#bittah

[thebittahwizard]

Stiles: Sampson, that's just a great name. Straight out of film noir. An old detective who drinks hard but loves even harder. Or go with me here. [breaks into a high-pitched British voice] Sampson, a tiny little orphan mouse who must find his way home to Wolverhampton.

Derek: [rolls his eyes] Or Samson, the legendary figure from the Bible.

Stiles: Nah, that doesn't work, all those guys had names like Ben-Hur and Prometheus.

Derek [completely done with Stiles’s shit]: You have never read the Bible, have you Stiles?

Stiles: [completely confident while counting on his fingers] Of course I have. Genesis, Exorcist, Leviathan, Doooo... the Right Thing.

Derek: Oh my gosh.

[staycrazydocrimes]

Doesn't take adhd medicine for the break day->forgets to take them for a week bc didn't take them-> accidentally remembers to take them-> 1600 steps 500 calories

[thewingedwolf]

i like six so much bc i like the rhymes in it. you have the pop sound but the rhythms and syncopation of theater and it’s crack for my ears lol.

So i picked up a pen and a microphooooone, history’s about to get overthrOWN

“Histor-emix” is genius fuck you

Put your hands up get this party buzzin’ you want a queen bee? well here’s half a doZENN (also the harmonies on that one)

You say it’s a pity cuz quoting Leviticus i’ll end up kidiless all my life!

Don’t be bittAh cuz i’m fittAh. He doesn’t want to bang you SOMEbody hang you!

My horses can trot up to twelve miles an hour, let me explain, I'm a Wienerschnitzel, not an English flower. No one tells me I need a rich man, doin’ my thing in my palace in rICHMOND.

“Please me, squeeze me, birds and the bees me,” just flowwwwws

that’s not my storyyyy there’s so much more reeeeemember that i was a writAh i wrote books and songs and meditations fought for female education.

Cause in hisTORY I’M fiXed. as. ONE OF sIX!

We’re one of a kind no category, spent too many years lost in HIStory

i am constantly singing random lines to my dog and he has had enough of me!!

[widefuturesss]

Luv bittah sweet

[redladydeath]

i feel like we don't appreciate just how influential andrea macasaet was on the role of boleyn. she pioneered so many little details (the "i'm not sorry!" riff, "don't be bittah cause i'm fittah," and so on) that have become standard for the role four years later and she deserves a lot of credit for that.

[mixergiltron]

From the Dark

Of Herbert West, who was my friend in college and in after life, I can speak only with extreme terror. This terror is not due altogether to the sinister manner of his recent disappearance, but was engendered by the whole nature of his life-work, and first gained its acute form more than seventeen years ago, when we were in the third year of our course at the Miskatonic University Medical School in Arkham. While he was with me, the wonder and diabolism of his experiments fascinated me utterly, and I was his closest companion. Now that he is gone and the spell is broken, the actual fear is greater. Memories and possibilities are ever more hideous than realities.

So begins HP Lovecraft's Herbert West - Reanimator. It's a story about a mad scientist who develops a glowing green serum that brings the dead back to life,only with dread consequences. It first appeared in Home Brew,an amateur magazine published by his friend George Houtain in 1922,would re-appear in the March 1942 issue of Weird Tales,and would be the basis of a series of Re-Animator movies starring the B movie great Jeffrey Combs. It was also the inspiration for the pair of Tiki drinks I'm posting this week. Don't be afraid….

Mix #236 Miskatonic Reviver

1.5oz vodka 1oz Midori 1oz pineapple juice 3/4oz lime juice 1 dash Bittermen's Boston Bittahs* tonic water

Shake everything except tonic with ice. Strain into beaker with fresh ice and top with tonic water.

*I used Peychaud's bitters.

Created by the folks at Shudder for their Last Drive In series,this turned out a bit tart and watered down. While I love Shudder's stuff,they unfortunately need to stick to horror and leave the cocktail mixing to the pros.

Mix #237 Reanimator

1.5oz Plantation Xaymaca 1/2oz Plantation OFTD 3/4oz lemon juice 1/2oz passionfruit syrup 1/4oz Don's Zombie Mix*

Combine ingredients with ice and shake or flash blend. Pour into Zombie glass.

*Don's Zombie Mix = equal parts grenadine,falernum,curacao,and absinthe

The first drink was your trick,this one is your treat. A proper Tiki drink created by mixologist Jason Alexander,this is a complex drink with sweet/spice/citrus and an absinthe finish. Since only a quarter ounce of Zombie Mix was used,I just used 2.5ml of each. 1.85ml would've been exact,but 2.5 is the closest my jigger will measure,and I didn't feel like using a dropper for everything. The absinthe really comes forward,so if you're not a big fan,cut it back to just a couple drops. A proper Tiki cocktail made by an expert.

So go ahead and mix up a serum to make your Halloween season fun. And don't worry about the reanimated,you can always call Elvira to help out.

[crow-brainworms]

"not that I'm bittah"

jedwards you are all of us

[piniferasillies]

The Great Equalizer

Between the mahble mausoleums on State Street,

theah's a pretty little stone or two,

they snapped at me when I walked on by,

almost passed them in my wandrin' thoughts.

Bittah cold, wind and snow, 

such is the autumn breeze.

I come along beside the neatly kept road,

see the stones with theyah flowers ‘n such.

Names gone, no date, no memry to hold:

"Everyone's equal in death," they says.

Bullshit.

[austronautcirca1147]

🥕Two Headless Geese (Original)

1500 word count thriller challenge! Not my proudest but it's okay

There’s a dead goose on this man’s doorstep.

I’m in front of a hella loaded mansion, starin’ down at a pure white goose. It’s starin’ back at me. I suddenly realise its head is detached from the rest of its body, dried blood poolin’ ‘round it. Tapping the floor with my boot anxiously, I feel somethin�� wet creep into the leather. I shift my gaze. The slimy white of an egg oozes from a pile o’ the things - five o’ em, I think. They’re all smashed, jagged shells stickin’ up’t the sky. Only one’s still aight.

I've dealt with some great deal'a cases before. Serial killers, drug lords, the mob. Never have I seen somethin' quite like this.

The others are looking mighty confused n’ nervous, too. Benny-J’s green eyes are reflectin’ the pure white goose, dartin’ back n’ forth between the goose an’ the man. The Gun’s brow is creased, an’ I know he’s wonderin’ why the dead goose wasn’t a dead man, instead. The only one who don’t look nervous is Grapefruit - he’s our boss. And I know what you’re thinkin’. What sorta nickname is Grapefruit? Far’s I’ve heard, Grapefruit started off his criminal life by swipin’ grapefruits off some peddler, and he’s been just that ever since.

The man at the door waves his hand, silently ushering us into his mansion. With the light, I recognize who he is. Messer Yawnings’ his name, and he’s got most’a the state’s - all but New Orleans’ - infrastructure under his finger. Grapefruit n’ Yawnings go off to some side room, leavin’ us schmucks in the entryway. There’s voices bein’ raised, though I can’t tell what they’re sayin’. It all falls into deadly silence soon enough.

They then appear outta a hallway, an’ Yawnings leads us to his parlour. He pours drinks from a real nice-lookin’ bottle of brandy. I notice that his right pinky��s missing. It ain’t hard’t tell, seeing as he ain’t even tryna hide it. Benny-J leans in and whispers, “Run-in wit de Yakuza, I’m guessin’.” 

Benny-J came from the Luciano-Genovese Family, one of the Five Families over up there in New York n’ Jersey, an’ his “Noo Yawhk” accent’s stronger than any other Yankee’s I’ve ever met. “Yuh know. De Japanese mob?” I shrug. Benny-J’s gaze turns to his drink, his green eyes dartin’ back and forth. 

Yawnings explains that some gang’s left the goose n’ eggs out on his porch when he didn’ pay back some loans, and they’ve been smashin’ an egg for each day. I don’t like that, nah. There’s only one egg outside still left unsmashed, an’ it’s barely an hour to midnight - tha’s when he said the gang would strike.

It’s sudden. Benny-J stiffens, his right hand tensed. Almost immediately after, Grapefruit goes rigid, and Benny-J leans over me, catchin’ him by the shoulder. I hurry to help, and we prop Grapefruit back against his seat, but by then our boss ain't but dead weight. Both our gazes turn to Yawnings, but The Gun’s way ahead of us. A pistol’s already pointed straight at Yawnings’ head, pressed against the guy’s forehead. The Gun didn’t earn his nickname for nothin’.

“Mais sha,” The Gun mutters. He ain’t usually one to talk much. “I think it’s time fo’ Plan B.” Plan B, that means the rare ‘bullet-in-brain’ disease. Yawnings barely says a word before The Gun's pulling the trigger. Bang-n’-a-boom, now we've got two dead bodies on our hands. I'm stunned as you are, but 'pparently Benny-J's got a plan. A switchblade flashes, an’, wouldn’tcha know it, the Yankee’s slit both their throats. He pops the cork outta the brandy bottle with that dagger, sniffs the liquid still inside, and smashes it ‘gainst the table.

"Bittah awhmonds," he mutters, an' it takes a while to realise he means cyanide. "But why would Yawnin's try tuh poison us?" He's mutterin' to himself. "I wonder what else he's gawt hidin'..." Nothin' else said, he turns. Benny-J's got no shame, man, an' he announces he's gonna go search Yawnings' basement. 

The Gun an' I are left wi’ the two dead guys. Sometime later, I ain't sure, I glance to my watch: a quarter to midnight. Benny-J's been gone too long. I ain't the only sorry soul who's noticed, an' then The Gun's up n' gone. 

Soon, I'm shaken outta my thoughts by loud thumping. Something crashes 'gainst a wall. A wooden beam creaks. Finally, a ringin' gunshot finishes it all off. Mais, that can't be good, is all that goes through my head before I'm headin' for where the sounds are comin' from: the basement. 

I'm 'bout to turn a corner down the wooden stairs when a scraping sound freezes my blood. It's dark here. The light flickers, on-off. My pistol’s pulled outta its grip, held straight in front of me. I turn the corner, and there’s a limp form on the ground. A dark silhouette looms over it. The light flickers back on for nothin’ more than a second, and its dim rays reflect off eerie, wolf-like green eyes that are trained right on me. Suddenly, the figure moves.

Years of training fly by, an’ I panic. My finger slips. A bang, a crunch. I hear a sharp inhale, then panting, shallow breaths. We’re silent for what might be a few minutes o’ lifetimes. Then, the light flickers back on. 

The green eyes are gone, but tha’s because they’re facin’ the floor. Benny-J’s got one knee on the ground, left hand held up to his chest, loomin' over The Gun’s dead body. Just a bit aways, there’s some radio device strewn on the floor. Static buzzes from it.

The concrete's stained with blood, an’ I think it’s poolin’ outta The Gun’s neck, somewhere. As I follow the crimson trail, my gaze reaches the soakin’-red blade of a dagger. It’s held tight in Benny-J’s free hand. 

“Greetin’s, awhfficer,” Benny-J says weakly, accent growin' thicker, still not looking up. I freeze, even more confused - it ain’t like I’ve got my badge pinned t’ my suit o’ anythin’. “I'm assumin’ you’re the one PD's said is de friendly one here.” PD? It takes a mo’ or so to realise he means the New York Police Department. Mais, that could only mean one thing.

“Greetin’s back to ya, officer,” I reply slowly. I ain’t sure about this, not at all, but I reach out to help him up. Benny-J drops his dagger, and takes my hand with his own. As he stands, he stumbles. His green eyes are unfocused. It don’t take a genius to see this man ain’t alright. He proves that point by nearly collapsin’ against me, and he coughs, frothy blood pourin’ outta his mouth. 

As we exchange history, he drops the hand that’s pressed to his chest, an’ I see the damage. A bullet wound goes straight through a lung. The pistol at my waist grows heavier by the second. Regret seizes me like a crawfish snare. It’s when he reveals that he was supposed to assassinate us all, aside from one of us who was ‘de friendly one’, as he put it, that I notice there’s a second wound through the shoulder. I remember the bang I’d first heard, an' grimace.

There ain’t nothin’ I can do for the poor guy aside from listen n’ share. He’s from Manhattan, an’ was undercover with the Luciano-Genovese, like he said. When they allied with the New Orleans Mob, Benny-J got transferred down here. I tell him the whole truth, that Imma LSP agent here in New Orleans, an’ that I had no clue he was undercover at all. Tha’ don’t help with the guilt, tho’.

Soon enough, he’s wheezin’, an’ choking sounds escape his throat. In a panic, he reaches out and grabs the radio, mutterin’ somethin’ like “over n’ out, finally.”

“I’ve kept ya too lawhng,” he mumbles to me suddenly, urgency in his voice. “Get outta de house, fast as ya can.” Tha’s all he says before a series of coughs wrack his body, an’ Benny-J’s green gaze reflects the light no more. I’m stunned for a good while, then I scramble to my feet. The Yankee’s proven he knew far more than anyone else here, so I listen. Besides, no one wants’t stay too long in a house with three dead guys n’ a headless goose. 

One look back, an’ then I’m gone, takin’ the stairs by two. The smell of blood fading, I notice a new scent: smoke. It’s sharp, an’ getting stronger. That ain’t a good sign. When I reach the front door, I fling it open an’ step out onto the porch. 

Something cracks under my boot. Slimy wetness creeps in once more. Too familiar. I check my watch. It's five after midnight. 

[thebittahwizard]

[Scene: trying to find and unalive the most recent bad guys] Stiles: They're in the church! Derek: [side-eyeing Stiles] I'm not just busting into a church to kill two men. Stiles: What if they're in the church basement? If they're in the church basement, then we can totally kill them. Derek: So you're implying that the church is holy, but the church basement isn't?? Stiles: They don't say mass or whatever in the basement. The church basement is not holy ground. Derek: So what, it goes holy ground, hmmm...the basement, holy ground?! Stiles: The Boy Scouts meet in the basement and they're not a religious group. Derek: A Boy Scout is trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent! Reverent is right there in the end because it is, if not a faith-based organization, not entirely secular. Stiles: Derek: Stiles: So...you're not coming in with me, huh?

[youblogzz]

Boston Bruins’ playoff collapse is, historically, not a bad sign

It sucks, but it might not be so bad long-term?Photo: AP The loyalists in the overpriced seats at Boston’s TD Garden for Game 7 of the Eastern Conference first-round should’ve-been shellacking between the hometown Bruins and barely made it into the postseason Florida Panthers went from agitated, to full-on bittah in booing the 135-point getters in the regular season. The record 65 regular-season…

[ronmanmob]

With a discerning ear Ron listened to this finely suited new face's - this Zachary's - preferences for his first sip of the evening, and while he didn't, couldn't, miss how the young man was looking at him as he spoke, the publican-gangster pushed it to the back of his mind while there was business on the tend. All kinds washed through his establishments; the appreciative of him, the repulsed, the agnostic and all sorts between. Let the lad look. If nothing else Ron might get his tailor on Savile Row some business if it was his garb, less what filled it, that'd drawn the eye.

"--Arran Port Cask" he said at length, a contemplative but also appreciative note in his voice as he both named and turned by half to bring down and present his chosen tipple. A warm amber, the whiskey was--

"Fruitiah, nuttiah than y'peat-'eavy blends. Single malt scotch, Scottish, finishes wiv chocolate, cherries 'n a bittah note 'ov orange. Fudge 'n 'oney in i's palate, likewise vanilla 'n ripe citrus..." Dark brows rose as Ron paused for a beat; as he looked into Zachary's face. Often times when new business first met him, first heard him speak, shock overcame 'em when sense and knowledgeability beyond the needs-must emerged. The indictment was on them for judging; for reaching for notions of a common accent and what negative things they wrongly thought that implied about intelligence; about worldliness. Ron sensed none of that off Zachary, but did add as something of a conversation-piece:

"Twenty years nearly I've 'ad, in this trade. Y'get t'learn y'whiskies."

A glance beyond the young man, brief and perfunctory, let him clock his brother Reggie and the small cloud of Rich Suits he'd shipped in. They were due a proper introduction, and Ron conveyed this with an expression's implication and a slight movement of his lips round the idea of 'I'll be there in two'. Reg put the breaks on that idea double-fast though; a gesture with his free hand and a faint shake of the head passing before both he and Ron parted ways in thought and got back to their respective clientele.

Five minutes the man had bought himself with that hack-job bullshit.

No more than that.

"Tell yah wha'-" Ron said, his attention back front and centre, accepting the handshake as offered though declining, just in this moment, to offer his name in kind. "Since I like th'look'a yah I'll give yah a li'le taste in th'cap, yeah?" Opening the Arran, he decanted a third of a finger's worth in a shot glass that his Tender, Jack, had popped down between his boss and his boss's mark when he sensed the need for it. This sort of generosity wasn't new, especially when the recipient was a looker.

"---You tell me 'ow tha' grabs yah. If it ain't quite th'ticket, take a glance at th'shelves be'ind us. There's plenty'a choice. fer a man wivaht a care f'money."

Zachary is impressed at the boss' knowledge of the whisky; his estranged father was an investor in the product and therefore gained quite a bit of secondhand knowledge himself.

He flashed a charming smile, one that hinted at both confidence and allure, especially when he noticed the boss's eyes wandering. It seems like he has a bite, Zachary just had to keep reeling him in. He leans further onto the bar, one foot on the footrest, his posture casual yet attentive.

"I'd say I would like a—lingering taste. Something..." His steely eyes travelled up and down the man's figure, assessing and teasing, "...full-bodied. Smooth. Not overly peaty." Each word chosen to convey both his expertise and his interest. He watched the gentleman's reaction closely, knowing that this moment could be pivotal.

"Mhm, they are deep. Money is not an issue and you seem to have quite the collection," he straightens up, offering a hand towards the man, "My name's Zachary, by the way."

[ireneelc]

No te quería en mi colección de poemas tristes. Te quería en los íntimos, los que nadie escucha, Porque nadie enseña las palabras felices.

Bittah

[gyubby99]

Wait..

ANGEL DUST X ALISTAR?!!??!?!?!?!?

Angel, to Ella: Don't be bittah~ cause I'm fittah~

Jack: I’m the sexiest bitch in this therapy waiting room.

Elsa: Oh, I beg to differ.

[pensamentsisomnis]

UN SOMNI IMMENS Tenim un somni immens i entre totes el podem fer possible!

Un somni immens #LaForçaDeLaGent

Artistes: 

Valtonyc (des de l’exili)  Roba Estesa  Buhos  Els Catarres  Suu  Gemma Humet  Auxili  Cesk Freixas  Brams  Huntza Bittah  Cesc Sansalvadó  Joina  Jo Jet i Maria Ribot  Pirat’s Sound Sistema  Jordi Ginesta  Alidé Sans  Pachawa Sound  Àlex Pérez

[petalbirdie]

“Don’t be bitter.” “It’s don’t be bittAH!”

Anyway! Birthday gift for @yungylime, love you sis <3