drugs and alcohol; he gets to parlay his grief over you into sympathy and, who knows, maybe more drugs and a blow job from some skanky little whore on meth who will feel bad for him because you died.

The cop who found the syringe told me when he went to ask Taco what happened to you, Taco kept repeating, “I don’t know, I don’t know. He was my best friend.”

-Letter to My Son The Weekend He Died by Barry Friedman

The woman stood with the couple’s one-year-old daughter a safe distance across the sage. Tucs told the man to start wetting down the walls of his home using a 12-volt pump drawing water from a cistern. He sent a bystander down the road to help the fire trucks find their way over the unmarked road to the scene. Then he and another bystander began shoveling dirt in front of the path of the stream of vegetable oil, which shot orange flames three feet high as it crept along the earth. As Tucs shoveled load after load in front of the stream, the fire in the shed grew, and the interior of an old sedan parked nearby caught fire. Tucs’ berm slowed the oil from reaching the home, but the dirt saturated and set alight, and more oil escaped through the flames and poured downhill. He started another berm and the same thing happened. The shed streamed fire. Tucs’ bunker gear lacked suspenders, so he kept hauling his pants up as he worked. As fire trucks arrived from area departments and set up on scene, Tucs heard a rupture and a rush of air, and looked up to see three 40-foot tornadoes of fire whirling above the shed into the sky.

-Firefight Along the Prairie by Michael Canyon Meyer

He stood naked by the roadside with a blanket draped around his hips, feebly reaching out for the glimmering cars as they passed in the morning light. He was almost too hideous to look at: Purple and black tracks streaked across his frail limbs, and his hollow eyes peered out from a pale, gray head shaved bald, eyebrows and all. Brandon Andres Green was not from hell, not exactly. He was from Broken Arrow, Oklahoma.

Over the course of the past six days, Green had been tied up in a Tulsa hotel room, where his mind was loaded with powerful psychoactives and his body ravaged. He was then driven 500 miles south and abandoned in a Texas field at night. Green had crawled through the darkness, the occasional moan of a distant car his only guide. Every few feet, he collapsed from exhaustion. By morning, he reached the road. He grasped at fistfuls of air, hoping that someone might notice him.

-Subterranean Psychonaut by Michael Mason, Chris Sandel and Lee Roy Chapman

Lacking the political power he once held through both the Democratic Party and his Klan affiliations, diminished in his fortune, and aggrieved by his son’s death, Brady began to fall apart. Tulsans reported seeing him dining at his hotel alone, staring into space and leaving his meals untouched. Gone was the steeley-eyed entrepreneur. A portrait published in the Tulsa Daily World around this time shows an aged Brady looking weary and morose.

In the early morning hours of August 29, 1925, Brady walked into his kitchen and sat down at the breakfast table. He propped a pillow in the nook of one arm, and rested his head upon it. With his right arm, he took a .44 caliber pistol, pointed it at his temple, and pulled the trigger. [28] Brady, who worked to divide Tulsa along racial lines, died a victim of his own curse.

-The Nightmare of Dreamland by Lee Roy Chapman

Birdwell’s life reads like a John Wayne script. A story in The Daily Oklahoman on October 17, 1931, details an account of Birdwell kidnapping a deputy sheriff in Earlsboro and detaining him so that Birdwell could go to a funeral home to view his father, who had recently died. If Birdwell had attended his father’s funeral, he would have been arrested for robbing banks in Earlsboro, Maud, Mill Creek, and Roff, Oklahoma. After Birdwell saw his father’s body, he returned the deputy sheriff’s gun on the outskirts of town, and rode into the sunset with Pretty Boy Floyd.

But Birdwell and Floyd’s days were numbered. Their names and faces were routinely in the papers, and the FBI was just waiting for one of them to make a mistake. Boley was Birdwell’s biggest mistake.

“Pretty Boy told the gang, ‘Go anywhere else, but do not rob Boley. The people there need their money and they do not have much of it in the bank,’ ” said Henrietta Hicks, Boley municipal judge and unofficial historian. “They just would not listen. You know how Napoleon met his Waterloo? Well, George Birdwell met his Boley-loo.”

-Bandit in Boley by Jamie Birdwell-Branson

Bad men are drawn to the City of God. The Southern Poverty Law Center calls it the meeting ground for America’s most sinister extremists. Many Oklahomans regard it as the most dangerous and mysterious place in the state.

For 30-plus years, a small, isolated community in Northeastern Oklahoma has been the subject of endless scrutiny. Law enforcement agencies and conspiracy theorists insist that Elohim City is a breeding ground for neo-Nazis and anti-government militias hell-bent on overthrowing the “Zionist Occupied Government” (ZOG) of the United States. The most damning accusation suggests Elohim City played a central role in the planning and execution of the Oklahoma City bombing.

-Who’s Afriad of Elohim City? by Lee Roy Chapman and Joshua Kline

At the hospital the day Abby was born, a nurse handed me a booklet about being the parent of a dead child. What’s the cost of a funeral for a newborn? Can you take a tax deduction? What should you name a dead child? Is it OK to build the coffin yourself? The booklet plainly answered such questions. It was my introduction to a realm of knowledge I had never known existed.

The answers run like this:

You can build the coffin if you want. It might make you feel better.

Name the child what you meant to name him. Don’t save the name for someone else.

You can claim the baby as a dependent on your taxes if he drew a breath.

-A Stiller Ground by Gordon Grice

The historian Frederick Jackson Turner draws the line of frontier encroachment at the hands of industrial expanse at 1890. He delivered his theory in an 1893 address to the American Historical Association of Chicago titled “The Significance of the Frontier in American History,” now known as the “Turner Thesis.” A year later, at the age of 17, Fraser molded his first End of the Trail. He wrote that it came from an idea that had been haunting him since childhood: “Often hunters, wintering with the Indians, stopped over to visit my grandfather on their way south and in that way I heard many stories about the Indians. On one occasion a fine fuzzy bearded old hunter remarked with some bitterness in his voice, ‘The Injuns will be driven into the Pacific Ocean.’”

-The Indian of their Dreams by Mark Brown

Netarsha slapped her hand on the window behind her.

“I said, ‘NOOOOOOO!’ Bust out laughing. I knew. I knew. I sat up. I didn’t know what to do. I kind of balled up, on my bed, in the corner… and my doorbell rang.”

It was the police, come to tell her.

-We Extend Our Condolences by Brian Ted Jones

[one-of-us-blog]

Diamonds Are Forever (1971)

Today Drew is forced to watch and recap 1971’s Diamonds Are Forever, the seventh James Bond adventure. Bond, still recovering from the death of his wife that he doesn’t remember at all, is tasked with cracking open a diamond smuggling ring. Can he find out who’s stealing these diamonds and what they want them for?

Keep reading to find out…

Eli, you’re consistently killing it with your Golden Girls recaps! I agree that Dorothy’s absence could really be felt in “Ro$e Love$ Mile$”, but I get such a kick out of Miles’ cheapness that I can give it more of a pass. I’m thrilled you enjoyed “Room 7” so much! It’s one of my favorites for the season, so I’m glad you had a pleasant experience with it! I’m really late with this recap so I’m going to jump in, but let me say again that you’re the best Golden Girls recapper there is, buddy!

Buttocks tight!

Screenplay by Richard Maibaum & Tom Mankiewicz, film directed by Guy Hamilton

As always, we begin with a standard barrel shot, and… hey, is it just me, or has Lazenby got a bit shorter? Huh. Anyway, after a series of brief beat ‘em up scenes we see James Bond… Clutch the pearls, that’s not George Lazenby at all! It’s everyone’s favorite misogynist, Sean Connery! Who let him back in here? An aged Bond chokes a woman with her own bikini in order to find out where Blofeld is, and then we cut to the reanimated corpse of Dikko Henderson – Oh, no, sorry, that’s Blofeld (Charles Gray), who now sports a full head of hair and a full set of earlobes. He’s preparing to undergo some drastic plastic surgery (he’d better call Dr. Neil Connery!), presumably to escape Bond’s homicidal rampage. Blofeld is smothered in peanut butter (a dream of Eli’s, I’m sure), but then it turns out hat one of the doctors setting all of this up is, in fact, Bond. Blofeld gets a shot off at Bond, but Bond smothers Blofeld to death. But, ruh roh, that wasn’t Blofeld at all! The real Blofeld and some goons arrive, but Bond dispatches the goons with a mousetrap and some throwing scalpels, then dumps the real Blofeld in what I’m presuming is a pool of acid that was there for some reason. Bond gets hissed at by Blofeld’s beloved kitty, whom Bond probably skins alive or eats or something, and that leads us to our jewel-encrusted opening musical number.

Shirley Bassey, who last graced us with the theme for Goldfinger (my current favorite Bond theme song), croons out “Diamonds are Forever”, a song about a woman who smothers her heartbreak with shiny rocks while we’re treated to shots of women and cats wearing jewelry.

With those shots of diamond-encrusted pussies behind us, we cut to M talking to Bond about diamonds and assuring him that Blofeld is dead and that this business needs to be put behind him. Bond mansplains a bit about sherry to M, then we get a shot of some modern slavery in a diamond mine. Two assassins, Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd (Bruce Glover and Putter Smith, respectively), who seem to just love hanging out together, kill a dentist who was smuggling diamonds out of the mine by dropping a scorpion down the back of his shirt. They then blow up the smuggler’s fence and trot off into the sunset together.

Bond is briefed on this smuggling problem. The higherups think the stolen diamonds are being stockpiled so that they can be dumped on the market all at once and ruin the market value. Truly, this is a task for the world’s greatest spy, monetary interests are at stake! Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd drop off the stolen diamonds to a missionary who’s busy talking down to some African kids and then Bond is sent to Holland to replace alleged smuggler Peter Franks and get into his network. We get a badass moment of Moneypenny in the field, providing Bond with Franks’ passport (I’m choosing to believe she choked the real Franks to death with her bare hands offscreen), then that moment is dampened by Moneypenny once again asking Bond to marry him. Tacy’s barely in the ground, Moneypenny, cool it down! Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd are also in Holland, just in time to see the body of that missionary from earlier getting fished out of a river. These boys have been busy!

Bond, under the guise of Mr. Franks, meets up with Tiffany Case (Jill St. John), who lets us know she was born in Tiffany’s while her mother was shopping for a ring. Nothing like a fun backstory to make up for an utter lack of substance in a character! Case manages to get Bond’s fingerprints, but MI6 has been thorough and Bond’s wearing false fingerprints to match the false hair on his head. Bond calls Q to thank him for the falsies after they came in handy, but then Q casually mentions that the real Franks escaped. Dang, I guess my I, Moneypenny fanfic will need some revision. Bond knows the real Frans will be going to meet Case, so he meets him there and the two fight to the death while Case watches on. They fight for a very long time before Bond kills Franks by dumping him down a single flight of stairs and switches out his credentials so Case thinks he just killed James Bond. Case apparently knows who James Bond is, but not what he looks like or that he’s standing right in front of her.

Case is ready to scram before things get too hot, and Case reveals the diamonds she wants Bond to smuggle out were hidden in a chandelier after the missionary dropped them off before her death. Bond and Case hop on a plane with a coffin filled with the real Franks’ body and the diamonds, but it turns out Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd are also on this flight. We get a moment of spousal jealousy as Mr. Kidd admits (unprompted) that he finds Case attractive, which is just fun. The body of Franks is checked into customs, where Bond is greeted by Felix Leiter (Norman Burton), who, as usual, looks a bit different than he did last time we saw him. Leiter covers so nobody questions Bond too much about his credentials, then the diamond-stuffed body is carted off to Nevada. Franks’ body is cremated, and when the urn containing his ashes is brought to Bond we see it’s entirely filled with diamonds. He really stuffed that corpse! Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd have followed Bond to the funeral home, and knock Bond out from behind. They prepare to have him cremated alive, but at the last second he’s pulled out of the oven by a gangster caricature who informs him that the diamonds recovered from Franks’ body were fakes and demands to know where the real diamonds are. Bond flips them off and leaves, later calling Leiter and says he needs the real diamonds.

He later goes to a comedy show where that caricature is ‘performing’, but before he can talk to him Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd have killed him. Bond kills some time by playing in the casino, where he attracts the attention of Plenty O’Toole (Lana Wood). O’Toole is wet for that money, and once she has her claws in Bond she doesn’t let go. There are some gangsters waiting in Bond’s hotel room, though, and they promptly throw O’Toole out of a window. Luckily, and unintentionally, she lands in a pool and seems unharmed. Turns out Case is also waiting for him, and after they sleep together she asks Bond where the diamonds are. She’s cool with Bond not turning the diamonds over to the people who hired Franks, but she wants a 50/50 split.

Bond takes Case to a nightmare of a circus-themed casino, where Case picks up the diamonds in the most complicated way possible, and, vastly more importantly than any of this bullshit, an absolutely delightful elephant is tickled pink when it wins an elephant-themed slot machine. Please, please, please, let me follow that elephant’s story! But no, of course we can’t do that. Instead we see a bunch of white kids gawk at a performance involving a Black woman turning into a gorilla. It’s not too late to jump back to that elephant storyline! Leiter informs Bond that Case, with the diamonds, has slipped away, so Bond just shows up at her house and waits for her. Plenty O’Toole is dead her pool. Why, you may ask? What was O’Toole doing at Case’s house? How did they even know each other? Who cares! Case doesn’t jump to the logical conclusion that Bond killed this woman in order to make a point, and instead Bond backhands her across the face (for those keeping score at home, that’s now two movies in a row where Bond has slapped a love interest!) and demands to know who her connection is. All she knows is that his name is Willard Whyte.

Bond goes to intercept the diamonds, now secured inside a stuffed animal, before they can be taken to Case’s connection. The diamonds have bene picked up by Whyte’s right hand man, but Bond manages to climb into the guy’s van while Case provides a sassy distraction. Inside the van, Bond is carried down into Whyte’s secret lab where he poses as a radiation inspector. His cover gets blown, and… Okay, you’re just going to have to go with me for this next bit. There’s this fake moon landing set up in the lab, and Bond escapes by steals a moon buggy. After a three hour buggy chase, Bond meets back up with Case and the two head for Las Vegas. Whyte has reported Bond to the Las Vegas sheriff, and so with the ghost of the buggy chase still haunting us we begin a sheriff chase through the streets of Vegas.

Bond and Case bang again at a hotel, and at this point Case knows who Bond is. Leiter arrives, and tells Bond that the government’s not willing to move on Whyte. Bond hitches a ride on top of an elevator in order to get up to the hotel’s penthouse, where Whyte is staying. Whyte knows Bond is there, and cordially invites him to come and meet him. Inside, he’s faced with not one, but two Blofelds. They explain that the guy Bond killed earlier was a double, and these two have been posing as Whyte with the help of an artificial voice box that makes them sound like Jimmy Dean. They explain that the real Whyte is on cold storage at the moment, and then Bond kicks a cat and causes it to run into the lap of one of the Blofelds. Bond assumes this is the real Blofeld and kills him, but then another cat walks in and Bond still doesn’t know which of them is the real deal. It doesn’t really matter now since there’s only one left, but just to be clear Bond has now orphaned two cats so far in this movie.

Bond asks what Blofeld wants with those diamonds, but Blofeld says he’s tired and sends Bond off in an elevator. He’s gassed and passes out, only to be scooped up by Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd. Mr. Kidd accidentally drops some of his preferred cologne into the trunk while he and Mr. Wint are loading Bond in there, allowing Bond to get a good whiff of his scent. Bond is dropped into a construction site and is buried alive inside a big steel pipe. Bond makes friends with a rat in the tunnel, and then the two of them are chased by some sort of tunnel cleaning machine. Bond breaks the machine, causing some maintenance men to investigate and allowing Bond to escape. Bond calls Blofeld, using a voice altering machine of his own provided by Q, and Blofeld tells him to go eliminate the real Whyte. Blofeld tells his cronies to move their plans up by 24 hours, and Bond heads into the real Whyte’s house.

Inside, he finds two acrobatic bodyguards, Bambi and Thumper (Lola Larson and Trina Parks, respectively), who clean Bond’s clock in the most delightful way possible. Honestly, I could watch the two of them kill men all day long, but I won’t get the chance because Bond nearly drowns the two of them until they tell him and the FBI where the real Whyte is. They find Willard Whyte (Jimmy Dean) in the shitter. Meanwhile Case and Q, who’ve met at some point, have a fun moment where Q tries to explain to Case how he’s cheating at slots, but Case is distracted when she sees a woman carrying Blofeld’s cat. She chases after her, and is shoved into a car carrying Blofeld in drag. Miss Ernst is serving fish, and you can go ahead and jot me down for CRACK’T, H-U-N-T-Y! I’m GAGG’D by the opulence of this day drag LEWK. Blofeld strokes his kitty, secure in the knowledge that his titties is sitting and his pussy ‘bout to end this drought. Yas, kween of kweens! The judges have spoken, and we have tens across the board! WERK, Mama Blofeld!

Bond takes the FBI to Whyte’s lab, and Whyte is useless in just about every way. He calls down to the lab, and it turns out Blofeld’s arranged for a satellite to launch while no one was paying attention. The satellite’s gone rogue, though, and it turns out the diamonds were used as part of some sort of satellite-based laser, which is promptly used to blow up a whole bunch of stuff. Whyte tells Bond that Blofeld is using his satellite to hold America for ransom, and finally comes in handy as he reveals that a map shows an oil refinery in Baja California, which he has no knowledge of. We cut to said refinery, where Queen Motha Blofeld has stripped out of his evening eleganza wear and back into his boring old jumpsuit. He might be back in menswear, but trust that in his heart his mug is beat, his six-inch thigh high laced boots are tight and his weave is laid to. The. GODS.

Bond, arrives on the refinery while Miss Ernst reflects on his apparent goal of world peace after all the major countries have disarmed after having his laser pointed at them. Bond spots Case sunbathing on the refinery, which sort of throws Bond’s plan to rescue her out the window. Don’t worry, of course Case hasn’t gone to the dark side! She manages to slip Bond the cassette tape that controls the satellite, and he’s able to plant it in the control bank. Unfortunately he doesn’t tell Case any of this, and after he slips her the real cassette she switches it out for the fake, thinking she’s being a hero. Bond calls her a stupid twit, after calling her a bitch a minute before, but luckily Bond let loose a weather balloon so the FBI knows where to swarm in. Blofeld heads out in a little boat, presumably to get to the next ball in time, but Bond gets control of the crane carrying the boat and smashes it into the satellite control room before hopping overboard to find Case, who fell overboard after being generally useless.

Fast forwarding a bit, Bond and Case are setting off on a cruise with Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd on the same ship. The assassins pose as waiters, but Bond recognizes the scent of Wint’s aftershave. Bond trips Wint up by not knowing his wine, then Mr. Kidd prepares to kill Bond with some flaming kebabs, which only succeed in setting Kidd himself on fire. Bond then gets up to some ass play with Wint, which, as a gay man, he just loves, then shoves him overboard with a bomb meant for Bond. Mr. Wint explodes, but, presumably, Mr. Kidd’s still alive in the ocean somewhere and might come back to avenge his late husband. Case wonders how they’re going to get the diamonds on the satellite back to Earth, and we’re done.

The End

~~~~~

Woof, this one was rough. Aside from the less-than-thrilling plot, Connery honestly just didn’t seem like he was having a good time being Bond, or even being alive for that matter. Case was an interesting love interest at times, showing some real sass and backbone, but in the end she just seemed like a bit of a joke. I wasn’t on board with this version of Blofeld, but I was absolutely won over by the utter eleganza extravaganza that he brought to the role. SLAY, MISS ERNST! There were other moments that I loved, like Bambi and Thumper cartwheeling around, or the elephant in the casino, and Mr. Wint and Mr. Kidd were pretty great as henchmen (even though their deaths were dumb as hell). But none of those moments that I loved really had anything to do with the plot (aside from Wint and Kidd), so even though they were certainly moments of light in an otherwise gloomy grey sky I don’t think they can redeem this overly long, unexciting and not particularly memorable movie. Also, it’s clear Blofeld has a space fetish because at this point two of his three solo plots have involved space.

I give Diamonds Are Forever QQ on the Five Q Scale.

Don’t blink, because before you know it Eli will be back with his recaps of the next two episodes of The Golden Girls, “From Here to the Pharmacy” and “The Pope’s Ring”, and then I’ll post my recap of the next James Bond adventure, Live and Let Die.

Until then, as always, thank you for reading, thank you for SLAYING, MAMA and thank you for being One of Us!

[mayoperry-blog]

Six Unsent Letters

This is a project I did for an English 3 class in sophomore year. After reading “Twilight: Los Angeles, 1992″ by Anne Deavere Smith, I responded to the written play in a series of letters that I wish I could send to the characters in the play or to the world. 

Dear Latasha, You were too young. Just like that, your life were cut short by Soon Ja Du with to a single bullet. Du was found guilty of voluntary manslaughter, which has a maximum sentence of 16 years in prison. That’s some consolation, right? The judge gave Du probation, 400 hours of community service and a $500 dollar fine. Apparently your life is worth 16 days of community service and a couple hundred dollars. This horrific injustice did not go unnoticed. Your murder, along with Rodney King’s beating sparked outrage in Los Angeles that eventually turned into riots in 1992. You are not forgotten. I’m assuming you like Harry Potter, because you were 15 and what teenager doesn’t like Harry Potter, or at least heard of him? One of my favorite moments comes in the last book, when Harry is speaking to his parents and those who have guided him, and given their lives for him. “‘Dying? Not at all,’ said Sirius. ‘Quicker and easier than falling asleep’ ”. I hope this is how it was for you. I know that your family tries to take comfort in the fact that you did not suffer, nor did you have a single moment to feel the pain caused by that woman. No one has forgotten you, even now. Even after all these years, you are still as relevant as ever. On the 25th anniversary of your death, your family and community gathered where you died. They held candles and exchanged memories of your life cut short. The late rapper 2Pac referenced you in his posthumous 2002 hit, “Thugz Mansion”. Shakur raps, “Little LaTasha sho' grown/Tell the lady in the liquor store that she's forgiven, so come home”. The song talks about how he would rest in peace and find happiness when he is in a place where all the troubles and pains of his life come to an end. 2Pac also dropped names of African American icons, including Marvin Gaye, Billie Holiday, Sam Cooke, and Malcolm X. You are referenced among those who made an impact on the world and the African American community, because you’ve done exactly that. You have not been forgotten, and you have pushed your people to begin the contemporary fight for equality and justice in the eyes of the government. Latasha, you have done more for your people than you will ever know, and I hope that you, wherever you are, can realize that. You have not, and will never be forgotten.

Rest In Paradise Latasha. Sincerely,

Perry Mayo

Dear Mr. King, You are a legend. After your infamous beating from the LAPD, you became the face of your people. They fought, and are still fighting, in your name among others for justice. Your excessive beating stemmed from a high speed chase that ended with you on the ground. Although only two of the four attacking police officers were indicted for your attack, it lit the fuse on a deadly civil bomb. On May 1, 1992, you came forward with a plea for peace. You requested, "People, I just want to say, can we all get along? Can we get along? Can we stop making it horrible for the older people and the kids?" You are exactly correct. There’s nothing standing in the way of justice except insane bigotry, ground­breaking excuses, and white privilege that goes back for generations. You were not the first to experience unfair treatment from those who believe themselves to be better than you, and you won’t be the last. There were the jews, the Hispanics, the African Americans, and people of color in general. Now, a new group that just has to be oppressed, the LGBTQ+ community, with a special bright red target on those who identify as transgender. Your bravery and resilience empowered those who were too afraid to stand up to their oppressors, and has inspired the silent to voice their opinions. You know what I find almost laughable? The blatant double standard for blacks versus the whites. You’ve experienced this first hand, and you won’t be the last person to do so. You were caught in a high speed chase, and then beat within minutes of death, while in 2012, Dylann Roof was captured by the police after killing nine African Americans in a church in Charleston, North Carolina. You were nearly killed for driving 110 miles per hour, while Roof was taken into custody and given a bulletproof vest during transportation. Why protect the life of a homicidal maniac, while endangering that of a speedy driver? Thank you for your fighting spirit. I’m glad that your people have such a strong sense of unity and fight, because your uphill battle for justice is long from over. History will inevitably repeat itself, but I know that you are ready for the fight, and you will overcome whatever obstacles are thrown in your path. I can only hope that you are proud of yourself for sparking this revolution, and that you realize how many doors you opened for your people. Rest in peace, Rodney.

Sincerely, Perry Mayo

Dear Miss Rae, or Queen Malkah, Author Ralph Ellison wrote that as an African American “I am invisible... simply because people refuse to see me...When they approach me they see only my surroundings, themselves, or figments of their imagination—indeed everything and anything except me.” You can relate and absolutely agree, I’m sure. After the murder of Latasha Harlins, you spoke out about the unity of the African Americans, and your opinion on Charles Lloyd, a well­known black attorney, and how he represented and defended Soon Ja Du, who had killed one of his fellow African Americans. You’re right. He sold his card. He’s a sellout, trading in the pride of his ethnicity and the history for a fat paycheck. He doesn’t deserve to stand by you, if you thought for one second that he was a loss, you are sorely mistaken. He is as useless as a bicycle to a fish in my eyes. It’s people like you who will keep the fight alive, and keep spirits high. You value unity and standing together, especially in times of oppression and opposition. You recognize the disparity of justice between the African Americans, or people of color for that matter, and the white community. Not only do you recognize it, you speak out against it, something many would not do in the 1990s. You see beyond the fake promises of the Pledge of Allegiance for God’s sake. Liberty and justice for all, as long as you’re white, cisgendered, and heterosexual. What a great country we live in. You told Anna Deavere Smith, “if­the­white­media­does­not­decide­to­print­something­that­happens­to­us,­we­won’t­know/ ... Because justice denied Latasha Harlins/Is justice denied every American citizen.” Once again, your majesty, you’ve hit the nail right on it’s pretty little head. Skin tone doesn’t determine what someone deserves, in any circumstance. As soon as people see things from your point of view, the world will be infinitely better. You’d be proud, I think. With all of the movements that have sprung from your injustice, from chanting “Hands up, don’t shoot”, to staging “die­ins” based on the times that the victims cried for help or lay slain on the sidewalk, I’d imagine that you’re pretty proud. You’ve always been aware of the fact that based on the amount of melanin in your skin, you will have higher, harsher, and millions more hurdles than any of us out here, any of us trying to get by. But you, my dear, have navigated those roadblocks with ease and the grace of a golden pheasant. Your people need someone like you.

Here are my instructions for you, Queen Malkah: When times get tough, and big, bad history rears it’s head and tries to trample you and your spirits, you be there to lead your people. You hold your head high, raise your sword to the sky, unleash a battle cry more chilling than death itself, and run. Sprint headfirst into injustice, slashing anything in your way and reduce it to a dust. You charge, and you fight, and fight, and fight until you can’t fight anymore. Even then, you push through, until you’ve made it to the other side with your people close behind. Once you are in the beautiful forest clearing with your warriors surrounding you, only then, can you relax and celebrate your victory as equals of those who have pushed you down. But until then, rally your troops, and continue your battle for equality. We’ll be behind you, waiting for your cues. Thank you, your highness, I applaud you for your bravery.

Sincerely, Perry Mayo, a willing warrior at your service.

Mr. Zimmerman, I will not start this letter with “dear”, because that word implies adoration. You murdered an innocent man. It doesn’t matter if Trayvon Martin seemed “suspicious”. You were told, by the authorities, to star in your SUV and to not approach the teenager. Even if it was self defense, you went against the orders of police and instigated a fight with Trayvon, which ended with the teenager dead in the street. That’s not the worst part, I believe. In my eyes, the most sadistic part of the situation came after you murdered a 17­year­old boy. You put the gun used to kill Trayvon online, and tried to auction it off. Bidding in an online auction for the gun reached $65 million at one point as people on the Internet drove the offers to astronomic levels. Many of those were sarcastic, George, I can assure you that. A top bidder whose account has been since deleted, at one point used the name “Racist McShootface”. Another bidder competed for the weapon under the name Tamir Rice, another victim of police brutality. Tamir was killed by police while carrying a toy gun. He was 12. I just want to make it known that people are against you. I also hope that you know that by murdering Trayvon, you added about a thousand gallons of fuel to the fire that is propelling the black community. So, in a dark, twisted sense of the phrase, thank you, George. Thank you for showing adults that they can’t trust the police or neighborhood watch to keep their community safe or their children alive. Thank you for teaching teenagers that they should stay clear of the police instead of going to them for help. Thank you for teaching kids that the police are more dangerous than criminals themselves, and that you won’t protect them, you’ll kill them. Thank you for giving the next generation and the generations to come a precautionary tale about what happens when white privilege is added to racism, and multiplied by an accessible deadly weapon. So thank you, again really, thank you George, for opening our eyes to more horrors, and teaching us that monsters aren’t just in closets or under beds, on wanted posters or in jail. They’re on our streets, wearing government uniforms, and are trusted with the responsibility protecting the community. Thank you, George Zimmerman, for pushing the black community to fight that much harder for themselves, against people like you.

Sincerely, Perry Mayo

Dear Mr. Garner, You did not die in vain. After being choked to death for selling loose cigarettes, you became one of the faces that headed the “Black Lives Matter” movement. Your plea for help. “I can’t breathe!”, is being used as a battle cry for those fighting for justice. It’s not just in your city, or just those who know you. For two days in a row, a group of white collar professionals staged “die­ins” in support of calls for increased police accountability following the deaths of unarmed black men. Also, dozens African American men gathered on the front steps of the courthouse in downtown L.A. and held a silent vigil for those who have died in police confrontations. At about the same time in Oakland, protesters chained themselves to the city Police Department's headquarters. You helped fuel a movement that is sweeping this nation. Don’t you ever doubt for a second that you died for nothing. Something I find sick is that media has tried to humanize your killer. Daniel Pantaleo, the NYPD officer who choked you, has received so many death threats that a police detail guards his Staten Island home around the clock. People want to avenge you. The media has tried to cover up the crime of Pantaleo, by telling us about his childhood, his achievements, his innocence. They tell us about his teachers glowing comments, and that he received awards as an honorable Eagle Scout. We see past that. We know that the media is whitewashing your death, and making it seem like you asked for it. They say, “well, he was a threat who needed to be subdued”. It’s all bullshit. We know, and we are fighting for others to join us. Your untimely death has helped millions realize the type of false reality that we live in, and you’ve opened people’s eyes to the fact that the police aren’t always the good guys, and that black men aren’t always the bad guys. You’ve given people another reason to fight, and one more name to drop when the topic of injustice is breached. With three words, you’ve dumped gallons of butane on the roaring wildfire of black rage, and for good reason. “I can’t breathe”, and the entire black community is suffocating. You’ve given everyone, black or not, stranger or family member, one more thing to fight for. You should be proud of yourself, even if it doesn’t feel that way. Just know that you’ve done well by yourself and your community. I hope that you can finally breathe. Rest In Paradise, Eric.

Sincerely, Perry Mayo

Dear World That I Live In, These past two years, I’ve had my eyes opened to the world around me, and the world within myself. I have not yet fully come to consciousness, for that takes hundreds of years. I personally believe that no one has ever completely come to consciousness. What even is consciousness in the first place? Who am I to determine when or how one has their eyes opened to everything and anything, to the core of what holds our thoughts together, and what keeps us from literally going insane? I’ll tell you what consciousness is. Consciousness is everything and nothing. It is the balance between finding co­dependence and self love. It is realizing why we’re here and what we’re doing, while also not questioning why or how or what, and just being. You don’t need answers.

Consciousness is. How do we come to consciousness? How does one begin to become aware, while remaining in their personal matrix? We don’t. Here’s the only thing that we can do. Fall back into your beingness, let it catch you, and you are at home. There is nothing to do, nothing to change, nothing to fix. Just be. History repeats itself. The same ideas circle around every hundred years, and every hundred years, those same ideas drag the human race to the lowest of low,, to the depths of rock bottom. We sit, and wallow, and fight, until finally, one or two sensible people realize what humans have done to each other, and they pull us back up to a point where we can once again be proud of ourselves. When any given group oppresses another, the oppressed will soon enough turn around and take down another group. The vicious cycle has killed billions and will continue to kill until the world is reduced to a devastatingly singular and lonely person who has no one left, for everyone else was killed by the cyclical hate. One will remain, after the rest of the world has committed global suicide.

You, my dear, are sailing on the widespread and glistening wings of pure imagination if you think, for a single second, that the human race can go forth without destroying itself through a made up hierarchy based on one’s skin tone or who they fall in love with, how much they earn or what lies between their legs.

Here’s my two cents, coming from a teenager who’s seen more than they need to see to make a decision. I call my theory “The Fiji Complex”. I’ve been to Fiji twice, and I came to one

of the biggest realizations of my life during my second trip. I experienced an epiphany, if you will. I realized that the community had a completely different outlook on life, one that seems foreign and possibly laughable to anyone else. The way that Fiji operates is simple, with every citizen living their lives almost identically to their neighbors, whether they realized it or not. They put others before themselves. This is how I see it. Whoever it is, their needs, preferences, assurances or fears come before yours. When you are with someone else, they are top of mind.

Now, it may seem stupid and unrealistic, but it’s not. By putting someone before yourself, you don’t have to ignore your needs, you don’t have to sacrifice yourself for them to live. It’s not, and will never be, a win­lose situation. It’s a mindset. The way that they operate on the islands resonates with me, because it’s one of the most simple theories I’ve ever come across. When you help someone, they’ll turn around and help you. That’s what it comes down to. If you go out of your way to make someone comfortable, sooner than later, they’ll return the favor when you’re in need. If you put ten people before yourself, when the time comes, and you need help, there are ten people on hand who will be at your side at the drop of a hat, simply because you were there for them however long ago. It’s stupidly simple. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. In Fiji, there was no moral hierarchy. People were classified by clan and bloodline, income and gender, but inside, everyone was the same. No one was better or worse, morally or in terms of their mindset. They all had the same core value: the comfort of others. Whoever you are, foreigner, local, man, woman, child, gay, straight, whatever. If you are there, they will make you comfortable, and you will inevitably return the favor.

Now, you may not think, “because they helped me, I have to help them”. As a matter of fact, that thought won’t ever cross your mind. Something from inside will spark, and you will want to help. You’ll long for the feeling of being able to help someone, purely because you want to and you know it’s the right thing to do. With their comfort, yours will come. If you touch 100 people, just by doing small things like opening a door for them, giving up your seat, or even greeting them and acknowledging their existence, you have made 100 allies. You will have 100 people who will stand behind you and push you forward, and 100 people who will be ready to catch you if you fall, and help you back to the place you were at before you fell. Now, imagine if you did this with every person you met, every person you’ve interacted with. When the time

comes, you will have an army bigger than the Romans, stronger than the Spartans, all fighting for you. We need to remember who we really are. There is one earth but a million worlds, and no world is more important than another.

Behind race, income, orientation, gender, we are all humans. We all live together, and we’re all going to end up six feet under sooner or later. There’s not a single reason as to why you wouldn’t help someone. Social norms be damned. I can assure you, with 100% confidence, that helping that man on the street carry his bag is a million times more important than making your subway ride. I can say, without a doubt in my mind, that stepping in front of a child harassing another kid is a billion times more noble and touching than donating a fat check to a charity. The Fiji Complex takes everyone’s fears and social biases, innate or taught discriminations, and throws them out the window. Nothing is more important than a human life, and the value of the person, no matter who they are. A “lowly” beggar is worth just as much as a king adorned in jewels. Both have a heartbeat, a brain, and a conscious. Those are all the similarities you need to treat someone well and with respect.

Once people realize this, everything will be fine. Once people decide that your neighbor is more important than yourself, even just for a second, the world will be one step closer to living in peace, without fear of obliterating the human race. Police will be heroes again, black people will just be people, wars will be a thing of the past. Now, I can’t say how long this will take. Thousands of years. Maybe millions. We may even kill ourselves with pollution before this idea fully circulates the globe, but as long as people begin to realize what they’re doing, progress will be made. As long as two people have their eyes opened to reality, and what we can do as a human race to turn it around, I will feel satisfied. As long as one kid becomes aware of himself and those around him, I’ve done my job. But, until then, we won’t stop fighting. Queen Malkah, myself, and any other person who sees how pure this world can become will continue to preach and spread our message until the day we die. I hope that this idea of a united world isn’t just a dream.

For the last time, Sincerely,

Perry Mayo