#but one of them lets me hit her vape pen which is cool oh but yeah i live in the country now and theres like jackshit to do

[kiddokori]

[elanorjane]

California Soulmates: Epilogue

Summary: Pop princess Belle wants to write her own music and get out from under her father’s thumb. Single father Gold wants to put his failed music career behind him and get the hell out of L.A. When inspiration strikes, there’s only one problem…the songs they’re writing aren’t their own. They’re each other’s. 

*“Telepathic soulmates” RCIJ for @beastlycheese

A/N: THANK YOU @beastlycheese for gifting me with this idea and letting me run with it...and run with it...and run with it some more. It was such a delicious idea I refused to let it go. <3

AO3 link

He missed the smell of cigarette smoke in bars. He’d mostly quit when Bae was young, but in the intervening years, he’d been known to sneak one up on the roof and bury the butt in the planter afterward. He enjoyed the nicotine contact high of being around smokers because it made him feel like it was still 1985 and his career was still in front of him, if only for the length of a song. But gone was the haze over the audience. Now, he saw each and every face crystal clear. He appreciated the vape smoke for aesthetics, but it wasn’t the same. Lately, he was more likely to get a whiff of pot from the tables below, which equally transported him back to his twenties. But honestly, he didn’t need the crutch anymore.  

He’d been to enough open mic nights to know that many people squinted in the spotlight when they climbed on stage. Some, unfamiliar with the creaks and groans of an old wooden platform still sticky with decades of spilled beer, even threw up an arm to shield their eyes from the glare but he didn’t. Ancient stage or a slab of concrete in a dark corner, it felt comfortable to him, like home. Tonight, he could feel the heat from the overhead light on his face. He didn’t even need to look to see whether he sat in the center of the rickety stage raised one foot off the ground. He could just feel it.

But Belle winced as the stool she pulled forward scraped against the grain and wobbled a little climbing up. She’d performed in front of more people than he could comprehend, yet in this intimate club, he watched her eyes narrow when the light hit her face. She swiveled self-consciously so she faced him more than the expectant faces two feet away. He knew she was going to be uncomfortable tonight, that this was going to be a stretch for her, but he knew she’d be brilliant. She wiped her palms on her old torn jeans. He knew she chose to wear them here as a sort of armor.    

He couldn’t guarantee her fame, he couldn’t give her money, he couldn’t promise her that their life together was always going to be easy, but he could give her nights like this. A safe space to build confidence in her abilities and a venue to workshop her feelings through song.  

Sometimes they showed up at an open mic night and wrote together, telepathically, on the spot for fun. It was a rush, being in front of a crowd and not knowing if the next verse was going to appear, but it always did. They throwing out the beginning of an idea, because the other person was always there to finish it.  

He’d brought her to this particular venue tonight because it was known for its discerning crowd. If you weren’t good, they’d let you know it with their indifference. It was also close to their old apartment.

Following her Hollywood Bowl performance, Belle had moved in with him and Bae. But it wasn’t long until they’d moved out of the neighborhood, leaving their cramped, bohemian rooftop living behind. They’d bought a modest house just outside the city but still close enough to music venues and nightlife.

Bae was going to a better school now. He fought the transfer at first, but he could still see his friends on the weekends. Unlike his old school, his new school hadn’t defunded the music program. Since he didn’t want to be in the school chorus, he’d landed in band. They’d given him his choice of instruments, they were even progressive enough to include electric guitar. But he refused to play the same instrument as his father. After trying out all they had to offer Bae discovered his new love - the trumpet. On any given night an obnoxious blaring reverberated through the house. Since Bae spent his entire life keeping it down for the neighbors, Gold couldn’t bring himself to tell him to knock it off, and being anything but wholly supportive was outside Belle’s capabilities. Gold found himself playing a lot of Miles Davis and Wynton Marsalis records around the house, trying to convey to Bae that he needn’t be blowing full-force, as loud as he possibly could, the entire time.  

“Most of you know me,” Gold told the small but interested crowd. When he and Bae had lived here, this was the dive bar he played at regularly. It paid nothing, but let him practice. The owner even let a young Bae sit at the bar and drink ginger ale while he performed.

“This is my friend,” he cocked his head at Belle, “ah,” he picked a name at random, “Lacey.”

Many people in the room laughed, knowing exactly who Belle was. But he and Belle learned in the last few months that it wasn’t always prudent to give her real name everywhere they went. The headline of America’s pop princess shaking up with a single father twenty years her senior had captivated the celebrity gossip magazines. Bae thought it was cool when a mob of fans and paparazzi descend upon them, but Belle and Gold were less thrilled with the ensuing hoopla. Since “Belle French” set off alarm bells everywhere they went, they’d come up with a host of pseudonyms. Gold secretly hoped to give her his own last name soon, if she’d have it, so perhaps she could stop giving false ones.

Belle, now settled in her seat next to him, smiled at his attempted ruse.

“We’re going to start with a song we wrote together,” he continued. “You might know it.” He leaned back to play the opening notes then sang.

I know he hurt you Made you scared of love, too scared to love

It was Belle’s song from the Hollywood Bowl that he’d helped her finish. Fans had recorded it on their phones and put it up on YouTube and it got a positive response. He and Belle had tweaked it slightly since. He’d added a more complicated guitar lick at the beginning and Belle suggested they pick up tempo to add more mass appeal. He also took on lead vocals. They’d shopped that version around town and it was one of the first songs they’d sold as a writing team. People more famous than him sang it on the radio now. While he was proud of the money they earned every time he heard another man sing it on the radio or in a commercial, Gold preferred this stripped down version that made it more of a love song. Belle appreciated the more pop version because she said it sounded more celebratory, that they’d struggle but they’d made through to the other side and were together now.

He didn't deserve you 'Cause you're precious heart is a precious heart

Together over the past several months, he and Belle had built a credible reputation as in-demand songwriters-for-hire, penning a few tracks for various pop stars and even a big crossover hit. He didn't know what he had and I thank God, oh, oh, oh

Since Belle was still was technically under contract on Moe French’s label, until they could figure out how to disentangle her from that, she couldn’t record any of the music they wrote or release it.

And it's gonna take just a little time But you're gonna see that I was born to love you

But Belle wasn’t living off her father’s money any longer, or any money she made as “Belle”. Gold had tried to dissuade her, trying to convince her how hard it was to make a living playing music on your own. He wasn’t going to be able to provide for her at the level her father had been, but she wouldn’t be deterred. She had that much faith in their songwriting ability to sell to other major artists. After Moe took a large chunk off the top, the small percentage she did get in sales, radio, and licensing royalties went towards legal fees to unsnarl her professional relationship with her father. The rest she put into a college fund for Bae.

Belle closed her eyes, comfortable in the room now that she could lose herself in the song, and sang the chorus

What if I fall

Also new was a call and response they’d built into the chorus. Gold leaned into the mic and answered her.

I won't let you fall

Her voice was clear, angelic yet full of meaning. If you’d listen to a “Belle” record and her singing now, you’d never even guess they were the same person. She was beginning to find her own voice, outside of the one that Moe and the record label conceived for her.

What if I cry

Since she was still obligated to fulfill her contract, Belle was technically on her international tour right now, but she’d flown in from Houston for a couple days in between shows. She’d be leaving for Europe in a few months. She flexed her newfound muscles when she could, making her own choices where she was legally allowed. But the plan was to ride out this international tour, get her off Moe’s label, and move on with their lives. She was currently only talking to her father through intermediaries. I'll never make you cry

After her initial anger wore off, Gold could tell that it was hurting Belle to completely lose contact with the only parent she had left. Seeing her struggling forced Gold to finally let go of his old resentments against Moe. But Belle insisted that she needed to destroy her relationship with her father if she had any hope of rebuilding it.

And if I get scared

Also making the rounds on YouTube was a video his own son had taken.

I'll hold you tighter When they're tryna get to you baby I'll be the fighter

After Bae convinced him to not give up on Belle, they rushed off to the Hollywood Bowl. Surpassing even their Staples Center escape, they’d climbed the canyons in order to come down the other side and sneak into the venue. The whole time they could hear the concert in progress. By the time they slipped through the barriers, it was late and Gold feared they’d miss the show completely.

Because it was so late in the show, security was unnervingly lax and it was easy to slide their way through the crowd and to the stage wings unnoticed. He’d spent the past several days constructing a barrier in his mind to block out Belle’s voice, but it only took moments to disintegrate when he saw her at the edge of the stage, standing there in her ripped jeans. She looked vulnerable and beautiful and strong all at once. He didn’t need to read her mind, she was talking to the crowd, telling them about the song we was about to sing. A song he knew she’d written for him. She was putting herself out there, at her own show in front of thousands of people, in the hope that he’d reach out to her. She was doing so much and asking so little of him. He wouldn’t let her down. He wouldn’t abandon her, on stage or ever.  

He bolted out of the wings and onto the stage, but was blocked by the unwelcome shadow of Moe French.  

“You,” Moe growled, his cool demeanor from their previous run-in abandoned. “How many times am I going to have to destroy you?”

Gold’s ire immediately rose. But he couldn’t get caught up in the poisonous cycle, not again. Belle needed him. He could feel her impending panic as she reached the end of her song, with no answering lyrics from him.  

“Once more, apparently,” and shoved past Moe and out onto the stage.

Gold hadn’t know it was happening. He was out on stage with Belle. But, fortuitously, Bae captured the entire exchange, and the tantrum immediately afterward, on camera. He said later that he pulled out his phone and started filming for evidence in case Moe physically assaulted him. But that didn’t explain why he immediately uploaded it to YouTube and titled it “Moe French Has Meltdown at Belle Concert.” The footage of Moe standing at the edge of the stage, spitting bile about his only daughter and verbally abusing the staff that were unfortunate enough to be standing in the vicinity, was difficult to watch. But not as difficult as sitting beside Belle, holding her hand, as she viewed it for the first time.

Back at the dive bar, the closing notes of their Hollywood Bowl song faded out. A silent pause, and then thunderous applause erupted from the audience.  

He’d seen her showered with praise after two-plus hour concerts. But this was the happiest, the most proud, he’d ever seen Belle.

Riding that high, he unlooped the guitar strap from around his neck and thrust the instrument towards her. He accompanied her on all their songs. But he was teaching her to play, little by little, and this next song was for her and her alone.

“Ready?” he murmured.

She hesitated, swallowing audibly, before reaching out and wrapping her hand around the neck.

They wrote all their songs together, save this one. He hadn’t helped her with the lyrics, even when she asked. He gave her an assist with the instrumental, but he’d strictly limited his role. He knew the process of writing a song alone, of struggling with it over a period of time, of really having to dig, could be redemptive. You unearthed feelings long forgotten, pain you didn’t know you still held on to, pleasure you believed you’d never experience again. Either way you exorcized it through writing something honest, something true.    

It was because the lyrics were so delicate, so plain, so raw, and not hidden behind heavy symbolism or clever turns of phrase that made her lyrics about losing her mother and, in a different way, her father, so powerful.

I'm learning how to live Without you in my life I'm learning how to live Without you in my life I'll take the best of what You had to give I'll make the most of what You left me with I'm learning how to live

Gold sat back and watched her play and sing. For years she’d mesmerized crowds with her youth, her body, her energy. He looked down at the crowd and marked how spellbound they were by her by her voice, her words, her feelings.  

In its own way, what they were building together would eclipse his meteoric rise and fall or her pop stardom, and even Moe French’s empire. Because this career was built on love.

NOTES: Song: The Fighter Songwriters: Keith Urban / Michael James Ryan Busbee Song: Learning How to Live Songwriter: Lucinda Williams 

[garretschuelke]

Godan: Omega Wolf Blues, part 3

(As featured on Tuesday Serial. Read part two here)

The first day of December in Chicago was sunny and nearly cloudless—a stunning change to the previous month, in which the city was hammered with near-daily snow storms.

Chicagoan's, while still bundled up, obviously welcomed the changes,. Many of them took the chance to hang out at Millennium Park.

Some took selfies around The Bean, which was slick with melting snow, while others rented out skates and hit the McCormick Tribune ice rink.

Gareth, Nang, Callisto, and Lana were among the latter.

Two teenagers raced past Callisto, causing her to fall. Lana noticed this, and immediately skated over.

“Congrats on your first fall,” Lana said, bending over, “you lasted a tad bit longer than I expected.”

“Well, I've walked on ice before,” Callisto reached her hand up, “so I didn't think it would be that hard.”

Callisto's sleeve slid down, exposing her gray fur-covered arm. Lana quickly pulled her up. “Try to keep yourself covered up,” she said, pulling Callisto's sleeve back into place.

“Sorry, sorry!” Callisto said, hoping that Lana was not mad at her. She started slipping. Lana took her by the shoulders and led them to the side.

“It's cool,” Lana replied. “It's kinda funny though, seeing you hairless from, like, the neck up. It's like those YouTube vids of shaved dogs that I showed you.”

“Ew, no!” Callisto said, sticking her tongue out.

“Ruff ruff to you too,” Lana laughed, taking her vape pen out of her pocket.

“Where's Gareth and Nang at?” Callisto asked.

Lana took a hit as she looked around. “Right there,” she said, exhaling as she pointed at the center of the rink.

Gareth and Nang were holding hands, spinning around slowly. Gareth then pulled Nang to him, and they kissed.

“They made up pretty fast,” Callisto said, folding her arms.

“They've always been combative,” Lana said. “I'm pretty sure that's one of the reasons they're attracted to each other.”

“What're the other reasons?”

“Well, they're both superhumans, they both have fangs and claws,” Lana took another hit of her vape. She grinned. “Oh, and Gareth is really good in bed—Haruki and I can attest to that. I wouldn't feel surprised if she feels the same way.”

“Oh,” Callisto replied as she watch Gareth and Nang grab the two teenagers whose antics knocked her down earlier.

“You haven't slept with him yet?” Lana asked.

“What? No!” Callisto shouted. “I'm not into him like that!”

“Quiet!” Lana, said, putting her finger to Callisto's lips as she tried not to laugh.

Callisto moved Lana's finger away from her lips. “Aren't you weirded out with Gareth sleeping with other people besides you?”

Lana shook her head. “Nah, we're just friends. I have other lovers too—he just happens to be the one I live with and, you know, is probably the best out of all of them, being superhuman and all.”

Callisto nodded, and they both watched as Nang lectured the teenagers as Gareth looked on, laughing.

Callisto broke the silence. “So, who is this Haruki person I keep hearing about?”

Lana blew out a cloud. “You don't know?”

“I've seen a picture of him, you, Gareth, and another guy, and I've asked Gareth about it, but he got really sad and wouldn't talk.”

Lana sighed. “The other guy in the photo you saw in the living room was Tucker. They were our friends and housemates.”

“Where are they now?”

Lana took a deep breath. “Here's the sad part that Gare probably doesn't want to talk about: they were kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?”

Lana nodded. “By the Rudkuses—a gang Gareth then pretty much took down. He spent the entire year afterwards looking for them, fighting criminals, and doing other hero-related stuff, but he says he hasn't found any traces of them.” She took a quick hit of her pen. “It was me who convinced him to go back to Michigan to investigate his hometown's werewolf problem, since he was running himself ragged, and I thought him getting out of town for a bit would do him some good.” Lana threw back her hair. “From what he told me, it wasn't.”

Callisto looked at her skates, grimacing. Lana realized what she was implying.

“Hey, you're cool though!” She rubbed Callisto's back. “Really, Gareth and I like having you around!”

“Thanks,” Callisto mumbled.

Lana leaned into Callisto's ear. “I never told you this before, but I do get a kick out of shaving you. It reminds me of the cat I had when I was a kid would throw a shit fit whenever I tried to do it it her.”

Callisto giggled. Lana said “Uh, oh,” as she watched security confront Nang, Gareth, and the teenagers.

“Have you ever noticed that Gareth wears the same clothes all the time?” Callisto asked, referring to Gareth's black sweatshirt, gray sleeveless shirt, gray pants, and black combat boots.

“Yeah, he's not really much for fashion,” Lana said, “and, according to him, he never gets cold.”

“I mean, he wears the same clothes all the time,” Callisto nudged Lana. “Nobody notices?”

Lana shrugged. “Why would anyone care about some random gutter punk?”

Up in Chicago's skyline, Upton watched the four friends, streaming their activities to Mysta, who was using her tablet to check over the final preparations of her plan.

“All right, I think everything is good to go,” She put down her tablet, leaned back in her chair, and watched as Gareth and Nang were led off of the rink by security. “You ready to do this, Upton?”

Upton nodded his head.

“Good. Now go do what—” a figure flew past Upton's field of vision. “Wait, zoom in on whatever just flew by you.”

Upton did so, revealing it to be White Streak, who then landed on a rooftop overlooking Millennium Park.

“Hold on, Upton,” Mysta said. “Things are about to get more interesting.”

“I bet the security over at the Ribbon wouldn't let this shit fly!” Gareth yelled at the security guards who threw them out.

“Please don't ruin our access to that rink either,” Lana said.

Nang's phone vibrated. She took out it out and saw that it was a text from White Streak.

“Seriously,” Gareth said as he sat down on the bench and started taking off his skates. “I didn't act like that when I was his age!”

“Really?” Lana sat down, smiling. “You, of all people, weren't a dickhead when you were a teenager?”

“Nah, I was more moody and withdrawn,” Gareth then thought it over. “Actually, I only skated a handful of times before my Dad put an end to that.”

“Why did he do that?” Callisto asked.

Gareth grimaced. “Forget I mentioned that.”

“I got a text from Sanders,” Nang said, sitting down on the bench opposite of them, “he's waiting on one of the rooftops across the street.”

“Awesome!” Gareth began untying his skates faster. “Last chance, Lana, wanna join us?”

Lana shook her head. “Sorry, my shift starts in three hours.”

Gareth gave a heavy, exaggerated sigh. “Okay, I'll record it for ya.”

Lana giggled. “Thanks, since I obviously don't know how to torrent.”

“My bootlegs feature all the shaking, but none of the malware,” Gareth got up, dropped his skates off at the rental desk.“I'll see you later tonight.”

“I'll make sure there's plenty of salted pork left for you and Callisto when you get back,” Lana joked as she and Gareth hugged.

“What an angel you are,” Gareth kissed her on the cheek,  and turned to Nang and Callisto. “Well, gang, lets hit up the nearest alley.”

Nang and Callisto bid Lana farewell, and followed Gareth outside. Callisto tugged on Gareth's sleeve. “We're really not gonna have to eat that stuff again, are we?”

Gareth snorted. “Fuck no!” he laughed. “That's just something Mary like to whip up for new housemates.”

Callisto sighed. “Good, I don't think my stomach could take another round of that.”

“Let's go down this one,” Nang said, pointing towards an alley.

Gareth and Callisto followed Nang across the street and into the alley. After making sure that there were no security cameras around, they ducked between two dumpsters.

“I'm surprised that we haven't been caught yet,” Callisto said as she and Nang put on their domino masks.

“If we were busted,” Gareth said as his fingernails grew into claws and his hair turned gray, “I would just claim I'm selling you two drugs.”

“Yeah, you know, normal stuff someone would do in an alley,” Nang said.

“Likewise, I could claim I'm prostituting myself.”

Nang pretended to gag. Callisto giggled.

“Admit it,” Godan tied on his mask, “you would gladly pay up to have me.”

“I haven't done it yet.” Nang looked around the corner. “Coast is clear.”

They sprang upwards all at once, hopping onto a fire escape. They then leapt onto different window ledges until they landed on the roof of the building.

“STREAK!” Godan yelled, looking around “WHERE YOU AT?!”

“OVER HERE!” White Streak yelled, waving from the building behind them.

Godan, Nang, and Callisto ran over and joined him. “Got the tickets?” Godan asked as they slapped hands.

“Yes sir, Mister Gray Wolf,” White Streak replied, showing them the tickets on his phone.

“What're we seeing?” Callisto asked.

“A documentary,”

“That's different from the usual crap we go to,” Nang said.

Back in her lab, Mysta gripped her armrest. “That's how we're gonna do it now, Upton. You ready?”

Upton nodded. He started to power up his thrusters, and released a tentacle, as he slowly descended.

“You really don't see the irony in seeing a documentary about mass surveillance?” Godan asked.

“What's the problem?” White Streak asked. “Not interesting enough for you?”

“No, I'm cool with seeing it—I just find it funny that an FBI agent is interested in seeing what is probably, in part, a critical documentary on an activity that you guys engage in every single day.”

“First of all, that's not my department. Nang and I are all about monitoring and stopping superhuman criminal activities here in Chicago.”

“Yeah, mass surveillance.”

“Not the type they're talking about in this film! Second, I do have my own reservations regarding surveillance policies.”

“I'm sure your bosses really cares about your opinion.”

Nang slapped Godan alongside the head. “Stop being a dick to the guy who is treating us to a free movie!”

White Streak released three tentacles. “All aboard the White Streak express! Next stop: Logan Square.”

Mysta watched as Nang allowed White Streak to wrap his tentacle around her. “NOW!” she commanded.

Upton darted towards the group. He shot his tentacle and wrapped it around Callisto. He veered upwards again, knocking over Godan.

“THE FUCK—” Godan yelled, scrambling to his feet.

“GARETH!” Callisto yelled. Godan looked over and saw Upton, hovering a few feet away, with Callisto struggling to free herself.

Godan froze, and blinked a couple of times. “Upton?” he said, staring at the gang leader he thought he had defeated over a year ago.

“Who the hell is that?!” Nang asked, whipping off her coat, revealing her usual uniform.

“I don't know,” White Streak zoomed in on Upton's face. “Wait, is that—”

“UPTON!” Godan, filled with rage, launched himself towards the android.

“Come back to base,” Mysta commanded. “Use one of our underground tunnels.”

Upton nodded, and headed southward, narrowly avoiding Godan's slash. Godan growled, and gave chase.

“WAIT UP!” White Streak yelled. He made sure Nang was properly secured, and they flew off after them.

“Upton...” Nang said, taking a small metallic tube out of her pocket, “that name sounds familiar.”

“I've briefed you on him before,” White Streak said, tying to catch up with Godan as he hopped from rooftop to rooftop, trying to grab the android. “He's the former leader of the Rudkuses.”

“Oh, yeah,” Nang twisted the tube, transforming it into her spear, “but Gareth said he killed him.”

“I believe him,” White Streak started streaming and recording what was occurring, sending out a signal to his FBI contact, “but it looks like Upton got himself the same type of “upgrade” that I did!”

Godan made another leap at Upton, who just raised his hand and fired an energy blast at him. It hit the Gray Wolf in the chest, sending him plummeting towards the ground.

“CATCH HIM!” White Streak yelled.

Nang shot a web at Godan, catching him by the shoulder. She braced herself. Godan grabbed the web and steadied himself.

They entered the Back of the Yards neighborhood. Upton sent out commands to a nearby garage, which immediately opened up. He flew into it, with Callisto screaming for help.

“He's not getting away from me!” Godan yelled, slashing the web line off of him. He landed, and dashed into the garage as the door closed behind him.

“Hang on tight!” White Streak  yelled, bringing Nang closer to him. Nang shielded herself. White Streak aimed his arm at the door and blasted it. The door exploded, and they flew through the smoke.

“Excellent choice, Upton!” Mysta said, getting up from her seat and heading up onto the platform. “Now lead them here.”

“What is this place?” Nang asked, looking around. “Some kind of bunker?”

“Could be that,” White Streak said as they flew down the large, illuminated tunnel. His com buzzed, indicating that his FBI contact was trying to reach him. He accepted the call. “Red Seal, we got a problem: Upton's still alive—he's been turned into an android, and he has Callisto, the other wolf girl I told you about.  Myself, Agent Tu, and Godan are in pursuit in some tunnel located in the Back of the Yards.”

“Let me see if I can tag him,” Nang said, thrusting her palm forward.

“DON'T!' White Streak yelled. “You might hit Godan!”

“Like that's ever stopped him before!”

White Streak groaned. “Lock onto my location,” he said to Red Seal. “What's that? Yeah, send her over too. I'll take whatever help you can manage.”

“Who's Red Seal sending?”

“Our new recruit.”

Nang rolled her eyes. “Oh, come on—not her!”

The tunnel suddenly became darker. A door opened. Upton boosted his thrusters, and entered. The door immediately closed.

“Goddammit!” Godan yelled, winding up, He punched the steel door, putting a huge dent in it. He recoiled, holding his hand.

“You all right, Wolf,” White Streak asked as he landed.

“I'll heal in a sec,” Godan shook his hand. “I should have obliterate this door with one blow.”

The lights suddenly turned back on, revealing the end of the tunnel to be lined with pods built into the wall.

“Oh, God,” Nang said, cringing as she scanned the unconscious, grotesque subjects encased in the pods.

White Streak gulped. “These are the same exact pods that I was imprisoned in.”

Godan's attention from the door changed towards a pod that was next to him. The subject inside looked like he had been stitched back together. He looked closer, and saw the subjects face, which featured noticeable fangs.

Godan's eyes widened. He growled, and got into a battle stance.

“What?!” Nang said, joining his side, her spear at the ready.

“It's Ruthven!” Godan said, “That vampire Wolf Savage and I took out in Kalamazoo!”

White Streak checked out the vampire. “He looks like he's in the worst shape out of all of them.”

“How is he even alive?!” Godan glared. “We blew him the fuck up!”

“How do you know he's alive?”

Lord Ruthven suddenly opened his eyes. Upon seeing Godan, he smashed himself again the glass, fangs bared, his screaming only slightly muffled by the preservation fluid.

“SHIT!” White Streak yelled, aiming his palm at the vampire as he jumped back.

Godan bared his own fangs, ready to fight.

“WELCOME, SUPERHUMANS!” Mysta's voice blared out of a speaker. A screen above the door came to life, showing her sitting at a desk, grinning. “You kept up pretty well with my Upton. Guess I'll have to increase his speed later.”

That's the woman I've seen on the news, Godan thought, remembering the night he thought he defeated Upton.

“Mysta Avon,” White Streak said, lowering his arms. “Thanks for revealing yourself like this—it confirms all the bureaus suspicions.”

Mysta laughed. “It seriously took the FBI this long to find about my activities?” She pressed a button on her console. “Looks like I was paranoid for nothing.”

“I saw her on the news before,” Godan whispered to Nang. “Who is she again?”

Nang glared at him. “Come on, Gar,” she said , shaking her head. “Famous Chicago-based scientist, entrepreneur, investor, philanthropist, head of Mysta Industries...”

“Weapons manufacturer, gangster, human trafficker,,” White Streak interrupted, “and my personal favorite: mad scientist.”

“That's me, all right,” Mysta confirmed, leaning back in her chair. “But enough talk about my rep—there's lots of things I admire about you, Godan: your strength, your speed, your durability, and that incredible healing factor,” Mysta sighed, seemingly lost in thought, “but your intelligence and morals could use some improvement.”

Godan growled. Nang put her hand on his shoulder and told him to calm himself. She heard the sound of marching behind them. She turned around and looked down the tunnel.

“What have you done with Callisto?” White Streak asked.

“Oh, she's right here by my side,” Mysta reached over and turned the camera towards Callisto, who was bound to the wall by her hands and feet, her mouth covered with tape.

“Let's get this door open,” Godan said, walking past White Streak. He put both hands on the handle, and began to pull.

“Oh, please try!” Mysta said, pointing the camera back towards herself. “I made that door with your strength level in mind—as I could calculate, at least. You've dented it a bit, so I was a tad bit off—but I still think I did a good job.”

“Godan, Streak,” Nang got into a battle stance.

“She's got a point,” White Streak said to Godan as he pulled on the door in vain. “If it's so strong that even you can't get through it, then we have a problem.”

Godan stopped pulling. “No shit, Einstein,” he muttered, breathing heavily.

“GUYS!” Nang said, backing up.

“You got two immediate problems, actually,” Mysta said, resting her chin on her hand.

Nang turned White Streak around. She then grabbed Godan by the hood and yanked him from away from the door.

“WHAT!” Godan yelled.

Nang pointed her spear down the tunnel. Before them was a group, decked out in black hazmat suits, marching towards them.

“What the fuck are those things?!” White Streak asked, raising his arms towards them.

“They're some kind of zombies,” Godan got in front of them, claws up. “I dealt with them last year.”

“Very scientific explanation,” Mysta said. “ I simply call them 'Assistants'. How about we see if you three can take them on while trying to get the door open?”

“I can't tell how many there are,” Nang said, readying her spear.

Godan spread his arms out in front of them.”You guys get the door open. I'll handle these freaks.”

“Think you can manage them all?” White Streak asked.

“Oh yeah,” Godan flexed his claws, “I'll tear them apart!”

“Wait, we need you to open the door though.” Nang said.

“You heard the mad scientist—the door was made to match my strength.”

“How the hell are we supposed to manage then? We're not as strong as you!”

All at once, the Assistants stopped marching. They reached into their side compartments and took out batons.

“Fine—work on it until I take them out. I need a break from yanking on that handle anyway.”

Nang nodded. Godan gave them a thumbs up, and rushed towards the Assistants.

“He needs a break,” Nang sighed, putting away her spear.

“Come on, let's get this door open,” White Streak said. He went up to the door and saw that the doors space was expanded after Godan dented it. He stuck his hands in it, got a grip, and began pulling on it.

Mysta hummed.”Maybe I should have equipped them with guns,” she said, zooming in on Godan, who was easily tearing through the Assistants. “No, that still would have been a bad idea, with all the subjects I have stored along the walls.”

Callisto tried to say something, but her voice was muffled by the tape.

“You're absolutely right!” Mysta looked down at her android. “Upton, I'm not mad—I should have been more specific—but next time you lead high-powered superhumans to me, please go though a tunnel that doesn't have any experiments, expensive tech, and whatnot in it. Got it?”

Upton nodded.

“ It's nice having a silent servant, but nothing beats honest feedback, right?” Mysta looked back at Callisto, who glared at her.

“Should have thought of this sooner,” White Streak said, backing up. He aimed his arms at the other side of the door, and unleashed a thin, steady stream of energy at it.

“My turn,” Nang said, cracking her knuckles and taking up where White Streak left off.

“How's Wolf doing?” White Streak asked, increasing the strength of his energy beam.

Nang looked down the tunnel. She saw the ravaged bodies of the Assistants littering the floor. Further back, she saw blood and body parts flying everywhere as zombies surrounded Godan.

“He's having the time of this life,” Nang said, as she began to pull.

“It won't be long now,” Mysta said. She switched to another camera, which showed a lone Assistant standing back, observing the battle. “Good, he's in place.”

Another baton hit Godan in the back of the head. Enraged, he roared, turned around, and swiped at the Assistant, cutting its head off. Another Assistant wrapped its arms around the Gray Wolf's neck and his foot in front of his leg, sending them to the floor. The other Assistants piled on top of them.

Godan gagged on the smell of decaying flesh and rancid blood. “All right, I'm done with this shit!” he mumbled.

He quickly got to his knees and, swinging his arms, sent the Assistants flying off. He broke away from the Assistant that had him in a choke hold, and put his fist through its head. Godan then sped around the area and cut off the heads of each of the remaining Assistants before they could recover.

“God, what a mess,” Godan said, wiping his claws on his pants and looking around. He saw the lone Assistant still hanging back.

“How many of you freaks did Mysta make?!” Godan yelled, preparing to charge at it.

The Assistant began walking towards him, revealing that it was wearing a gray hazmat suit. It took off its gloves, revealing claws.

“Well, this might be different,” Godan said, getting into a battle stance.

The door moved slightly. Surprised, Nang stopped pulling.

“Keep going!” White Streak yelled.

“Just catching my breath, boss!” Nang said.

They heard a loud crash. They looked over, and saw Godan flying towards them. They got out of the way, allowing the Gray Wolf to smash into the door.

“GODAN!” Nang yelled, kneeling down next to him.

“Thanks for the save, guys,” Godan mumbled, scrambling to his feet.

They looked over and saw the Gray Assistant rushing towards them, claws at the ready. Nang shot a web at it. The Gray Assistant easily tore through it.

“I've got him!” Godan said, getting up and charging at it.

“We should help,” Nang said.

“No, we almost got this door open!” White Streak unleashed some tentacles and began pulling at the door with them. Nang returned to her previous position and went back to pulling as well.

“Perfect!” Mysta said as she watched the fight between Godan and the Gray Assistant continue. “Well, maybe I'm calling it perfect too early, but it looks promising.”

A loud squeal caught Mysta's attention, and made Upton get into a battle stance. The door that White Streak and Nang were pulling on slowly moved, creating a larger gap.

“It's about to get really fun in here,” Mysta stood up and looked at Callisto. “I can tell you're just as excited as I am.”

The Gray Assistant stomped Godan's foot. “REALLY?!” Godan yelled, hopping back on one foot. The Gray Assistant suddenly appeared in front of the Gray Wolf, elbowing him the chin. Godan swiped both claws at it. The Gray Assistant jumped back.

“That Mysta woman made you smart enough to do cheap shots,” Godan said, peeling the fabric off the one claw that connected with the zombies hazmat suit.

The Gray Assistant did not say a word. It got into a battle stance similar to Godan's. Godan snicked, and rushed at it.

White Streak saw Nang begin to breath heavily. He stopped blasting at the door frame. “Let me handle the rest,” he said, nudging his way between Nang and the door. He took a hold of the gap with both hands, breathed deeply, and began pulling again.

Mysta sighed heavily, “I'm sick of waiting.” She bent down and opened her desks bottom cabinet. She took out a smooth, thin crown that looked like an upside down horseshoe, and put it on her head. She pressed the button on the back to turn it on, and closed her eyes. A few seconds later, a red light appeared in front of the crown, followed by a beep.

Mysta opened her eyes. UPTON, CAN YOU HEAR ME?, she asked telepathically. Upton looked up at her and nodded.

“Excellent!” Mysta pressed another button on her console. The door of the lab suddenly opened, sending White Streak to the floor.

Godan threw the Gray Assistant at the pod containing Lord Ruthven. He raised his fist and ran at it.

COME TO UPTON'S SIDE, Mysta commanded the Gray Assistant. The zombie nodded, stood up, and ran towards the lab.

Godan's fist went through the pod door. Lord Ruthven took the opportunity to bust through the nearly-shattered glass.

“SHIT!” Godan said as he was showered in fluid and glass. He grabbed Lord Ruthven by the throat and, ignoring the vampires claws piercing his shoulders, threw him down the tunnel.

“LET'S DO THIS!” Nang yelled, whipping out her spear. The Gray Assistant zipped past her. “Who's—” Godan then zipped past her as well.

“Congratulations, superhumans!” Mysta said, arms outstretched. Upton and the Gray Assistant stood in front of the platform, arms crossed. “You're all officially the second, third, and fourth guests to ever visit my underground lab!”

White Streak aimed his arm at her. “Mysta Avon, you're under—”

Mysta's desk phone rang. “Hold on a sec, guys.” Mysta picked it up. “Yes?”

Godan saw Callisto tied up. With a growl, he leapt towards her. The Gray Assistant leapt upwards in front of him. It threw a punch. Godan crossed his face with his arms and took the blow, sending him back to the ground. Nang immediately threw her spear at Mysta. Upton unleashed a tentacle and swatted it away.

“Okay, I'll send up some of my Assistants to stop her,” Mysta said. She saw White Streak shoot an energy blast her way. She pressed a button, which brought down a glass dome, encasing the platform. White Streak's blast dissipated upon impact. “Yes, yes, I'll contact the authorities—just relax, and tend to your gunshot wounds the best you can.”

Mysta hung up the phone. “Sorry about that—it seems I have an unwelcome guest upstairs.” Mysta narrowed her eyes. “Scratch that—TWO unwanted guests.”

A loud, pained scream came from the hallway. They all turned around and saw Lord Ruthven dashing towards them, eyes bulging.

“This is getting way too out of control!” White Streak said, Godan and Nang prepared themselves.

“I got this,” Mysta pressed a button that closed the door just as Lord Ruthven was near the entrance. The vampire smashed into the door. Mysta laughed. “There, that's better.”

“Like I said before, Mysta,” White Streak turned back around, “we're taking you in!”

“Let's get real here, Agent Sanders: none of you are leaving this place.” Callisto began to struggle. Mysta smacked her. “You're all MY subjects now!”

“LET HER GO!” Godan yelled, baring his fangs.

The center of Mysta's crown glowed. “I want you to try and stop me.” Upton and the Gray Assistant advanced towards them. “It'll be easier to control you when you're dead.”

Nang broke away from the group, grabbed her spear, got into a battle stance.

“Oh, you don't have an opponent, do you?” Mysta's crown blinked. “Allow me to change that.”

The door next to Nang exploded, sending her skidding across the floor. Godan bent down and caught her.

A large android, equipped with a minigun for one arm, and a flame thrower for the other, entered the lab.

“It's a Man of War!” White Streak said, unleashing four tentacles. “I thought we got rid of them all!”

“You did,” Mysta stretched her fingers. “this is just my take on them. What do you think?”

Godan focused on the face, which was half-scarred with burnt flesh. His eyes widened.

“His name was Fold—a muscle for the Rudkuses. You might remember his as the one who massacred everything in that Boystown convenience store over a year ago.” She looked at Godan, “including those two friends you been searching for, Gray Wolf of Chicago.”

Godan tensed up, and began breathing heavily.

“Calm down, Gareth,” Nang whispered.

“You know, I think I'll give Upton and my Assistant a break. This will be a good chance to see what Fold can do, now that he's a true berserker!”

Fold raised his minigun.

“GET BACK!” White Streak yelled. Godan and Nang did so as White Streak blasted the floor, creating a smoke screen and a crater. Fold began shooting at them.

“THE FUCK KIND OF MOVE IS THAT?!” Godan yelled, crouching down behind the debris.

“The kind of move you do when you don't know what to do next,” White Streak said.

“Godan may not be a fan of it, but I applaud your quick thinking!” Mysta said.

There was another explosion, destroying the door on the other side of the room.

“GODDAMMIT!” Nang yelled, covering her head. “NOW WHAT?!”

Mysta telepathically commanded Fold to stop. He did so, and everyone directed their attention to the smoking hole in the wall.

“Okay, who the hell just blew up my stairwell?” Mysta asked.

“Don't worry, I just blew up your door,” a voice said. “I didn't feel like messing with the lock.”

Out from the smoke stepped Dia, wearing a business suit and a utility belt, with a Desert Eagle in each hand.

“You've finally made it, Agent Patrick,” White Streak yelled.

“ 'Agent Patrick' ?!” Godan glared at him. “Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Unfortunately, he's not,” Nang sighed.

“Well, what a surprise!” Mysta clapped her hands. “Tell me, Dia, are those vampiric abilities I gifted you still working out? How about all that fur I removed—any grow back?”

Godan grabbed White Streak by his shoulder and pulled him in. “What are thinking, man?!”

“Hey, she wanted to become an agent after I had dinner with her. She's taken to it better than I thought she would!”

Dia saw Callisto hanging on the wall, and glared at Mysta. “Let my sister go, Doctor Avon.”

Mysta shook her head, and grinned. “You know, after all the good I've done for you, you could at least let me have one werewolf to play with!”

Dia began shooting at the glass. Bullets ricocheted everywhere—one of which hit Godan in the shoulder. Godan covered the wound with his hand, and growled at White Streak.

“I didn't say she was perfect,” White Streak said. They heard Dia shout 'SORRY!' at them.

UPTON, TAKE CARE OF WHITE STREAK IN THE OTHER TUNNEL, Mysta telepathically commanded. ASSISTANT, TAKE CARE OF GODAN IN THE MORGUE.

Upton and the Gray Assistant nodded. Upton blasted the debris they were hiding behind, obliterating it. Before anyone could react, White Streak and Godan were taken hold of, and whisked them away.

“STREAK!” Nang yelled, looking around. “GODAN!”

“You all right?” Dia asked, joining Nang by her side.

“Nang glared. “DO I LOOK LIKE I'M ALL RIGHT?!”

Dia backed away. “Excuse me for actually being worried about you!”

Fold walked up to them. He aimed his minigun and flame thrower at the agents.

“I should probably start worrying about things that actually matter,” Dia said, aiming her guns at the Man of War.

[purplesurveys]

890

Quick! Chinese or Mexican? ...food? Oh man, I love them both. I’ll have to go with Chinese. When it comes down to it, it hits closer to home and I find that their flavors and options are more diverse. I like Mexican cuisine too, but I realize I only like certain dishes. How many significant others have you had in your WHOLE life? One. I have to ask: What does the last text you received say? “Good afternoon. Cooper is scheduled for deworming tomorrow. Thank you. Please disregard if done.” I’ve never had a vet clinic send me regular reminders before so I really appreciate the staff at the one I regularly visit now. I just feel like little things like this are good indicators of a clinic with good service and one that actually cares for the animals that people bring in, so yeah it looks like I’ll be a regular visitor here. How about the last text you sent? "Hi daddy sorry to ask this - you know I’d do it if [I’m capable of doing so] – but could you or mommy call the vet clinic to book Cooper’s grooming? I really don’t like phone calls” Pretty self-explanatory message right there. Have you shared any kisses today? I’ve only given kisses to my dogs today, but they’re the best boys.

Did the last person you kissed have soft lips, or were they kind of crusty? Soft. Do you think your life will be any different a year from now? It will definitely be different. It’ll only start rapidly changing from here. Can’t wait to see what my surveys will look like a year from now. What all is in your wallet? There’s an empty vape pen, a little over ₱700, some receipts I haven’t thrown out, and bits of tobacco from a cigarette I had stashed inside to hide it from my mom, who’s prone to checking out my bags without my knowledge and who will kill me if she found out I’ve started smoking. The tobacco bit’s disgusting, I know...I just never had the time to clean it out while I was still in school. How many windows are in your bedroom? There are two windows but each have six panes on them. Have you ever been in a fist fight? No. I had ‘wrestling’ fights with my cousin when we were kids but we mostly kicked and slapped each other. When was the last time you went to the doctor? End of May. I had a UTI and it gave me a nasty fever that didn’t go away for a week. Are you going out of town anytime soon? That’s still not possible. We’re getting a spike in cases – higher than ever – because the government hasn’t been doing anything since March and yet they’ve loosened lockdown rules for so many cities. With more people going out despite seeing no action from the government, it’s a complete recipe for disaster. Y’all have been back to normal for a few weeks, while we’re still on square one.   Do you hate your ex? I don’t. I even got back with her. When are you going to get a haircut? Not for a long, long while. I just had it drastically cut last February and my hair grows quite slowly, so it’ll be a while until it once again gets too long. Can you fit your hand around your wrist? Yup. Have you ever hurt yourself on purpose? Yeah, it’s called hating myself. When was the last time you applied chapstick? Years ago. I did apply lip balm a few months ago though, when I was headed to a party. Are you a coffee person or a tea person? Coffee for sure. I’m not very well-versed at all when it comes to tea. Do you have a weird laugh? No. I mean at least I don’t hate the way it sounds. What kind of deodorant do you wear? Dove something. Do you have videos on YouTube? No, I never post my own videos on there. When's the last time you had a phone conversation for more than ten minutes? I had a serious conversation with Gabie over the phone yesterday. I was feeling insecure about jobs and careers and the future, and I needed to get it out of my system. Do you laugh at inappropriate times? Sometimes. It’s not an issue people find with me, though. What's your fast food restaurant of choice? KFC if I’m really aiming for that greasy, heartburn goodness. Usually though I’d go for Jollibee because it’s among the most affordable fast food.

All the people you've kissed, what did their names start with? G. Are you in any kind of pain right now? My lower back hurts as always, but it’s not as big of a nuisance now. My knuckles are also feeling a little sore. Are you the jealous type? Only with my girlfriend, but I don’t let it get toxic. I just play jealous to get her attention and a few words of reassurance work for me. What did you and your ex fight about most? We didn’t fight a lot, actually. The biggest issue was her completely cutting me off in the last few months of our relationship which was obviously confusing, and ended up being the catalyst for our breakup. Do you have a foot phobia? No, but I’ve always been baffled by foot fetishes. To each their own, I guess. Well, are you a germaphobe? I’m particular about certain things but I wouldn’t call myself one. I just don’t like wearing other people’s clothes (even if it’s newly-cleaned) and sharing my spoon, fork, or bottle/cup/tumbler with most people. Do you get frustrated easily? When I’m driving OR already stressed to begin with, yes. Don't you love long hugs? Depends on the person. And long kisses? Only with my girlfriend. Have you ever purchased condoms? I’ve purchased a pack for a friend because they were too embarrassed to get one. Since I don’t need condoms and because a potential judgey look from the cashier won’t bother me, I volunteered to get it for her. Do you have a dirty mind? A lot of references will drive my head into the gutter, but I keep them inside as I know other people might not be comfortable with such comments. What's your favorite soda? I don’t like soda. Do you check the mail everyday, or somebody else? Nope. We know whenever mail comes because the delivery man will ring our doorbell to inform us anyway. Did you think braces were cool when you were little? I did. I owned a few stainless steel necklaces as a kid and I used to wear some of those around my teeth and pretend I had braces because I was a disgusting weirdo who couldn’t wait to be a teenager lol. Do you ever go without makeup or doing your hair? I go without makeup alllllll the time, but I always fix up my hair before going out. If I have no time to wash it I’ll tie it up in a ponytail or bun so that I don’t look untidy. Put your iTunes on shuffle RIGHT NOW and tell me the first song it plays. I’ll use the most recent playlist I made; it gave me the song Into It - Chase Atlantic. Recently heard about this group and it’s exxxxactly the sound I’m currently into. What is the last song you added to your iTunes library? The last song I added to my most recent playlist is Heaven Is a Place on Earth - Belinda Carlisle. The playlist is for songs I feel like would be awesome to hear when I’m cruising down the highway at 1 AM, and this song seems like an awesome closer to the playlist.   Are you embarrassed by any of the songs in your iTunes? No. They’re there because I like listening to them. When was the last time you were sick? May until the first few days of June. Did you get anybody else sick? Throughout the quarantine I’ve been the only one who’s gotten sick. Which is still weird to me, because I never get sick haha. Have you had your flu shots? I never get them, but I’ve had vaccinations for other viruses/illnesses like cervical cancer. What brand is your camera? I just use my phone as a camera, so Apple. I used to have a Nikon DSLR. Do you like raisins? No. Who was your valentine this year? My girlfriend. When did you first kiss the last person you kissed? January 2015. And when did you last kiss the last person you kissed? Two weeks ago. Did you borrow that shirt from somebody? No, it’s always been mine. What was the last thing you put in your mouth? The last bits from my chicken wing. Do you like to swim? I like wading in the water, but I don’t swim or like do strokes and stuff. How many vacations have you been on in the past year? Within the last 12 months, one. Have you ever gone on vacation with your boyfriend/girlfriend? Nah, just a day trip to the beach. I don’t want our trips to be funded by our parents because it just feels wrong lol, so I’m waiting till I’ve earned enough on my own to take her on a vacation. Are you supposed to be doing homework, young man/lady? My plate is empty for now. Do you have to wake up early tomorrow? Not too early, but I do have to take Cooper to the vet in the morning or at least before lunch so that we can be done before the queue could get longer. Do you have any prescriptions currently? I don’t. Are you upset about anything? I was earlier. My dad raised his voice at me but I was able to have a good cry about it, so I think I’m mostly doing better now.

[tevotbegotnaught]

Dubov's Last Jump-off pt 3

Saturday afternoon, we found out the club couldn’t (or wouldn’t) accommodate our third night. Dubov had to pay us, of course. Mo was looking at other venues, possibly for tonite, realistically for the coming week. He asked our availability. Once we all responded, possibilities quickly evaporated. That weekend passed and more days after.

After waiting a week, I texted Mo about money. Hours later, he replied:

“High paint he otter eyes or sue didn’t cut anything”

At the gigs, I watched Mo use his phone; its screen at his nose, glasses mid way between forehead and hairline. He looked down precipitously, grumbled, grumbled again, then pressed send. What usually came through was a ransom note clipped from Beckett. He never corrected these puzzles until one of us asked. Here, a fully translated version of our exchange:

“I paid the other guys, you sure you didn’t get anything.”

“Yes, I’m sure.”

“Did you send your invoice to Julie.”

“Yes”

“I’ll call them”

“is there anything I can do to expedite this?”

“Chris, I’m not your employer”

“Right”(!)

“There’s a rehearsal tonite, will you be there”

“I didn’t know about a rehearsal. Where and when?”

“Still working on a place. Maybe 7?” (3 hours from now)

“Tough for me”

“No worries. If you go, you’ll be paid of course”

“Ok”

“No worries. I’ll get back to you”

Now, I was enrolled in the Godot payment plan. Dubov was looking at spending four lifetimes in more chains than Issac Hayes ever wore. I just wanted to get my money.

Weeks later, Mo Bedbug went live.

“Bears ash oh Friday”

Mo called in a favor with some Long Islanders. We had a show Friday. I lobbied for travel money.

Any evening rush hour on the LIE (a highway, not an enormous falsehood) was a parking lot. Friday rush was tailgating minus libations. I pressed him for my other money in the bargain.

“I paid Pianist with Venmo. Do you have Venmo.”

(I send my Venmo)

“This is will be easy, I didn’t know you had Venmo.”

“Ok”(I offered twice before)

“I’ll see you Friday my place"

Mo balked at travel money, though. Arranging an Uber from his place and promising we'd miss rush hour. To get to Mo's, I took the bus, two of them. It cost me way more than the fare. Flushing Avenue, Shabbat imminent, was a sightseeing tour: high school kids, restaurant workers, construction crews. So many people boarding, I couldn’t see nor hear my stop and had to walk an extra half-mile.

Turning onto Mo’s street, a familiar Bushwick tableau appeared. A massive pit, surrounded on three sides by green plywood. Graffiti tags and band decals fading under the shrouds of old posters. At the curb, a ziggurat of garbage-strewn ten-foot pipes and a marooned RV, black spray paint scrawled over its siding and vents, windows cracked and stuffed with wads of insulation, front seats piled to the ceiling with bundled magazines and crumpled newsprint.

On the next block, I found Mo's address stenciled on the brick wall of a old factory. Drummer stood away from its entrance smoking and scrolling his phone. He looked up.

"Man, I texted him like 10 minutes ago."

"No answer?"

"He said he’s coming right down"

"I’ve been giving him progress reports. F***ing bus was crawling."

The building’s entrance, a glass and brushed steel module, sat cheek by jowl with a battered freight elevator. After a text reminder and more waiting, the freight elevator doors parted vertically. Mo let the canvas strap swing overhead.

"This way" he said, glancing over his shoulder at the gleaming foyer before pulling the strap down. The elevator enclosure, a hypoxic chamber of fuel vapors and sawdust, led darkly to a huge steel door. Mo punched a code and pulled the handle. Inside, a newly carpeted hallway, filled with tarps, drywall, paint cans and the potent smell of sandalwood.

"They’re still doing work....as you can see. My place is cool, though.”

"Where’s Keys (the new pianist)?"

"He’s here. Been here a while. Working on the music."

"You have a piano?"

"Uh, I have kind of a studio. Not for recording, but you know, instruments and stuff."

Mo had room for those instruments and plenty more. His walls sprouted art in every medium and material: paintings on wood, metal, plastic jugs, shards of glass; sculptures of bottle caps, cardboard, styrofoam; violent, erotic black and white photos fetishizing punk style and concert posters from Downtown’s acme.

I stooped to gawk at an undulating video in a KFC bucket.

“That’s from my gallery. I used to have a gallery. When it closed I moved everything here. Well, not everything, but…you know.”

Keys sat on a leather couch. He was a kid, maybe twenty-five. I was his grandfather. That messed me up. Before excusing himself, Mo pulled me an espresso from a fancy Italian machine. I packed sandwiches and coffee, but the extra shot was welcome. From a closed door, medicinal-grade weed wafted. We were a full hour behind schedule.

Out on the street, waiting for the Uber, Mo nodded at the construction site and listing RV, saying in his mumblecore voice,

"That’s my girlfriend’s art project.... I mean, ex-girlfriend. "

"The RV? She did THAT?"

"Yeah....Well, her friends... they did it together. I don’t know who did which part"

(There were ‘parts’?)

"How long has it been there?"

"Uh....nine months. Wait...yeah. We broke up six months ago. She was living in it for a while."

"Living in it? You’re kidding. Was that part of the project?"

He chuckled. "Yeah...I don’t know."

"We’re still friends" he said, mostly to tumbling litter in the street.

Inside the Uber, Mo continued: “the realtor told me this was east Williamsburg, but it’s not, it's Bushwick. I don’t care what they call it, of course. I don’t mind living in Bushwick. It’s easier to have a car here.”

“You have a car?”

“Not now. Had to get rid of it. Wasn’t right for this neighborhood”

“Wasn’t right?”

“it was an Audi R8. Midlife crisis car. These streets are so bad, I kept having to get it fixed.”

Driving due east, the winter sun behind us pooled on the shiny road. We careened through four lane traffic. Ahead, break lights fanned out, ruby droplets cascading off a humpback’s tail.

Drummer and Keys talked through the set, then volleyed gossip about mutual friends.

When the radio spun an artist he knew personally, Mo turned around and apropos-ed a story, interrupting the other guys. In the 80s, he produced videos for many fledgling stars. It was a new medium for him and Pop music. A few of his clients soared from Downtown digs to world domination. Mo didn’t stay on for their ascent, though. He also worked on an early Dubov-produced movie until the boss’s relentless cost-cutting and hostility wore him down. While he rambled, a vape pen did plenty of its own talking.

Tonight’s venue, a redux of a famous Long Island rock room, now tucked in the basement of a new boutique North Shore Inn. That building, a block-size Cape Cod, dropped like Dorothy’s whirling farmhouse at an angle to the tony commercial strip.

We had a seriously low pressure slot, opening for a veteran blues band. Ten white guys from three generations; a solid outfit with a long history playing sincere, tasty covers. Always simpatico, Karolina added "Stormy Monday" to our set list. Due to the short notice, we lost Pianist, our stellar MD, and Trumpet wasn’t available. Pruned to prototypical stripper band: saxophone, piano and drums. Not without some irony..

When the ladies hit “Uptown Funk", shimmying and signifying, the audience, almost all sixty year-old white dudes with the occasional spouse, started hooting and whistling. T and A wasn’t on the bill, but it still satisfied. Margherita did her canned steps for ”Too Darn Hot". Karolina was confident and sold her songs. Keys somehow kept the basslines and harmonies together. I completely missed the famous trumpet intro to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy". The ladies jumped in undaunted. The Male Gaze kept the show alight until we exited, dodging the headliner's B3, Leslie and vintage amps.

The ladies were pros now and we repaired to the underground parking lot to celebrate. The girls in jeans and hoodies, band in our "gangster suits". While she waited for Keys to blaze up. Margherita asked me,

“Did you have fun?”

"Sure, I always have fun" I told her. What counts as honesty when the entire premise of an act is fakery?

"Great" she said, tracking down the joint.

A couple hits and we went back inside, sitting down near the jacked-open exit door. The blues band’s horn section looked on wearily as the front man sang verses fashioned by tougher men for harsher times. From our seats, we saw Mo sweep through the green room doorway, his long canvas coat and scarf swinging. He pivoted at the closest table and exchanged with the owner, a grizzled man with a barely legal date. Their conversation rearranged chairs and sent the men striding out of the club, proving there actually were blues to be had everyday.

When Mo and dance partner failed to return, we headed upstairs and onto the porch, where patio furniture gleamed under blinding lights. At the foot of the wooden steps, livery cars glided in and out of the glare. After a flurry of texts, the ladies gathered their garment bags and kissed us goodbye. A black SUV, indistinguishable from the others, stopped and a rear window opened. Inside, Dubov’s face, like crumpled paper, if paper were milled from lipids and dusted with ash. "Good job guys" he said, voice level and hoarse. We thanked him. The ladies got in on the far side, Dubov’s window closed and the car drove off.

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

After dropping him at the factory, Mo left the meter running on our Uber so the band could get home. On the way, we speculated about Dubov’s eventual prison sentence, Mo’s fee and when "the New Yorkers" might book their first Bar Mitzvah.

The driver, a Bengali, navigated without commenting on our post-mortems, confirming and re-confirming each address for his app. I was last on the circuit. Once we were alone, I asked the driver about his night. His answers were brief and courteous. As we waited at a light, he turned his head toward me. "Excuse me, one question. Have you ever been to Las Vegas?"

[magneticmaguk]

We Spoke to the Inventor of the Weed Flower Crown, a Festival Accessory that is Actually Cool. Apparently

For two glorious weekends out of the year, Southern California's Indio desert becomes the Promised Land at Coachella Music Festival.

Gone are the concrete high-rises, worries of the 9-to-5 work week, and never-ending bills, replaced instead by three balmy days of live music, beautiful people, and mountain-lined horizons. At Coachella, you are the ruler of your utopian kingdom—or queendom—where anything is possible (unless you're trying to see both Dixon and Richie Hawtin play at the same time).

But what's a king or queen without a crown? The royal headgear has throughout history symbolized the power of its wearer, and was typically made using expensive metals and jewels. It's since become a wildly popular accessory at music festivals like Coachella, though its materials (flowers) are far friendlier on hard-partying desert dwellers and their wallets.

Even a ubiquitous fashion statement such as the flower crown is prime for an upgrade, however, and California-based marijuana growers Lowell Herb Co. are happy to oblige. Last month, they announced they were selling a cannabis flower crown, which consists of white roses and leaves intertwined with a quarter-ounce worth of marijuana buds. The crown, which is part of a Coachella-themed promotion, comes as a bonus item with the purchase of pre-rolled joints containing their new "Coachella" marijuana blend, a combination of four strains which Lowell Herb Co. partner Sean (who requested we not use his last name) tells THUMP was created specifically to optimize the music festival experience by reducing anxiety and heightening the visual and aural senses.

Though the cannabis crowns are a first for the company, the team have numerous times in the past realized similar ideas and themed blends for special occasions, including a cannabis bouquet for Valentine's Day. "We're a flower-only company, which means we don't really do edibles or concentrates or anything like that," Sean says.

Edibles may not be Lowell Herb Co.'s thing, but their concept of wearables is certainly looking (and smelling) strong. THUMP chatted with Sean about the conception of the cannabis crown, festival-friendly weed, and ideas for their next novelty item.

THUMP: Who came up with the idea for this cannabis crown? Sean: It was our publicist who came up with the idea. She's a big fan of Coachella, and we'd previously done a Valentine's Day bouquet that we came up with internally within the company, which was a big hit. We do blends all the time, like we'll do a special blend for Election Night, or we'll do a First Day of Spring blend, or a New Year's Day blend, a Superbowl blend, or whatever, so people can buy pre-rolls of these blends for special occasions.

Photo courtesy of Lowell Herb Co.

So she was like, "Let's do a Coachella blend and a crown to go with it." So we all got together on the farm and we figured out how to make them, and we had our growers and smokers—let's be honest, they do both—come up with a blend that they thought would be fun for listening to music at a big festival.

So this cannabis crown is basically an evolution of a now-ubiquitous Coachella accessory, the flower crown. Yes, [our publicist] goes all the time and she's going this year, and she was like, "This is what I want to bring for me and my friends." And we were like, "Let's do it." We're a pretty small company and we don't plan things that far in advance, so we were just like, "Let's get together this weekend and try to make this." We thought maybe it would just be for her and her friends, but it caught on and other people were interested, so we made enough so other people could buy it.

What exactly is this "Coachella blend"? We selected a group of strains that the farmers and the other creative people who work on the farm thought would work well for listening to music, but wouldn't induce any kind of anxiety when you're around big crowds of people.

[The farmers] talked about, and I would agree, that sometimes when you smoke and you're in a crowd of people, you get anxiety and you want to go hide in your room. That's not going to be a possibility at Coachella, and so they tried to take some hybrid strains that can make you a little more outgoing, or that calm your anxiety, and they blended them with strains that are a sensory-enhancer and are good for listening to a record or watching a visual performance of some kind.

They also picked strains, that they grew, that had an association with what you think of when you think of Coachella. The strains they picked were Dog-Walker, Single White Girl, Chocolate Hashberry, and Lenny OG. So those four strains make up the Coachella blend.

Photo courtesy of Lowell Herb Co.

What kind of music is best when you're smoking this Coachella blend? I would say something that has some depth to it, that has texture and levels. In my experience, sometimes you get something out of a record when you're sober; and then when you're really high you'll hear more depth or get deeper into it and appreciate some of the other levels that are going on.

What's the perfect high for a festival like Coachella? I'd say euphoric, calming, and sensory-enhancing.

Who are your all-time favorite stoner musicians? Me, personally, I'm kind of old [laughs]. I would say that I probably would go with Postal Service, who I really liked to listen to, and I guess I still do, when I get high. The Flaming Lips' Yoshimi Battles the Pink Robots is another good one.

Do you think music sounds better when you're high? I think you get a different appreciation for it. Because music can just be the background noise in your life, but if you really want to get into a record, like delve into it, I think sometimes if you get high it allows you to tune out the world and really appreciate something.

How do you smoke during a festival so you can stay perfectly high all day without getting faded by the time the headliner plays? Oh man, I don't know if I have the answer to that. I would probably blow it [laughs]. I'd probably fall asleep before the headliner came on. I always smoke too much and then have to go home and go to sleep. Everyone has their own tolerance, right? There are some girls who work at my farm who can smoke all day and they're just motivated, they're working hard on the farm all day and they never slow down. Then there are people like me, like in the mid-afternoon, if I smoke a joint, I'm useless for the rest of the day. So it's hard to say.

You have to know your own tolerance, you've got to know how cannabis affects you, and maybe just stick with more uplifting things. Indicas [a type of cannabis strain which is typically more physically sedating compared to more stimulating sativas] can be a real outing-killer; they're better for when you just want to stay in for the night and chill and watch a movie, go to sleep early and get some rest.

Do you foresee a future when weed is legal at music festivals? Absolutely, I 100-percent do. It's ridiculous to me that alcohol is available for sale at basically every public event that we do, even events that are mainly for children, and sporting events—there's alcohol served everywhere. But that cannabis is unavailable in all these places, and that people are forced to hit their vape pens in the bathrooms or go outside and sneak one real quick, it seems ridiculous to me. But we're getting there.

Colorado is the first state to allow you to use cannabis in establishments, and I can't imagine California's going to be far behind. I'm really hoping that the day that cannabis is treated more like alcohol in all parts of American society and life comes soon.

So far, you've got weed bouquets and weed crowns... what's next? I guess we could try to do a cannabis dragon for the premiere of Game of Thrones… None of what we've done has really been well-planned or researched promotions. We were just like, 'Hey, this is a cool thing we could do,' and then a bunch of people had interest in it.

We're a flower-only company, which means we don't really do edibles or concentrates or anything like that; we just sell fresh cannabis. So that kind of limits us. Maybe a Christmas wreath could be our next one.

A cannabis Christmas wreath! We're for sure going to do a Christmas blend. It's Christmas Eve, it's cold outside and you've got a fire going; you want to have a special Christmas blend to go with your eggnog. So maybe a Christmas wreath to go along with that.