#anyone who says this can go snort fiberglass

[aestophobia]

being aroace and also a picky eater is just a constant stream of "well how do you know you won't like it if you never try it"

[keelywolfe]

FIC: The Royal We ch.2 (baon)

Summary: Family helps family. Sometimes right into the path of an oncoming car.

Tags:  Spicyhoney, Kustard, Established Relationships, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Part of the ‘by any other name’ series.

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Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

Note:  Just remember as you're reading this that all endings are eventually happy ones in 'By Any Other Name'!

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One of the first things Red set up for the newly created security department in New New Home was a phone tree for calling out in case of an emergency. The first contact called their contacts, those contacts called theirs, and so on. Slightly archaic, perhaps, but Red had his reasons, bluntly explained, “if you actually talk to ‘em, you know they got the message and it don’t get jumbled up in a buncha chat replies. no one ever has ta call more’n three people, so it don’t take long and we got a better idea of whose gonna show up.”

In this case, it worked perfectly. It hardly took more than a couple of minutes for Edge to call his contacts and within ten, Monsters were already showing up at the house.

Edge spread out a map of New New Home on the hood of his car, using a felt-tipped pen to mark off grids. Next to it was a picture of Jude taken from their own refrigerator, proudly holding up the lumpy volcano he made one weekend in one of Stretch’s impromptu science classes. So young, only six years old, still an infant when they came to the surface; he would have no memories of living underground, nothing but his entire life on the surface to look forward to.

He glanced back at the porch where Stretch was sitting with Janice, talking to her in a low, soothing murmur, her other son sitting at their feet. She’d tried to rush off again to search, but in her panicked state, Edge was more concerned that she’d end up hurting herself than finding her son. He didn’t know what Stretch told her that convinced her to stay, but then, Stretch was always good at finding the right thing to say. If she couldn’t be coaxed to sit inside, then the porch was a reasonable alternative.

The Dog family was unsurprisingly the first to arrive, their oversized SUV pulling up next to the curb. Their protective nature towards children extended far beyond their own and every member of their family was present, even the youngest pup tucked sleeping into a carrier strapped to Dogamy’s back.

Without a word, Edge held up a small jacket, one of Jude’s, brought to them by his older brother, Oscar. If he weren’t already heavily invested in finding this child, Oscar’s expression would have cemented it, his fears hidden beneath brave determination to help protect his little brother in any way he could. It stirred old memories, ones that Edge rudely shoved away as the Dogs passed the jacket around, each of them sniffing intently.

“Dogamy, you and Dogaressa start in grid one,” Edge ordered, tapping the square on the map with a gloved fingertip. “That’s the last place he was seen, see if you can pick up a scent. Greater Dog and Doggo, grid two. If you find anything, call my cell phone before you come back, all right?”

“Got it,” Dogamy growled out. His wife nodded and the two of them loped off, their kin at their heels even as more cars began arriving, other Monsters walking up to get their own search grid.

Not long after, Undyne pulled up and came to a screeching stop at the curb, struggling to get from behind the wheel of her jeep. For most of her pregnancy, she’d hardly showed, but in the past couple weeks, she’d…blossomed, was the word Alphys used, her eyes glowing with adoration behind the lenses of her glasses. Privately, Edge thought ballooned might be more fitting considering the waddle she’d recently gained as she made her way towards him.

“Whatcha got left,” Undyne pushed in next to him to examine the map. With her belly leading the way, she very nearly bounced him into the yard.

Edge recovered and returned, leaning back in. “There’s a few grids left,” Edge said. He pointed out a sector. “We started closest to where he was last seen and spiraled out.”

“Good plan,” Undyne murmured.

“If you’re thinking of taking a grid for yourself, I’d like to invite you to think again.” Edge let his gaze drop meaningfully to her swollen belly. Her t-shirt could no longer contain it and from beneath the hem an expanse of taut, deep blue skin was peeking out, paler stretch marks striping along the sides, battle scars, according to her and Edge did not doubt it.

She graced him with a shameless, needle-sharp grin and gave her exposed belly a scratch, “Like you could stop me? Nah, Al already gave me a fin-full, I’m here for support purposes only.” She leaned in again, bracing a clawed hand on the hood as she studied the marked off grids with a nod, “Looks like you’ve got it mostly covered, anyway. Kid couldn’t have gotten too far, Dogs’ll sniff him out.”

Edge glanced up at the porch again where Janice was sitting, holding a coffee mug in clenched hands. Next to her on the table was a pile of crumpled tissues, the box close by. His competent assistant was nowhere in sight, lost in her worries for her son. Edge pitched his voice low as he said, “Let’s hope so.”

At that moment, there came a burst of sound from behind them reminiscent of the false flatulence from San’s whoopy cushion. To Edge, it was annoyingly familiar, the sound of his brother’s teleportation caused by the displaced air. Stretch’s sounded more like the sharp pop from a bubble of chewing gum, and Edge did not assume that the shortcutters in their family had control of the sound it made past the fact that it made sound at all, but he couldn’t help noting sourly that it suited their personalities nonetheless.

Undyne was less accustomed to having short skeletons popping in and out around her, and she jumped, her unsteady balance almost sending her sprawling on the car hood as she swore, “Fuck me, Red, give a little warning!”

Red snorted loudly, “ya look like someone beat me to it.”

He ignored her renewed curses, crawling up on the bumper to get a view of the map, sneakers squeaking against the fiberglass while Edge grit his teeth. He still hadn’t forgiven Red for his earlier cruelty, but this wasn’t the time. “Where is Sans?”

Red shrugged, his eye lights intent on the map, “checking a few things.”

Casually said and Edge left it at that. As this world’s Judge, Sans might have some insight into possible scenarios, he always knew more than he should. Like his brother. Like Stretch.

Edge knew little about Judging, by design. He hadn’t even known his brother was one until he became Captain of the Guard and it was Asgore who advised him of what it might entail, a discussion best forgotten. Stretch never brought it up, even on the very rare occasions when he spoke of Chara. It was easy to forget the unpleasant role he was forced to play in his own world.

“this area here is clear,” Red tapped a finger on grid seven, the one near the school. Edge didn’t question him, only crossed out the square and a low, distant howl made them all look up to see Dogaressa loping towards them, her long pink tongue lolling out as she ran.

“Report,” Edge said crisply even as she panted, catching her breath.

*Scent was strong, leaving his yard, went two streets, south,* she pointed at the map and Edge circled where she indicated. *then gone.*

“Gone? How could it be gone?” Edge demanded.

Dogaressa shook her head sadly, *Bike, car, vehicle of some sort, maybe. Not enough trace to follow. We’ll keep scouting, see if we can’t pick up the trail again.*

“Thank you,” Edge said, heavily. He chose not to look at Janice; seeing the crumbling hope on her face wouldn’t help find her son any faster.

Dogaressa nodded and loped off again.

Red hopped down from the bumper. “gonna head off, too, bro, got some cameras i can check, see if we can get a bead on him.” He reached up and pointed with a sharp-tipped finger. “get someone out to grid eight.”

“That’s very far for him to have traveled.”

“not with a bike or somethin’ and there’s a kinda treehouse out there that the kiddos use.” Red lowered his voice, “if it was a car, we got other problems than a simple lost kid.”

“I know,” Edge murmured. He spared a glance at Undyne who was listening silently with her hands folded over her belly. Her expression was a thundercloud; none of them wanted to voice their suspicions aloud. Much as he wished otherwise, Monsters were not exempt from criminals in their ranks, even where children were concerned. That was one of the few areas that Edge left in the control of others. He couldn’t trust himself to face anyone who would deliberately hurt a child, his soul burned even to consider it, a coal set inside his ribcage as he struggled to rid himself of the very thought. Janice needed his cool competence, not undefined rage at someone who might very well not exist.

Next to him, Undyne visibly struggled with her own anger, cradling her belly in both hands. “Go see if you can figure out what happened to the kid, Red,” she said low, “we’re depending on you, boss.”

Red grimaced, teeth gnashing, “don’t go giving me titles now, i’m more the take-ya-to-my-leader type.” He stepped back, vanishing into the void.

There was nothing to do but continue the search until Red reported back. Edge returned to the map, considering who to send to the next grid when a tug at his elbow made him jerk, very nearly lashing out. He stifled the reaction back, forcibly tamping down the agitated LV in his soul; his frustrations and anger were not serving him well here, blast it all.

At his side, Oscar looked up at Edge without the slightest clue to his inner turmoil. He was entirely too invested in his own, twisting his hands together with bright tears glimmering his eyes. Edge crouched down, close to his height, and asked with as much gentleness as he could muster, “Oscar? What is it?”

The child mumbled something too low to be heard.

Edge glanced at Undyne and handed over the pen in a silent ask for her to take over. She nodded, already grabbing her phone, as Edge said, coaxingly, “It’s all right, Oscar, whatever it is, you can tell me.”

“It’s my fault,” Oscar said, low. The tears standing out in his eyes finally shed, dripping down to wet the short fur on his face. “It’s all my fault.”

Edge exhaled slowly. “How is it your fault?”

“I yelled at him,” Oscar burst out, his voice breaking on a sob, “We were tryin’ to set up a fort and he kept knocking things over, ‘n getting in the way. I yelled at him to go away and now—”

Of course. Children were alike no matter where they were from, it seemed, so often taking on a disproportional amount of blame that no one expected them to carry. Edge slid a careful arm around his quivering shoulders and gave him a gentle little shake, “Oscar, I need you to listen to me. Are you listening?”

He nodded, sopping at his wet face with his sleeve.

“It’s not your fault.”

“It is--!”

“No,” Edge said firmly. “Sometimes brothers fight, sometimes they say things they don’t mean.”

That caught Oscar’s attention. He frowned, reluctantly intrigued, or perhaps hopeful to think an adult like Edge still squabbled with his brother. “You and your brother fight?”

“Constantly,” Edge said dryly, “and as recently as today. But that doesn’t mean I don’t love him or that I wish any hurt on him. It doesn’t mean I don’t care. You didn’t mean for Jude to wander off, it is not your fault. All right? Now, go sit with your mother. She loves you both very much and she needs you right now.”

He nodded, a little less miserably and headed back to the porch where Stretch and Janice were still sitting. Janice enfolded her son into her arms the moment he was in reach and the two of them clung to each other. Stretch leaned in to say something and Janice nodded. He stood and headed towards Edge, quick strides that were nothing like his usual lazy saunter.

“babe,” Stretch said, low, “i'm gonna head off and help look.”

Edge resisted the initial, ridiculous urge to deny him. Stretch was an adult, older than him as Stretch so often liked to point out, and Edge could hardly forbid him the right to join the search groups. They were in New New Home, not out in Ebott amongst the Humans, he couldn’t play at the protector by keeping his husband under lock and key. “All right,” Edge agreed, softly. “What grid do you want?”

“none,” Stretch said. He reached over and waved a hand loosely over the map. “babe, this is the right direction for everyone else, but i'm not about to stick myself to one spot when i can be halfway across town in two steps. you,” he pointed at Edge, “stay put, rally the troops or whatever, you do not need to be tromping around on that leg.”

“I hadn't planned on it.” He did not say he’d already mentally calculated the damages vs what assistance he could provide. The possible benefits did not outweigh the costs, it was not worth losing searchers if they were forced to assist him. Before Stretch could vanish, Edge blurted out, “I love you.”

It earned him a lopsided smile in return, “love you, too.” And with a single step Stretch was gone, shortcutting away nearly silently while Edge turned back to the map and Undyne, readying the next wave of searchers.

Hours went by, various groups checking in as they finished searching their grid. As soon as their section was cleared, a person was assigned in it to stay while the others moved on.

A text came from his brother, terse information that Jude climbed on a scooter where the Dogs lost his scent, and he’d been traveling north when he disappeared from camera view. The relief that he hadn’t gotten into a car was brief and the search was redirected, grids marked off. Jeff and Antwan reported nothing, as did the Bun family, who paused only briefly to comfort their kin before heading back out in search of hers. Doggo returned, tail between his legs, to report that the scent hadn’t been found again.

The day was dragging on, the weather cooling as the sun dipped lower, but they weren’t giving up, not with a child out there lost in it.

Undyne went inside to use the bathroom twice, muttering about her abused bladder and pausing to talk with Janice and Oscar each time. On her last trip, she brought out the blanket that was usually draped over the back of the sofa, bundling the two of them in its warm folds. Her earnestly encouraging expression fell when she began walking back to Edge, replaced with more grimness with every minute that ticked past.

“There was nothing in grid twenty-five,” Papyrus said. His normal exuberance was dulled, his earlier confidence that Jude would quickly be found wavering into disbelief.

Undyne gave him a punch on the arm that nearly sent him to the ground, “Don’t you even give a hint that you’re giving up, nerd,” Undyne hissed. She jerked her head towards the house. “And sure as fuck not in front of moms back there.”

“Of course not!” Papyrus lifted his chin and straightened his shoulders, “Now I need a new grid to search!”

It was starting to get dark, the sun cresting the horizon and sending the neighborhood into dim twilight. Edge went into the garage and flipped on the outside lights, illuminating his car and the map on it.

“Edge,” Undyne leaned in, her voice pitched low, “Look, I know none of us want to think it, but we might need to look into contacting the Human Authorities.”

“Noted,” Edge said tersely.

“Humans have gotten in here before, and if one did and snatched the kid, the longer we wait, the—”

She broke off, grimacing, her shoulders hunching as her hand hovered over her belly.

Edge could only stand with his own hands hovering uncertainly even as he said, sharply, "Are you all right?"

A long moment passed, then she managed, "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Don't you bullshit me, if you make me deliver your child, I will never forgive you."

Undyne gave a rough laugh, "Pal, giving you a front row seat to my shrimp salad is nowhere on my menu. Braxton Hicks contractions, been having ‘em for weeks." She took a couple of long, slow breaths, then straightened, “Now, about the Humans.”

“I have no issue with Humans, I have plenty of issues with the Human authorities,” Edge snapped. Behind him, he heard a small, alarmed sound from Janice and lowered his voice, “even if a Human somehow managed to get into New Home without being seen, snatch Jude, again without witnesses, and miraculously leave with him the same way they came in, I’m not convinced the Ebott Police would actually assist us.” Edge paused, his mouth twisting, “That said, Asgore contacted the mayor’s office already, they are aware of the situation.”

Undyne made a rude sound, “Should’ve known you were a step ahead of me.” She glanced at the porch. “I’m gonna sit with mama up there for a few, it’s getting dark, she’s worried out of her mind, and my dogs are barking the moonlight sonata.”

“Go sit,” Edge told her, softly. He watched her waddle up the sidewalk, that encouraging expression already pasted into place, then he looked out into the neighborhood. The streetlights were coming on, bright puddles of light spaced out along the road that left dark patches between them.

Flashlights were on their way, but what were the odds of their search parties finding the child in the dark when they couldn’t find him in the daylight? Edge shook the thought away, despair had no place here, they would keep searching until the child was found. No matter what.

Even as he thought it, he heard the sudden pop of teleportation, bubblegum sweet, and he turned to see Stretch tumbling out into the middle of their front yard with Jude in his arms. Both of them were filthy, their clothing stained and soiled with dried leaves clinging. One was tangled stubbornly into one of Jude’s floppy ears. Jude’s small face was awash with tears and Stretch’s pale and sweaty, as if perhaps he’d teleported them some distance and was at the end of his endurance.

Before Edge could demand answers or even move, Janice was stumbling from the porch, tripping into the grass and crawling towards her son, laughing and crying in the same breath.

Stretch handed him awkwardly over, "he's okay, mama, little cold and tired, maybe."

"Thank you," she sobbed out, clinging to her child. Jude was holding on just as tight and both of them slung an arm around Oscar when he joined them. Janice managed to pull away long enough to ask, laughing around her tears, “Where? Where was he?”

“out in old new home,” Stretch slumped back into the grass, sockets tiredly closed. “there’s some paths out there that the kids like, leftover from when they were putting up those first houses. looks like when they stopped construction, they tossed some boards over a pit and didn’t fill it in. kiddo was lucky enough to find it, huh, champ?”

Jude only clung to his mother, his sobs muffled into her shoulder. Headlights were already coming down the street, groups returning from the search. Chances were Red alerted them the child was found, and as they poured from their cars, all their expressions were ones of purest relief.

“I’ll get a team out first thing in the morning to fill it in,” Edge began, “Stretch, can you show me on the map where—”

Undyne’s voice interrupted him, soaring over the growing crowd. “Now that we found the kid, can, uh, someone take me to the hospital? Think it’s time for me to meet my rugrat in person.”

The brief silence was almost as deafening as the sudden chorus that rose up of Monsters volunteering. In the end Papyrus took her, loudly claiming his right as Best Bud. Edge only stood back, grateful that it wasn’t him, and watched as Undyne nearly punched him for trying to help her into the car. The crowd began to thin, Jeff and Antwan heading off to retrieve Alphys and the Bun family claiming Janice and her children in between profuse thank yous.

Janice paused as she walked past him, Jude in her arms and Oscar at her side. “Thank you,” she said. Her voice was hoarse from crying, brimming with gratitude.

“You’re welcome,” Edge told her with quiet sincerity, and when he awkwardly held his arms out, she immediately leaned into the brief embrace. As she headed towards her brother’s car, Edge called out impulsively, “You can pay me back by handling all the press briefings tomorrow!”

Her sudden laughter was a relief from the previous onslaught of tears, “That’s a deal, boss!”

The other searchers had already headed for home, happy ending achieved, and Edge turned back to their house…and saw that Stretch hadn’t stood up yet. He was still sitting in the damp grass with his skull cradled in his hands.

“Love?” Edge knelt and saw with some alarm that his sockets were tightly closed. He was trembling, his hands rattling against his skull as they shook, and the bones were bleached nearly white, the soft orange glow of magic that usually lit his joints was dim. “Rus? Are you all right?”

“help me inside?” Stretch asked, tightly.

He very nearly scooped Stretch into his arms, injured leg be damned, and right into the car to head in for a room next to Undyne’s in the hospital. Instead, Edge tamped that impulse down and did as Stretch asked. Carefully helped him to his feet and guided him to the door, pausing only to snatch up the blanket from the chair Janice had been sitting in before leading him inside.

tbc

[geek-patient-zero]

Part 1, Chapter 1

Or: Big Detective

Blood War: Masquerade of the Red Death Trilogy Volume 1

There are some secrets which do not permit themselves to be told. Men die nightly in their beds, wringing the hands of ghostly confessors, and looking them piteously in the eyes--die with despair of heart and convulsion of throat, on account of the hideousness of mysteries which will not suffer themselves to be revealed.

“The Man in the Crowd”

Edgar Allen Poe

I’ve heard people say that beginning stories with quotes like this is pretentious, but I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t considered some for stories I’ve been thinking up. I’m partial to the “feel for your hatchet” quote from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe for one of them. As for how this quote relates to the story, I guess it’s a good way to describe the Masquerade, or the World of Darkness in general, or as a fancy way of hinting to the audience about the nature of the story’s mysteries. Or it just sounds cool?

St. Louis—March 10, 1994

Missouri isn’t the place I’d expect a vampire story to be set, but I guess everywhere has its shadowy underworld.

Two years after the prologue, we’re introduced to the first of the main viewpoint characters. He realizes he’s being followed, thanks to “A sixth sense, the result of years of detective work...” He pretends to scratch his foot and casually scans the crowd.

It was late, nearly midnight, but in St. Louis’ ‘adult’ entertainment strip, things were just starting to happen.

Dozens of people crowded the sidewalk. Men and women, black and white, they were all part of the usual weekend crowd. Cheap whores in black leather outfits that exhibited all of their charms mixed with high-class hookers dressed in silks. In a tough economy, both were anxious for business. Teenagers and college students hunted for drugs, bargaining with street dealers for the best price. Red-faced drunks begged for quarters. Young kids, dressed in rags and violating the curfew, danced on street corners, looking to grow up fast.

A hellhole full of life, in other words.

Young and old, they shared one trait in common. None of them expressed the least bit of interest in the motionless figure of Dire McCann.

We get the full name of our first main POV character. It reminds me of when one of the Penny Arcade guys named their D&D character “Jim Darkmagic”, but without the self awareness.

Dire had been traveling around America for the past few months, so he doesn’t know who he could have pissed off enough recently to get someone to track him. He’s recently been working for Alexander Vargoss, “a rich and powerful industrialist”, and, unsurprisingly, a vampire.

McCann couldn’t believe that his missions for Vargoss had anything to do with his tail tonight. Nobody with any intelligence, even major crooks, hassled the secretive industrialist or interfered with his plans. Besides being incredibly wealthy, with connections in both the police department and the mayor’s office, Vargoss was also the most powerful vampires in St. Louis. In the argot of the Kindred, he was the Prince of the city. And, like the medieval princes of old, from whom the term had been taken (yeah, no shit), Vargoss ruled with an iron hand. Any Kindred or kine (human) foolish enough to cross him ended up dead. The permanent end of the Final Death.

The narrator tells us a little about McCann.

Mysteries annoyed McCann.

Then you’re in the wrong profession, buddy. Wrong franchise too, come to think of it.

Especially when they revolved around him. Though he possessed extraordinary patience, the detective never delayed the inevitable, As he repeatedly told acquaintances, he liked to face the devil straight up.

I’m now picturing McCann as one of those guys who force a catchphrase and annoy those acquaintances by trying to insert it into everything as the whole room groans. 

“Beer shouldn’t be green, even when it’s St. Patrick’s Day. But I’ll try one anyway, cause as we all know... I like to face the devil straight up.”

Luckily for the other characters, he doesn’t actually use that phrase in the story.

Oftentimes, that policy lead to bloodshed. But McCann, though he deemed himself the quiet type, was no stranger to violence. When necessary, he was quite deadly.

It’s mentioned that McCann’s carrying a stack of letters and a small box, and goes on to explain McCann’s mail collecting habits; how he collects from an all-night delivery center because while it’s more expensive he at least doesn’t have to worry about clerks stealing anything valuable.

The certainty of being watched had not started until after he had retrieved his mail. That perplexed McCann. A stakeout meant a long-term commitment of time and resources. He wondered who was after him? And why? The detective meant to find out.

We’ve safely established that Dire McCann is one of those old hard boiled mystery novel style private eyes. One who occasionally does jobs for a vampire. Nowadays private detectives are usually portrayed as weird creeps who bug phones and peek in windows to take photos of cheating spouses, like paparazzi for normal folk. More realistic, sure, but not a portrayal that’d last long in this setting. They’d end up seeing much more than they should, and being weird creeps with a borderline illegal profession instead of quiet but deadly badasses with careful mail collecting habits, they’d be easily killed to uphold the Masquerade.

McCann decides to face the devil straight up and heads into a nearby alley that he’s familiar with, preparing a trap. As he goes through the alley, we’re told that McCann is a great big slab of meat of a man.

A big, broad-shouldered man, standing four inches over six feet and weighing near two-fifty, the investigator moved with astonishing swiftness.

Guess he’s called “Dire” because he’s to a normal dude what a dire wolf is to a normal wolf. Still a goofy name.

The alley is dark, no lights except for moonlight, and there’re rats and trash everywhere. Time for some social commentary.

McCann stifled a snort of disgust. So much for keeping the neighborhoods clean. The main streets looked fine, but out of sight, just beyond the bend, urban decay ruled. Decades of graft and corruption had taken their toll on basic city services.  St. Louis was no different from every big city. The rich and famous received all the benefits of modern life, while the poor and middle class suffered with the crumbs. Things never really changed, McCann decided, his gaze searching the walls. At least not in his lifetime.

The story is peppered with bits like this. The World of Darkness is a Harsher, Crueler Version of Our World, but sometimes it can get a little too real. You’ll see. Oh, and don’t think I missed that ominous last line about his lifetime. The narration insists that Dire McCann is human, though...

McCann hides in an alcove a dozen steps away from the twelve-foot high steel privacy fence the alley ends at, out of sight from anyone following him. From his topcoat (all the implied hard-boiledness of a trenchcoat but without looking like a hobo) he pulls out his gun. Vampires are hard to kill and most guns are useless against them, but since it takes time for them to heal enough force can immobilize them. That’s why the narration, somewhat over dramatically. reveals that McCann’s gun isn’t a .45 automatic or a .375 Magnum, but an Ingram MAC 10, whose bullets “could rip any normal man to shreds and smash a vampire flat.”

Eventually, the guy tailing McCann shows up.

Hugging the shadows, the newcomer was a short, stocky man in his mid-thirties, with swarthy, cruel features.

Swarthy, huh? As descriptions go, swarthy is like the evil twin of “olive-skinned”. Both are used by fantasy writers to describe people of color, but in a vague way that doesn’t tell you their actual ethnicity so sometimes they could just be white people with tans like the Dornishmen in A Song of Ice and Fire. While “olive-skinned” is generally a catch-all term, “swarthy” is more negative. Which is unfortunate since swarthy literally means “dark skinned”. Now, I don’t want you to think I’m accusing Robert Weinberg of being racist. I’ve heard people say that they thought swarthy meant something like “roguish”, like a thief or pirate or something. But I wouldn’t recommend using swarthy as a description when writing.

 Also he’s called “swarthy” like five goddamn times.

The tail realizes he lost McCann and goes to examine the fence at the end of the alley, walking past McCann’s hiding spot in the process. Trap sprung, McCann steps out behind the tail MAC-10 aimed at him. After some back and forth (“Lose something, brother?” “McCann, right?”) McCann tries to ask who-

The detective never completed the sentence. The stranger’s right hand twisted unexpectedly. As if by magic, a thin cord flashed out from beneath the man’s arm and-wrapped whip like around the Ingram. McCann was caught completely by surprise. Before he could squeeze down on the trigger, the gun went flying from the detective’s hands.

Phhhhthahaha, that’s great! After all that build-up over how he uses a kickass MAC-10 instead of a Magnum like that pussy Dirty Harry, he’s immediately disarmed. By a guy who turns out to be a regular human, too.

Free of the threat of the submachine gun, the swarthy man attacked with a ferocity that had McCann reeling. A series of savage karate kicks to his chest sent the detective stumbling backwards. Steel-tipped boots felt like hammers striking McCann’s body. Growling deep in his throat, the assassin leapt into the air, aiming a sideways thrust for the detective’s head. Enough force propelled to crush McCann’s skull like an eggshell. But it never connected.

McCann grabs and twists the leg, breaking the assassin’s kneecap, then knocks him out with a wooden box. After a few minutes of searching, McCann finds his gun and the assassin’s rope.

A long thin strand of black fiberglass it was knotted in three places to crush to crush a man’s windpipe on impact. The weapon successfully melded melded modern technology with ancient sacrificial ritual.

Huh. Sounds like an interesting weapon for a guy who’ll turn out to be an unimportant throwaway assassin.

You ever heard of the inverse ninja law? How the more enemies the hero has to fight at once, the easier they are to defeat, while just one guy is a real threat? There’s a related trope that this scene reminded me of; the more unusual an opponent’s weapon is, the harder they are to defeat. A ninja wielding a katana is gonna be a chump, but the guy with the chain with a scythe at the end? Watch out for that guy. It would explain how the assassin could instantly disarm McCann like some sort of kung fu lord but go down in one move not long after he throws the rope away.

Course, that’s just tropey shit. The more practical reason the assassin lost was because he didn’t just shoot McCann after disarming him, instead resorting to riskier physical combat. But that’s why tropes like the inverse ninja law exist. They typically make the fight scenes more exciting and varied depending on context. It wouldn’t be much of a story if McCann lost his gun and then got shot in the head.

Still kind of funny how eccentric the guy’s weapon is and how much of a physical threat he briefly posed compared to how he’s about to be described. Reminds me of something I wrote during my teenage online role playing story days, where two of the protagonists fought some nameless generic guard and I made it weirdly dramatic and over the top.

McCann ties the assassin’s hands behind his back, with his own fiberglass rope to add insult to injury. He attempts to interrogate the assassin, who responds by demanding to be taken to the police and given a lawyer.

McCann smiled. “Funny thing about this part of town. Cops don’t come around here very often. They figure anyone crazy enough to wander about deserves what they get.” McCann rapped the muzzle of the gun against his prisoner’s undamaged knee. “You’re on your own, my friend. Back here, we’re isolated from view. Nobody can see or hear a thing. There’s no cops, no lawyers. Just you and me. And my gun.”

MAC-10 shots echoing out of an alley would get some attention, but the threat works. The assassin starts sweating and flickering his gaze between McCann and the gun.

Mentally, the detective shrugged in disgust. (Don’t ask me what a mental shrug is) He was wasting his time threatening this clown. It took a lot more than a veiled threat to worry a true professional. The swarthy man was cheap talent, hired merely as a diversion.

A cheap talent clown who was kicking your ass a few minutes ago, you smug meathead.

This bit highlights the problem with the previous fight scene. This assassin was shown just a few paragraphs ago to be an expert with an unusual weapon who could turn the tables on McCann even though the detective had snuck up on him and had a submachine gun aimed at him, and a good enough physical fighter to overpower McCann with karate kicks and nearly cave his head in, but now he’s presented as an incompetent and disposable pawn who whines about wanting a lawyer. The scene could have just had the assassin pull a gun on McCann, who quickly subdues him. It’d fit the assassin’s later description as unprofessional and amateur better. Instead, Weinberg tried to go for “cool’ but ended up with “silly”. So remember, writing something just because it’s cool is fine, but try to make it consistent with the rest of the story.

Now what was that about the assassin being “hired merely as a diversion?”

A decoy! The thought slammed through McCann as the sensation of being observed suddenly flared. Instead, the big detective flung himself flat on the ground in the darkness.

I like the needless qualifier that McCann is a big detective. There’s something cute about it.

The realization that this assassin was a decoy apparently triggered a sort of spider-sense. The moment McCann, who is large, dove to the ground, a second assassin opened fire at him from the corner of the alley. They missed McCann, despite his above-average size, but killed the first guy. McCann fires back, but the new assailant already fled.

“Strike quickly, then move. That was the operational procedure of a true professional.  Never waste time on meaningless chatter or second tries. Mistakes like that were for amateurs like the dead man sprawled against the wall.

Oh what the hell is this? McCann was the one caught off guard by “meaningless chatter.” He was disarmed by the first assassin while he was talking to him. The guy was easily bamboozed by McCann’s “hide in an alcove and sneak up on him when he passes” trap, but McCann totally blew that advantage by talking so it doesn’t really count. The guy’s just blaming the poor dead man for his own screw ups. “A true professional wouldn’t have let himself get hammered in the chest by karate kicks, unlike this dead clown who totally got karate kicked and not me. Also wouldn’t have been disarmed by my, not his, weird rope thing that’s totally mine, not his.”

The big dick thinks “the real assassin” was gone.

A short, muffled gasp and a flash of white leather indicated that McCann jumped to the wrong conclusion. The detective shook his head in disbelief. The night held more surprises than he liked.

Three figures stepped into the moonlight.

We finally meet some goddamn vampires.

Their leader was a tall, aristocratic man with a face that appeared to be carved from weathered stone. He wore a black tuxedo with a ruffled white shirt, a red bow tie, and a matching red cummerband. To McCann, it was a costume right out of a wedding. Or a funeral. The detective, though, knew better than to speak his thoughts. No one dared insult Alexander Vargoss, Ventrue Clan elder. And the vampire Prince of St. Louis.

Gotta say, despite him being a Ventrue, I can respect the man for not being above walk down a filthy rat infested alley wearing a fancy wedding outfit just to dramatically reveal himself to the big oaf he occasionally employs.

A step behind him stood two nearly identical platinum blondes. White leather jumpsuits clung to their voluptuous figures like second skins. High cheekbones, pitch black eyes, and wide sensuous lips gave them a predatory look.

Well yeah, it’s a 90′s dark fantasy novel. Of course they’re hot.

McCann had encountered them before. They were Fawn and Flavia, Vargoss’s twin bodyguards. Silent and deadly, they never spoke. Or acted without direct command of their Ventrue employer. Assamite assassins, the twins enjoyed their notorious nicknames as the Dark Angels of the Kindred.

A name like ~*~The Dark Angels~*~ seems quaint nowadays, but again, 90′s fantasy novel. But hey, maybe they were named by a Toreador.

Fawn’s holding the corpse of the second assassin, a “horrified expression frozen on his face.” She has blood on her upper lip like an old “Got Milk” ad.

With a flick of her long tongue, she wiped it clean. Then, mischievously, the vampire smiled seductively at McCann.

The detective shuddered. Though she looked to be in her early twenties, McCann knew the girl and her sister were actually hundreds of years old. Oftentimes, the pair mocked him with suggestive gestures. They enjoyed pretending that passion still stirred within their perfect forms. But McCann wasn’t fooled. Along with food and drink, vampires no longer craved sex. For them, hot blood was the ultimate high. Carnal pleasures meant little to them. However, McCann had heard tales of Kindred who had taken human lovers in a desperate attempt to regain some of their lost humanity. The notion made his flesh crawl.

Way to be judgmental, investigatore grande.

There aren’t any actual sex scenes in this book, but trust me, the subject of undead sex will come up again.

Vargoss gives one of those humble little “we were just in the neighborhood” explanations. Specifically, they were on their way to McCann’s office to be haughty little undeads to their human freelance employee in a proper setting when they saw him enter the alley followed by “two lowlife scum”. They figured McCann wouldn’t want their help, so they stayed hidden.

“However, when your adversary chose to flee rather than fight, I demanded he stop.” Vargoss shook his head in mock despair. “The fool chose instead to pull his weapon on me. Fawn, of course, reacted.”

McCann loots the bodies, finding some money and a billfold he’ll examine later. There’s a paragraph giving us another glimpse at how cruel the world (of darkness) is, telling us that the assassins will be mistaken for vagrants and that since there’s fifty unexplained deaths in St. Louis every month, two dead bums won’t be mentioned in the newspaper. McCann says that Vargoss could’ve warned him before the second assassin started shooting.

“Nonsense,” said the Prince, smiling. “I had absolute confidence in your ability to deal with the situation. Circumstances proved that my trust was not misplaced.”

“That first fight, however, there I overestimated you. A shorter man with a rope was taking you to school for a while. No, don’t pull the stoic grumpy private eye act and deny what happened. We all saw it.”

“And if you were wrong?”

“There are other humans, McCann,” said the Prince. “Never forget that. I find you vastly entertaining. And quite useful despite your mortal limitations. I would mourn your passing. But you are not indispensable. There will always be others to take your place. In five hundred years, you will be no more than a pleasant memory. I will still remain.”

Vampires are to other monsters what elves are to other fantasy races: smug little shits. It’s why more people fantasize about banging werewolves and fish people these days. But Vargoss is talking down to McCann of all people here, so I’ll let it side.

“What a cheerful sentiment,” said the detective.  He picked his words very carefully. Vargoss appreciated his honesty and his sarcasm—within limits. No vampire in St. Louis mocked the Prince of the city. Much less a human, no matter how entertaining. McCann tiptoed on a tightrope where undead horrors feared to tread.

“Ah, McCann. What a scamp he is with his silly first name and his sarcastic barbs. But not too sarcastic. He knows I can make him defecate in his hands and throw it at other people like the big ape he is.”

“I cannot afford the luxury of emotions,” declared Vargoss, almost wistfully. “We Kindred are an ambitious race. It is part of our heritage. More than a few of my loyal subjects believe that they should rule this city, not I. Too many of my nights are spent squelching their ill-conceived plots.”

I’m imagining Vargoss being voiced by David Warner here. You know, the guy who voiced Ra’s al Ghul in Batman: The Animated Series, The Lobe in Freakazoid, and that one crappy villain from Gargoyles.

“Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown,” said McCann.

“Shakespeare understood the politics of power,” said Vargoss. “He should have been one of us.”

As long as he wouldn’t be made a Toreador, ‘cause then he���d spend his eternal life writing just the shittiest plays and sonnets imaginable. Also, careful there, Mr. Weinberg. Remember than Edgar Allen Poe is your dead poet waifu. You don’t want to make him jealous.

Vargoss has had enough witty back and forth and commands McCann to come to his club around midnight. He has a guest from overseas with news of “extremely disturbing events” from the former Soviet Union and for whatever reason he wants some human detective’s opinion on it.

“I’ll be there”, said the detective . “At midnight.”

“Because as we all know-”

“McCann, no-”

“I like to face the devil straight up.”

“Damn you, Dire McCann... Who’s even the devil in this context? What’s going on overseas? Me?”

Vargoss and the ~*~Dark Angels~*~ leave. As the chapter ends, McCann is standing alone in the alley with the two corpses.

Holding in his hands a small box and a stack of letters, several with foreign postmarks. And an enigmatic smile on his face.

[marshmallow-phd]

The Experiments

Genre: Sci-Fi, Thriller, Experiment AU

Pairing: Fem!Reader x Exo (????)

Summary: You were a med school graduate who just wanted to help research cures for the world. Instead, what you got was a dream job at EXO Applied Sciences. That is, until you discover the secrets of Level Sixty-Six and the nine inhabitants that are stored down there….

Warning: None

Part: 1 I 2 I 3 I 4 I 5 I 6 I 7 I 8 I 9 I 10 I 11 I 12 I 13 I 14 I 15 I 16 I 17 I 18 I 19 I 20 I 21 I 22 I 23 I Final

**

You couldn’t stay cooped up in your apartment anymore. Night had fallen, but it wasn’t quite a reasonable time yet to go to bed. So, you thought maybe a run might help exhaust you and turn off your thoughts. Oh, how wrong you were.

The problem with running was that it didn’t really take your mind off of anything; in reality, it gave you ample time to think, to see faces, to reread the reports that were etched into your head. It was all too much, coming to a climax in your head before forcing you to a complete stop right there on the sidewalk. Bent over and trying to catch your breath, you were nearly to the point of tears, aggravated that you were utterly powerless to change those boys’ fate.

As your breathing slowed down, it was just you and the quiet left behind. Until faint footsteps broke it. Glancing over your shoulder, you saw someone dressed in a black jacket, hood pulled up and covering up their face, walking towards you. You tried to act natural as you straightened up and walked on, keeping your ears open.

The pattern of the footsteps grew faster. Risking another look, you saw that the stranger was speeding up. Not hesitating, you broke into a run, pushing yourself faster, trying to get back to the safety of your apartment. But your legs just weren’t quick enough.

A pair of arms wrapped themselves around you, trapping your own underneath them and bringing the two of you to a halt. You struggled against your attacker’s hold, but you were lifted off the ground and carried to the dark alley nearby.

“Let me go or I’ll scream,” you growled. It was your only weapon. You’d never learned self-defense and you weren’t exactly in the greatest shape.

“Calm down, (y/n), it’s me.”

Marcus?

He dropped you immediately as you stopped fighting and you slowly turned to face him, dumbstruck. Then you hit him in the shoulder.

“What the hell was that?” you hissed.

He barely flinched. “I’m sorry. I went by your apartment, but you weren’t there. When I happened to come by you, I didn’t realize it was you until you started walking away.”

“So why not just call out my name?” You blinked. “Wait, how did you know where I lived?”

Marcus ran a hand through his hair, effectively removing the hood. “Well, that’s actually what I’m needing to talk to you about. You see, (y/n), you’re the only one I can trust. The only one I think who will help.”

At the momentary breeze, you pulled your jacket in closer to you. “Help with what?”

“I’ll start at the beginning.” Marcus looked you in the eye, his demeanor more serious than you’ve ever seen it before. “My name isn’t really Marcus Rand. It’s Marcus Burns and I work for a private sector of the government.”

It couldn’t be helped. You snorted. “Ha, okay. Have you been drinking, Marcus?” You sniffed, but there was no alcohol in the air.

Marcus didn’t laugh. “I’m serious, (y/n). I was put undercover three years ago, working my way to get clearance in level sixty-sixty.”

You wanted to roll your eyes at the ridiculousness of it all. “Why would the government need an undercover agent in the part of the building that’s funded by grants they gave EXO?”

“Because they never did give EXO grants for those experiments.”

Your breath hitched in your throat. Why would the company lie about something like that? Why would it matter exactly where the money came from?

“EXO is completely privately funded,” Marcus continued. “We’re trying to discover just by who because from we’ve found, EXO is not be the only company running these kinds of experiments. They’re just the most successful. We’re trying to shut it all down before the public finds out.”

“Then why doesn’t the government just storm in and close down the experiments,” you argued. “Why bother sending in an undercover agent? For years and wasting time.” Admittedly, part of you was growing angry knowing that – if what Marcus was saying was true – he stood by for years and watched the boys get tortured and tested. Granted, you weren’t doing much better.

Marcus growled. “Because the directors have bought off most of the politicians who might approve or believe any evidence presented to them. We have no proof of the illegality in what they’re doing. I can’t even prove that the volunteer forms weren’t forged.”

You perked up at that little bit of news. “They wouldn’t be legal anyway. They were all teenagers when they woke up in EXO. They told me themselves.”

Marcus didn’t join in on your enthusiasm. “There’s parental signatures on the papers. Trust me, (y/n), we’ve tried everything. There is no trace of them in any system. As far as the world is concerned, they don’t even exist. The names from the parents are probably fake, but we can’t track anyone down to verify that or not. All records of them and their families have been erased. That’s why we have to get them out of there.”

“Wait, what?” You took a step back, unsure how to process his latest statement.

“My mission has been upgraded. I no longer will just stand by and take in information anymore.” Lowering his voice, he took a step towards you. “(y/n), this is why I’m telling you all of this. I know you’re sympathetic towards them and want to help them. I need clearance that you have access to. We can get them out of there, make the testing stop, give them a chance at a real life. What do you say?”

What do you say? You wanted to say yes. You wanted to see all nine of them smile at the sun. You wanted them to no longer be afraid to close their eyes or think that every person who came near them was going to stick them needles or carry them off to a lab to be tested on endlessly. You wanted them free. But that freedom came at a cost.

Over a decade had passed since they were first introduced to the program. Could they survive out here? Could they ever have normal lives again?

And then there was you. What about what happened to you? You’d already made the mistake of trying to help once before in your life.

“No,” you concluded. “No. I’m sorry, but I can’t.”

Marcus’ jaw dropped, not expecting you answer in the slightest. “(y/n)–”

“No!” you said more harshly. “I can’t just help you with a jail break. I will lose my job and possibly go to jail. Can you guarantee that I won’t spend a single night in jail if caught?” He didn’t answer. “Thought so. And not to mention what do we do with them once we get them out? Huh? Have you thought that far?”

“We have contingencies set in place,” Marcus insisted. “I have gone over this plan and every possible scenario. I know we can do it. After we get them away from EXO, they’ll be taken to a safe house and from there we have a facility to help them transition back into society. We’ll give them all new identities. Just trust me on this.”

You scoffed. “So, from one cage to another for who knows how long.” It was hard, but you just couldn’t agree to it. You had to find another way. “No, Marcus. I’ve made my decision.”

Taking a step back, Marcus sneered at you. “I thought you wanted to help them.”

“I will,” you snapped back. “But in a way that’s not going to get us all killed.”

Ending the conversation, you walked away and back to your apartment, contemplating if this really was the right way to go.

The orderly sat there awkwardly in silence, not making any attempt to speak to you. He didn’t look at you, instead keeping his gaze down at the control panel. You stood just to his left. Arms cross and eyebrows knitted together, you gazed through the one-way mirror, watching Jongin as he shifted around on the bed.

It was a struggle not to imagine how he could look in the outside world. Girls would flock to him, that’s a fact. But was he dangerous? Not to you, but there was that underlining possibility of him losing control and hurting someone else.

The orderly began to drum his fingers against the fiberglass of the panel. Ones in his position are used to being alone most of the day, only speaking briefly with the doctors and guards that passed through a few times a day. It wasn’t the most exciting job, but it paid decently, from what you heard.

Readying yourself, you nodded to the orderly who looked relieved as he opened the door for you.

Jongin shuffled over to the corner without even looking back at you.

“It’s just me,” you informed him gently. He flipped back over, those soft eyes twinkling just a bit when they met yours. Even the corners of his lips tugged up just a bit.

“How are you today, Jongin?” you asked quietly.

He sat up even straighter. “You know my name?”

“Yes,” you smiled, sitting down in the chair. “But you didn’t answer my question.”

The invisible smile faded quickly. “I can’t sleep.”

“Are you afraid to or just not able to shut your mind off?”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. No matter how hard I try, I just can’t get comfortable. I can’t stop thinking. I thought I heard yelling coming from next door, but I couldn’t tell who it was.”

Jongdae. What did they do to him?

You moved the chair to the point where your knees were up against the mattress. It was completely unprofessional, but you ignored that stupid little voice and took Jongin’s hand in yours.

“Tell me what’s going on up there,” you pleaded. “Let’s see if we can help you sleep.”

Squeezing your hand, he scooted closer to you. “You might not like what you find in my head.” When you didn’t agree with him, he just sighed. “Sometimes, I imagine hurting them.”

“The guards?” you guessed.

“And the doctors. Make them know what it feels like to not have a choice.” Jongin’s grip on your hand tightened. “See how they’d like to be poked and dragged. Treated like nothing. I hate that I think this way, but it’s the only thing that’s keeping me from exploding completely.” You tried not to let your discomfort show as his hand squeezed yours tighter and tighter as he spoke, but the pain became too much and a whimper escaped. He panicked as he let go of your hand, pushing back away from you until his back slammed against the wall. “I’m sorry!”

“You’re okay,” you reassured him, holding your arms out to him, letting him know that no harm was done. “I’m fine. You’re just a little strong, that’s all. It was just an accident.”

Jongin turned his face away from you. “I think you should go.”

You frowned. “Jongin, you didn’t hurt me. I really think we should continue–”

“Go!” he growled, making you jump.

Now you really were hurt, just not physically. Obeying his wishes, you walked out of the room and back to the lab.

A blank screen stared out at you. What was supposed to happen was you were supposed to spend the day writing up your reports from your notes, ready to be given to Dr. Wang by the end of the day. But your interaction with Jongin less than twenty-four hours ago had you stumped.

Feeling a little lost after he’d kicked you out, you went through quick third rounds with Junmyeon, Baekhyun, and Kyungsoo. None of them were as dramatic, but you were obviously distracted during those times. Junmyeon even pointed it out a few minutes into the session, but you’d quickly changed the subject.

The reports of the last three weren’t too difficult to type up. It was Jongin that had you stumped because all you wanted was to scream about how all this was wrong and damaging and you hated it!

Your hand stung from where you’d slammed it on the metal table. It pulsed red as you lifted it up, sucking air through your teeth as if that would make it better.

“Is everything all right?”

Dr. Wang walked up to you, concerned.

“Just a gnat,” you lied.

She frowned, but didn’t contradict you. “Dr. (l/n), I need to speak with you about your sessions with the subjects.”

You gulped. This was it. Your lack of professionalism and obvious attachment had been found out. It was hard to resist the urge to hand over your badge right then and there.

“Unfortunately, as much as I prefer it otherwise, they will have to be stopped for the time being.”

You straightened up, trying to feign ignorance as to why this would be happening. “Why? Did I do something wrong?”

Dr. Wang shook her head. “No, Dr. Kwon just feels that it’s distracting for them. We’re stepping into the final phase and we just need them to be as focused as possible. One of them asked about you and when you were coming again. It was just concerning to Dr. Kwon.”

Your jaw dropped. This was not what you had mentally prepared for. “O-one of them asked about me?”

“Yes.” She sighed. “Subject Ninety-Four did.” Sehun. “He’s the most sensitive out of all of them. We concluded that it would be best for you to go ahead and turn back to your analysis duties for now. We’ll resume your sessions in a month or so.”

“A month?” You jumped up out of your seat. “Dr. Wang, I promise, I’m not a distraction. Truly, I’ve gotten some of them to open up to me. They need this.”

Dr. Wang shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dr. (l/n), but the decision has already been made. Simply save whatever you have gathered already. Be prepared to do some blood work tomorrow morning. There’s a large amount that needs to be dealt with.”

You could hardly believe this. Only a few weeks of getting to know them, and the rug was already being pulled out from under you. There was no room for argument. You simply had to follow orders. Would they all be okay after a month? Would they understand that this wasn’t your decision and you didn’t abandon them?

It was crushing. Defeated, you saved what little progress you had made on the desktop and shut everything down before running out of the lab and heading home, wanting to cuss up a storm.

[cinvhetinordo]

Nicci vs. Soron

[03:49]  A familiar Mandalorian clad in blue, battered combat armor was jetpacking around the forest moon of Endor, his WESTAR-34 blaster pistols drawn. He was tracking this particular mynock, it seemed, that after he shot the little beast it was shredded apart by severe blaster-fire. He instantly landed and locked both barrels upon this dangerous assailant, only for it to be... "Nicci Ordo." he buzzed, and bent his arms and the elbows, permitting the pistols to be aimed upwards as opposed to at her, "You hunt on-world, too?"

[03:52] Nicci Ordo grunted.  "Not mynocks, usually.  I saw it dive down suddenly and thought it was going to try and chew on my jetpack.  Didn't see you had shot it first.  Usually I go after Condor dragons or...something bigger.  Caught a Krayt dragon alive on a world once, brought it to Dxun as a pet...till some osik killed it.  What are you hunting mynocks for?  Improve your aim?" she joked, sort of.  A Nicci joke, but it was an attempt at least.

[04:01]  "Elek. Mynocks are agile." Soron buzzed, spinning the custom-made blaster pistols along their trigger-guards before shoving them into their respective thigh-holsters, "But as good target practice as it is to hunt beasts, the best sort of prey is one that can reason. A sentient one." his voice crackled. He rolled a single armored shoulder backwards, glancing around, "How about we spar, Ordo?"

[04:06] Nicci Ordo was amused, to say the least, when he suggested she were prey.  That kind of gall was not something she encountered often from...anyone.  Most who saw her coming recognized the armor, and cowered in terror, or nodded in respect.  She exhaled sharply, her helmet venting exhaust in a hiss of steam as she slowly took off the giant repeater strapped to her back.  She was not out to shred him afterall.  She placed both hands behind her back and the music ring of blades being unsheathed echoed through the forest. "Gar cuyir nuh'la, nuhunla euk Skirata. Ni malyasa'yr iupe geroya ti gar."  she replied.  "Blades?"

[04:12] Soron exhaled a single, soft snort past the helmet's filters, before dragging a single soldier boot behind the other, bending both his armored knees, and raising his fists in a defensive manner. He barked a single verbal command, and his left vambrace's saw-blade popped out, ready to cut deep and sear. His reflective, T-shaped visor was focused on the other, "Elek. Olaror, Ordo, tengaanar ni meg gar gotal be. <Yes. Come, Ordo, show me what you're made of.>" he buzzed.

[04:12] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 17 [Willpower:07]

[04:12] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 15 [Willpower:10]

[04:14]  And without as much as a pause, the Protector of Mandalore touched off into a sprint with his forearm's buzz-saw whirring. He leaped, his jetpack's thrusters boosting him off the ground just momentarily, offering him enough momentum to hopefully come down on Nicci blade-forward, aiming it in her collar-bone area. It could do some serious damage... think vibroblade.

[04:14] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 19 [Strength:10]

[04:15] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 28 [Strength:10]

[04:18] Nicci Ordo grinned in elation as he charged at her so aggressively, her blades ringing musically as she brought them up in an X to block the buzz saw, sparks flying as the mechanical blade grated against her beskade.  She held the saw blade in the groove between one blade at bay away from her, and spun the other blade down in an attempt to knock his knee between his armor plating.

[04:18] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 25 [Strength:10]

[04:18] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 28 [Strength:10]

[04:21]  The Protector held steadfast, the blade hitting the beskar alloy plating only to rebound -- his knee just about kept its position. With a clenched jaw, the Mandalorian attempted to push the forearm blade against the parried sword to make the smallest bit of distance and hopefully force Nicci into a slight backwards stumble, only to attempt to take an aggressive step forward and lift a soldier boot to her chest in a vicious spartan kick.

[04:21] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 17 [Strength:10]

[04:22] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 28 [Strength:10]

[04:25] Nicci Ordo grinning from ear to ear, her own boots held firm in the grass and firmly planted on the ground of the forest.  She put both blades in one hand briefly, and when his boot went up to plant in her chest, she instead caught it with her crushgaunt, growling playfully as the hand squeezed hard, trying to use the gaunt to break a few bones in his foot.

[04:25] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 26 [Strength:10]

[04:26] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 13 [Strength:10]

[04:30] Soron 's jaw clenched twofold, the plating surrounding his shin struggling with resisting the crushgaunt. He felt the metal dent and his bone crack, and growled, "Rrrrgh." before barking a verbal command that would activate the jetpack. The forearm blade retracted back into the vambrace, and instead he aimed the right forearm and barked another command. This time, a fiber-cord attempted to blast out and wrap around Nicci's lower legs. If everything went according to plan, the momentum from his flight would send her right off her feet, and he'd drag her through the forest rather brutally with that fibercord of his. He certainly wasn't blasting her, at least!

[04:30] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 26 [Agility:10]

[04:31] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 13 [Strength:10]

[04:35] Nicci Ordo was built like a tank, and went down like one also.  She lost her footing instantly and her back hit the forest floor, dragged along like cargo, seemingly hitting every branch and root Endor had to offer.  She stabbed one of her swords into the ground to try and stop herself from being dragged across the whole planet, and attempted to throw the other bes'kad, aiming right for one of the jets, trying to disable one of them to send him spinning out of control, hopefully into a tree!

[04:35] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 18 [Agility:10]

[04:38] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 18 [Agility:10]

[04:41] Soron felt the considerable slow-down, which forced his attention to shift from where he was flying to the one he was dragging. He'd seen the blade fly at him just in time, and maneuver aside slightly, enough for the edge to slide against the side of his jetpack and land fuck-knows-where in the forest. "So that's how it is? You want to stop? As you wish...." he buzzed loudly, before ramping up the power to the thrusters through eye movement and blinking. He sped upwards, with the fibercord hopefully still wrapped around her legs, and instead of dragging her along attempted to carry her up. If given enough time to do this, he'd likely attempt to fly her into a tree before cutting the cord at the vambrace.

[04:41] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 12 [Agility:10]

[04:42] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 28 [Strength:10]

[04:43] Nicci Ordo noticed his change of direction and held fast with her sword in the dirt, quickly cutting the fibercord with her own beskad, severing it to stop the risk of her being dragged into the trees.  She stood up quickly, and threw her other blade hard at his jetpack to knock him out of the sky.

[04:43] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 15 [Agility:10]

[04:45] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 21 [Agility:10]

[04:48]  The Protector was no rookie when it came to jetpack maneuverability. He leaned his body-mass aside in the air, allowing the blade to pass him and land somewhere deeper in the forest, maybe within a tree. He glared at the Ordo below, before rapidly shifting his weight into a downward dive -- a total Shriek Hawk in diving formation. He attempted to, in the last moment, shift his body-weight backwards and deliver a powerful kick into Nicci's visor, with his still-good leg, of course, the left one.

[04:48] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 23 [Strength:10]

[04:49] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 14 [Strength:10]

[04:51] Nicci Ordo grumbled, having been busy focusing on where her blade went in the forest, and was completely caught off guard by the kick at her visor.  The fiberglass shattered, cutting her cheek a bit. With a soft growl she attempted to grab him by the belt and body slam him onto the ground, throwing her weight on top of him in the process if successful.

[04:51] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 15 [Strength:10]

[04:54] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 18 [Strength:10]

[04:57] Soron didn't have much of an option but to endure the fall Nicci pulled him into. But, being the logistical man that he was, he opted to make distance by carrying the momentum of the fall into a series of side-way rolls, allowing him to get away from grappling with Nicci in extreme close quarters. He managed to come to a stop and force himself onto a knee, by which point Nicci would also likely not be on her ass. But he'd bark a verbal command that again activated his jetpack, and this time attempted to hover but feet over the ground to slam his shoulder into Nicci's abdomen in a fast-paced and savage jetpack-tackle. He'd deactivate it upon contact, and attempt to drive Nicci across the ground, this time /his/ weight over /hers/.

[04:57] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 25 [Strength:10]

[04:58] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 14 [Strength:10]

[05:01] Nicci Ordo was indeed tackled and thrown to the ground again, this time with his full weight on her as she had tried to do to him.  Grunting, and having the wind knocked out of her, she was too stubborn to give up.  She lifted her knee and attempted to drive it into his ribs as hard as she could since they were in such close quarters.

[05:01] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 21 [Strength:10]

[05:02] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 11 [Strength:10]

[05:04] Soron grunted heavily as the armored knee met its softer, under-armor mark, cracking a rib or two for sure. He coughed a small bit of blood onto his visor screen, but remained atop the Ordo. Giving into his primal instinct -- Mandalorian training, which had him preform basic military maneuvers even if exhausted or disorientated -- the Mandalorians attempted to clench both his gloved hands into fists and send a series of ruthless punches against the woman's helmet, hoping to knock it side to side badly.

[05:04] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 17 [Strength:10]

[05:05] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 24 [Strength:10]

[05:06] Nicci Ordo's helmet was sealed onto her head and though his punches jarred it around, perhaps even loosened it, it remained firmly on her head and did no damage.  Growling again, she put both hands on either side of his helmet and attempted an aggressive Keldabe kiss by smashing her phrik plate as hard as she could into his visor. [05:06] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 17 [Strength:10]

[05:09] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 12 [Strength:10]

[05:10] Miron - Soron (soron2009 Flux): Wisdom re-roll.

[05:10] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 23 [Strength:10]

[05:13] Soron 's metallic forehead, stylized with a Skirata mythosaur, happily met hers, and he managed to hold out the powerful bash without getting a concussion straight off the bat. His visor glared into Nicci's in what, at least for him, was a moment of silence post the Keldabe kiss. She'd soon find that he was quite talented at those, as he opted to respond by jerking his head back and bringing his technological marvel against hers once again.

[05:13] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 25 [Strength:10]

[05:13] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 29 [Strength:10]

[05:18] Nicci Ordo's helmet had an extra plating right where the kiss would land, stylized similarly with the proud symbol of Ordo.  Her cheeks grew hot, probably for the first time in her life.  She could not remember if A'denla had ever managed that or not.  Grunting under him, she balled up her fist and attempted to knock the helmet clean off his head.

[05:18] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 13 [Strength:10]

[05:19] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 21 [Agility:10]

[05:21] Soron 's eyes were keen on that 360 degree field view of his, so he spotted the balled up fist just in time to jerk his head aside, just about missing the slow but powerful punch. He raised himself just slightly, only to attempt to bring his armored knee-cap in to slam it downwards into her abdomen, hoping the beskar plating would prove to carry some serious blunt impact.

[05:21] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 11 [Strength:10]

[05:22] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 21 [Strength:10]

[05:25] Nicci Ordo was hit in the abdomen, and she released a soft moaning sound from the pressure to her body, but his knee hit pure armor plating.  When he had raised himself up, she attempted to get the upper hand by wrapping her legs around his body and trying to throw him down underneath HER instead.

[05:25] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 20 [Strength:10]

[05:27] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 12 [Strength:10]

[05:31] Soron was eventually overpowered, and the Ordo managed to use his own body-weight against him in assuming control. He hated close-quarters combat for this reason -- he never wanted to be pinned. The Mandalorian grabbed onto Nicci by the rib section of her chest plate with both gloved hands, and leaned in before barking a verbal command in an attempt to allow the jetpack's thrusters to boost him off the ground. Still holding onto Nicci, he essentially attempted to topple her onto her back, using the machine on his back to boost him in his push to wrestle her back onto the ground, hard.

[05:31] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 28 [Strength:10]

[05:31] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 30 [Strength:10]

[05:35] Nicci Ordo growled savagely, the jetpack pushing against her strength as the thrusters fired, but she held firm, planting her thighs and her full weight down on him so he could not go anywhere.  She again balled up her fist and attempted to knock the helmet right off his head.

[05:35] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 26 [Strength:10]

[05:38] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 25 [Strength:10]

[05:41]  The Protector's helmet's latch weakened throughout the fight, and the helmet came loose once Nicci knocked its metallic chin hard. It rolled across the grass and mud, not too far off, and his nose and mouth seemed bloodied, with cheeks clearly red and puffing. He clenched a gloved hand and in a last-ditch effort attempted to send his own upper-cut against her helmet, though he was never the best at close-quarters-combat.

[05:41] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 16 [Strength:10]

[05:42] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 06 [Strength:00]

[05:47] Nicci Ordo's chin was knocked back by the uppercut, her helmet, having loosened before, went flying off her head and rolling off to the side.  Her muscles were tired, she had never fought anyone quite this tenacious, and ground combat was exhausting for someone in armor as heavy as hers.  She looked down at him, her red hair cascading down her armor and her war-painted face fully visible.  Not wanting her crush-gaunt to break his face, she ripped the gaunt off and punched him without it instead.

[05:47] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 11 [Strength:00]

[05:49] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 11 [Strength:00]

[05:52] Soron reached out with a single gloved hand and actually caught the gloved fist, holding it in place. He tensed his neck and clenched his jaw, pressing his bloody teeth together. "Nrrrrrrgh." he growled through pain and anger as he held the fist at bay, before attempting to reach out with his other hand to grab the back of her red-haired head and bring her forehead against his in (HOPEFULLY) a final Keldabe kiss.

[05:52] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 03 [Strength:00]

[05:54] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 10 [Strength:00]

[05:58] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 03 [Strength:00]

[21:30]  The Mandalorian clad in blue, battered combat armor most certainly lost consciousness after his aging forehead was forced to slam against Nicci's own. Soron's gloved hand, which led the other's head into the Keldabe kiss, fell limp as he himself completely fell onto his jetpack-harnessed back. He'd be unconscious for at least the next few minutes before his eyes would flicker.

[21:34] Nicci Ordo had been similarly knocked unconscious by the same movement.  She was used to jarring of the head.  She was an Ordo afterall.  But usually it did not happen so much in one fight.  She had so rarely met one who could keep up with her in a fight like that, but this one had gone the distance, and at the same time Soron had succumb to a blackout, so had she.  She had fought a LOT over the last week.  Her own Alor, a mand'alor, and several fights just because.  She did not wake up quite as fast as he did.

[itsworn]

Gassers, Dragsters, Altereds, and More Turn Out for the Awesome 15th Annual Hot Rod Reunion in Bowling Green

The official name is The Holley National Hot Rod Reunion presented by AAA Insurance at Beech Bend Raceway Park, produced by the Wally Parks NHRA Motorsports Museum. OK, that mouthful is the official name, but to real hot rodders everywhere it is simply and reverentially known as “The Hot Rod Reunion.” This vintage drag race/rod run remains at the top of our must-attend list.

The event is all about elapsed time, and that applies to every car and driver in attendance, because time is truly elapsing at an alarming rate of speed. Going to the Hot Rod Reunion is the perfect venue for serious bench racing with friends old and new. Every year, we manage to meet another legend of the sport and share great stories about the golden years of drag racing. While other racetracks incorporate the term park in their name, Beech Bend truly is a park-like setting, with a large campground and amusement park adjoining the dragstrip. Of course, for hot rodders the real source of amusement is a sticky stretch of asphalt running two lanes wide for a quarter of a mile.

The atmosphere is one of pure hot rodding. From the Circle of Legends to the nearly 1,500 show-and-shine cars, it’s the real deal. The racers aren’t here to win a big purse; they’re here for the love of vintage drag racing, and it shows.

But don’t think for one minute this is exhibition racing. The competition is hot and heavy, and the vintage racers are turning times that were unimaginable in the 1960s. For example, the top six Nostalgia Fuel Dragsters were all in the 5-second range, with speeds up to 260 mph. We love the Gassers, Super Stock, and ’09 groups, but the fuel cars (Top Fuel, Funny Car, and Fuel Altered) bring a different dimension to this weekend. Nothing compares to nitro cars, and we can honestly say when the fuel cars run, there isn’t a dry eye in the place. The racing was non-stop with practice and qualifying on Thursday and Friday, followed by eliminations on Saturday.

There is also a vintage swap meet filled with “all the right stuff,” ranging from a roller Funny Car to huffers to Model A bodies. Every year, while mining this area for parts, we seem to unearth large deposits of magnesium.

When the eliminations were complete (go to nhramuseum.org for all race results), it was time for the Cacklefest. If you have never seen a big Cacklefest, you have one more reason to attend the NHRA Museum Hot Rod Reunion. At Bowling Green, half of the cars are rolled into place and fired up with starter motors, while the other half are push-started and arrive rumbling and snorting fire. It is a sight and sound you won’t soon forget.

And then, one by one, the cackle cars shut down. And so, with tears streaming from my eyes, another NHRA Museum Hot Rod Reunion was in the books. We’ll be back again next year for the Sweet Sixteen celebration.

Fuelish Pleasure: Few things compare to a pair of short-wheelbase AA/FA cars making a side-by-side burnout. The Rat Trap is always a fan favorite and consistently runs in the low 6s at over 200 mph. In the far lane the name Havoc seems appropriate.

Murphy’s Law: Jim Murphy and the WWII team lined up against top qualifier James Young in the Young Guns car for the final round. Murphy pulled strong on the top end to go around Young with a 5.713/257.33 mph over the 5.920/253.56 of Young.

Glass Gasser: As always, the Gassers at the Reunion were a huge hit with the fans. Smoky burnouts, big wheelstands, and speed-shifting are all part of driving Dustin Corn’s wild ’57 Corvette gasser. A de-stroked 310-inch small-block and four-speed make this a real gasser.

Glass Gasser: As always, the Gassers at the Reunion were a huge hit with the fans. Smoky burnouts, big wheelstands, and speed-shifting are all part of driving Dustin Corn’s wild ’57 Corvette gasser. A de-stroked 310-inch small-block and four-speed make this a real gasser.

Things Ida Never Known: East Coast drag racer and hot rod builder extraordinaire Bob Ida was on hand with two of his 1960s drag cars. The Willys originally ran B/GS with a blown 409, and later a blown Hemi. When Bob realized a Willys has about the same drag coefficient as a sheet of plywood, he decided to transplant the Hemi into a low profile ’56 Austin-Healey, allowing him to remain in B/GS with the 331-inch Hemi. After a couple years of devouring the competition, the car was crumpled in a wild wheelstand landing and subsequently scrapped. Miraculously, the car was discovered 40 years later and restored to its former glory by Bob and Rob Ida, complete with the Roto-Faze-huffed Hemi hiding under a hood scoop formed from a sliced and diced wheelbarrow. Tales such as this bring us back to the Hot Rod Reunion year after year.

Earning His Stripes: The long-roof Chevrolets from 1955-1957 became drag race favorites in both Junior Stock and Modified Production classes of the 1960s. While we’re not sure who first striped the roof on these cars, today it is their signature paint scheme. The striped roof on this ’57 wagon with wheels high was a total time warp.

True Blue Custom: Billy Jack and Gayle Ethridge of Meridian, Mississippi, have captured the look of a mid-1950s custom perfectly with this ’39 Mercury. From the Carson top to the one-piece louvered hood and smoothed doors, this car is period perfect. Add a custom grille, white running boards, and a set of ’57 Caddy caps to complete the look.

The Prefect Cabbie: A big part of the fun at the Reunion is discovering obscure cars such as this former drag car dubbed the Tennessee Taxi. Based on an English Ford Prefect, this former race car was powered by a Ford inline-six that placed it in G/G. The offset hood scoop on the fiberglass tilt nose is an inline indicator.

All Wrinkled Up: While big burnouts get the fans fired up, when it comes time to race, the smoke is replaced by wrinkled rear tires, wide open butterflies and front wheels ever-so-slightly airborne. That is exactly how Randy Bradford launches his AA/FA.

Room at the Hilton: Members of the Hilton family were Honorees for 2017. While in recent years a lot of attention has been focused on a string of sinister Model A hot rods built by Hilton Hot Rods, there is also a long heritage of drag racing, including their current nostalgia NTF entry, with Tyler Hilton driving.

Staging for Father’s Day: Ed Beaumont’s Orange Peel is a gennie split-window Corvette with a colorful race history. The straight-axle, blown big-block, and four-speed combination makes for exciting passes. Since the Reunion is held on Father’s Day weekend, it seems fitting to see a younger crew member in the staging lanes.

Hot Rod from Woodstock: Well, OK, not the home of the famed rock festival. Long-time hot rodder Bob Knaack and his Model A coupe hail from Woodstock, Illinois. The dual-quad-fed Hemi is nestled between the Deuce rails, while a hard chop and lots-o-louvers continue the traditional theme.

Daily Supplement: Dave Schultz had his Super Stock Plymouth Savoy, Vitamin C, on hand for the weekend. This is the best way we can think of to take your vitamins, and Mopar lovers know the hot orange paint, dubbed Vitamin C, as one of the High Impact Colors. Hey, it was the 1960s.

Going for the Riddler: Holy Reunion Batman! Yeah, anything goes at the Hot Rod Reunion, including this version of the Batmobile. The details are a bit sketchy, but current owner Steve Anderson told us his car was on display in a casino for a while and went through a couple of owners before he purchased the car for his own Bat Cave. The car rides on a ’98 Corvette chassis with LS power. This makes “going after the Riddler” take on a whole new meaning. Yes, it was street-driven from Indiana.

The British are Coming: And they seem to be in a hurry. Owner/driver Nick Davies raced against the famed Rat Trap during a European tour. After the race, Ron Hope discovered Havoc really didn’t have anyone to race against in England. The natural solution was to bring the car and crew to the U.S. for a 2017 tour and share shop space with the Rat Trap. Running a 6.460 at 223.84 proves they are ready to take on the Yanks.

Trackside Again: The term “barn find” may be wearing thin, but this B/A Fiat qualifies. Originally built in the 1960s by Stan Radauskas, aka Stan Adams, the car sits on a Lakewood chassis. Stan raced it for several years with an injected small-block before selling the car to the Untouchables Car Club in 1969. The club promptly swapped in an injected L88. Stan bought the car back in the 1970s, but never realized his dream of restoring the car. It sat in Stan’s shop for 46 years until Curt Vogt purchased the car. Today the restored car is owned by the Shane Weckerly family. This is the first time the car has been to a dragstrip in 47 years.

Period Paint: Endless line, flake, pearl, freak spots, and lace: Pure 1960s trick paint, and you could find all of those effects on this ’56 Chevy gasser. Redline front tires and a fenderwell filled with white headers complete the appropriate appearance package.

Cackle Cammer: Larry Coleman’s Super Ford is a rare Torino Funny Car. Making the car even more interesting is the SOHC engine and automatic transmission. The car was built in 1968 and was a great addition to the Cacklefest.

Body in White: If you frequented any dragstrip in America in 1962, we guarantee there was a Sport Fury that looked just like this car in the staging lanes. Chances are it had a 413 Max Wedge under the hood, and it may have been street driven to the track.

Blue Oval: We often marvel at how simple it can be to build a really cool hot rod hauler. Shave a little trim, pick a cool color, and find the absolute perfect stance. Finish it all off with a great set of contrasting wheels and the job is done. The only thing missing for this weekend is a big board bolted to the front bumper, as this Blue Oval hauler would make a great push truck.

Channeling the Past: Steve and Anne Gamache motored in from Ray, Michigan, in this deeply channeled ’33 Ford pickup. A dual-quad-fed nailhead Buick provides equal parts good looks and power. The white firewall, interior, and tonneau cover combine with wide whites and steelies to nail the early 1960s look.

Flattie for the Record: In drag racing circles, the diminutive V8/60 was not a common sight. Harold and Jeanne Revis built this F/Dragster in their home garage in Travelers Rest, South Carolina. The rail was raced throughout the Southeast in the early 1960s, setting records at many tracks. The car was raced at the NHRA Nationals as late as 1968.

Da Mob: The show-and-shine side of the grassy fields was filled with street-going gassers. Joey Bridges drove down from Louisville with Sweet Pea, a 1961 Falcon gasser. The metalflake roof is the perfect touch for this nose-high lightweight. Look closely and you will see Joey runs with the Straight Axle Mafia car club, a street and strip club.

Scramblin’ Rambler: Let’s face it, you just don’t see many 1967 Rambler gassers. Michael Rados pilots this S/C-flavored Rambler aptly named American Scrambled in the Nostalgia Gasser ranks. Red, white, and blue paint with old-school velocity stacks complete the visual package.

Innovation: Great race cars are built by innovators. Jim Mize of Harriman, Tennessee, built this 1950 Anglia with a Hilborn-injected Red Ram 260-inch Hemi under the hood. A set of rare D-500 heads was ported and installed. Up front, the stock Anglia wheels are still in use, but out back a set of Olds Toronado wheels bolt to the ’58 Olds rear, providing the negative offset required to put the big slicks partially under the rear fenders. The car was last raced in 1974.

Quick-on-the-Draw: James Young and the Young Guns team began the weekend by capturing the number-one qualifier spot in NTF. But as we know, this is an intensely competitive class; while the team made it all the way to final round, in the end Jim Murphy snuck past them by 0.207 second. However, the Young Guns team effectively served notice, they are a force to be reckoned with.

Fryin’ the Hides: After winning the big March Meet, the High Speed team rolled into Beech Bend with the points lead. When all the smoke cleared, Mendy Fry and the High Speed team had slipped to second place after a close loss in the semi-finals. The 2017 NTF points race is going to be interesting.

International Cackle, Eh: The Alien II was born to cackle. John Chandler is semi-retired from his race car building business in Ontario, Canada. Over the years, John has built more than 30 rear-engine rails. Now that he has a bit more time, he decided to build a period-correct, front-engine T/F cackle car. This car is spot on, period-correct enough to fool most folks. The hot Canadian had the motor tuned and “firing” on all cylinders.

Festival of Fuel: As the sun goes down on Saturday afternoon, the Cacklefest begins. Dozens of nitromethane-gulping race cars line the track and fill the night air with fire, fumes, and noise. It is a fitting close to a fantastic weekend.

All Good Things: Alas, all good things must come to an end, and so it was time to jump in your channeled roadster and aim the old hot rod toward home.

The post Gassers, Dragsters, Altereds, and More Turn Out for the Awesome 15th Annual Hot Rod Reunion in Bowling Green appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

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