#charles just needs to add some police lights on top

[petit-papillion]

An ode to the most conspicuous car to ever attempt to chase down expensive watch thieves...

Charles Leclerc's Ferrari 488 Pista Spider

📸 Reddit

[quicksilverrwrites]

𝐏𝐀𝐈𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐆: peter maximoff x reader 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: you can’t sleep and neither can peter, but at least you both know exactly how to comfort one another. 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 2.4k 𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: 18+, fluff, peter and reader are early to mid twenties, british reader 𝐀𝐔𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄𝐒: y/n is known by the mutant name “scribe” and is charles xavier’s niece.

It’s eleven-thirty, and you can’t sleep.

Your thoughts shift to your lessons in the morning; to how tired you’re going to be; to that iced coffee you’d had while getting your assignment done after class; about how that drink was definitely a bad idea considering how you’re lying awake now. It had tasted good then, and it had given you the energy you needed to fire out five thousand words in the span of a few hours… but now you regret it.

Sighing, you roll over. Your eyes glaze over the objects on the nightstand beside your bed. Your alarm clock, rectangular in size and wooden in material, glares at you. Eleven thirty six. Eleven thirty seven. The time seems to spiral, and you realise that you might as well do something with yourself if you’re awake.

You eye the books stacked on top of the alarm clock; you’d been reading one before and it had bored you half to death, so you can’t bring yourself to pick up any again. What else? What else?

Your gaze settles upon the picture frame on the dresser next to your nightstand, and you let out a sigh as you settle upon the silver-haired speedster within it. You’re next to him, a mere blur since he’d sneakily taken the camera from your hand and taken a picture with an expression that radiates cheekiness, but you’d liked the picture enough to keep it.

You’ve got a few more picture frames scattered around your room—photos of you with Scott, Jean, Jubilee and Kurt. Even some of Charles. You might not be close, but he is your uncle, after all. He’s still family.

And yet it’s Peter you keep your eyes on. It’s Peter's mischievous aura which calls to you across the room.

What would he be doing right now? He’s probably playing video games or practicing on one of his guitars. You’d been surprised to see him play well; you’d been surprised to see that he actually had the attention span it takes to successfully learn an instrument. You would know: your mother used to nag you about practicing the piano to perfection. Practice makes perfect, she’d always said, and yet she’d always left out how much energy it took to practice in the first place.

Is it too late to reach out to him? The two of you have a specific way of speaking to one another across distances by now, although even the thought of doing such a thing due to the time seems rude. Your mother had always told you that it was your duty to be polite, and your father had by example. You think you picked it up from him rather than her, but—

Don’t think of him right now. Don’t think of what happened. Don’t.

As if in an effort to push the memory of that night from your head, you move. You pull the drawer attached to your nightstand open to reveal a mess of junk inside, but what you need—and what you spy—is a pen and paper. You pull it from the drawer and slam the nightstand drawer shut quietly, and after, you get to work writing:

Are you up? Can I come over?

Your fingers buzz with azure energy as you feel your mutation working in your favour. A tiny portal of blue opens before you, one you could make larger if you wished but one which you keep small for now. It’s no larger than a letterbox would be, and the faint sound of music from the other side tells you that Peter is very much awake.

You slip the note through the portal, and then you leave it open as you wait.

When you receive no response for a solid fifteen seconds but can hear movement on the other side, you wonder if this was a mistake after all. It’s too late, you scold yourself, mentally preparing for rejection. Oh, god, this is going to be awkward. What if he—

An empty Twinkie box falls at your feet.

You blink at it, momentarily confused, and then you pick it up. You glance about the dessert’s display as you begin to turn the box over in your hands. Nothing on the front, but on the back—

Scrawled in pink glitter pen—probably his sister’s—, the box reads on the back: Yeah. Come through.

You grin lazily as you set the box down on your bed and extend the portal with your fingers like you’re prying open a heavy door. The orange light from Peter’s basement slips through and becomes one with the light of your dorm, which is yellow and warm with your room’s wooden accented walls and flooring. And as you slip through the portal and your bare feet touch the soft tartan carpet of his room, you let the portal shut with a soft shum behind you—

But Peter Maximoff does not look his best. In fact, he looks downright miserable.

His eyes are red as if he’s been crying, his hair is messy—messier than usual, at least—and he’s wearing a band tee and some tartan pajama bottoms that look intended for comfort rather than style. You were about to say hey, but you stop in your tracks. You tilt your head as you look at him.

Peter is still. It’s strange, especially since he’s usually so eccentric. He blurts out, “What?”

You frown, momentarily stuck for what to say. “Nothing,” you respond, but it doesn’t seem right.

Peter stares at you. You stare at him. You’re both quite similar, so it strikes you then that you both know that you’re each not telling each other something.

“You okay?” You ask, suspicion clear in your tone.

Peter shrugs nonchalantly. It’s a rigid movement. “Yeah,” he says, far too confidently to be true. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

You narrow your eyes on him. His tone of voice has all but solidified your suspicions. “Okay, first of all,” you say, crossing the small space of the room between you and the sofa, “you use a very distinctive tone when you lie.” You settle down on the sofa as you cross your legs under you. “Second, your eyes are really red. Have you been—?”

“No.”

Crying, you were about to ask, but he cut you off. You narrow your eyes again.

Peter sighs and averts his gaze, running a hand through his hair. “Tonight’s just… not a good night.”

You press your lips together as sympathy wells in your eyes. “Why not?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“That makes two of us."

Peter inhales deeply, and before you know it, he’s sitting on the sofa next to you. You’re used to how fast he moves by now. Something warms your heart in the way he sits with his body angled towards you. Like he’s opening himself up to you.

“Wanna stay here tonight?” He asks.

You glance at the other end of the sofa and then back to him. You’re reminded of how he took the sofa to sleep on that night after you guys got caught in the rain. “Here?”

Peter’s brows rise. “Is my basement not fancy enough for you?”

You know he’s joking even despite the lack of humour in his tone, and you let out a small huff of laughter as you flash him a lazy smile. You sit back on the sofa, reaching out your hand to intertwine it with his. Things between you are still blooming after your first date, but you both feel comfortable enough to do this. Peter’s fingers wrap around yours as he starts drawing patterns on the back of your hand with his free one.

“I just mean,” you murmur, just loud enough to be heard over the backdrop of quiet music, “won’t your mom mind?”

“She didn’t mind when you stayed over last time.”

Your lips quirk upwards in gentle amusement. “That time you slept on the couch. This time I was thinking, I mean, if you want to, then maybe—”

“Oh,” Peter murmurs. His head lifts upwards in a sort of understanding motion. “Yeah, I mean… ah, I can deal with whatever safe sex talk she wants to give me in the morning.”

Your cheeks flush red. “I didn’t mean that. I just meant maybe we could…” Oh, god, embarrassment— “cuddle.”

Peter grins. “Cuddle, huh?” He pauses, until— “Okay,” he murmurs, reaching an arm around the back of the couch to wrap around you. “I guess I could be down for cuddling.”

You snicker softly as you lean into his touch, your head resting against his shoulder. “Do you want to tell me why you looked so upset when I arrived?”

Peter tenses. “It wasn’t because of you, if that’s what you were thinking.”

“Mm,” you murmur, “I think I’m confident enough in our relationship to know that your reaction when seeing me is generally excitement rather than the dread that accompanies sad under eyes and red markings around them.”

He pauses for a few seconds before he lets out a long breath of defeat. “That obvious, huh?”

“Mm,” you murmur, looking up at him. “A little.”

His lips twist to the side as he lowers his gaze. “I was thinking about my dad.”

It’s your turn to pause now, looking up at him in a way you didn’t before. You assess every detail of his body again: the way his shoulders slump, the way his head hangs low, the way his hair falls in the way of his view and his eyes are heavy with something you haven’t seen in him before. He’s usually so full of life.

Is this what he’s hiding deep down?

“Tell me about it,” you say softly.

Peter grimaces. “It’s a long story, and the stupid thing is it’s mostly my fault.”

Frowning, you sit up and face him. “I don’t believe that.”

Peter lets out a humourless laugh that might be bitter if he showed a hint of anger, but he doesn’t. “It’s true. The only time I’ve ever been too slow and it’s in finding the most…”

He trails off, pulling his arm away from around you so that they both now rest in his lap. He continues, “It’s a mess.”

“Start from the beginning."

So he explains, if not vaguely: about trying to find his father, about finding a house empty and police arriving on the scene. Peter had fled at the sight of them, and—

“His name’s Magneto,” he admits. “Erik Lehnsherr. You’ve probably… seen him on TV or something."

Suddenly, it all adds up. You weren’t at school to see what happened with Apocalypse, but you’ve heard about it from your friend group. Peter doesn’t talk about it very much, and now you know why; had he been part of that whole adventure because of his father? He hadn’t been involved with Xavier’s School before, that much you know.

You suck in a breath. Okay, Y/N, push the fact that his dad’s a known terrorist aside— “Does he know?”

Peter shakes his head. “Nah. I had the chance to tell him and I didn’t. I screwed it up. And now I’m right back where I was before all of it, because I have no clue where he is and no way of telling him the truth. I couldn’t even do it for Wanda.”

“Hey,” you murmur, your fingers moving to cup his cheeks. “Fight or flight, right? It’s normal. To see him right in front of you—to have to muster up the courage to tell him? Knowing what a change that would be for you? Peter, that’s normal.”

Peter’s eyes well with softness as he listens to you, gazes upon you, and you think you’ve never seen him look so vulnerable as he lowers his head to your shoulder. He takes in a shaky breath; wraps his arms around you; pulls you into his lap—

“Thanks,” he murmurs into your shirt. It’s not his shirt this time; you’re wearing a pyjama set that consists of blue silk shorts and a top. “Not sure I believe you, but thanks, Y/N.”

“Is there anything I can do to make you believe me?”

Peter takes a deep breath. “Aside from mind control? Not sure.”

You press your lips together and begin to stroke his hair. “To be honest,” you murmur, “I’m not sure I’d believe you if you tried to tell me something similar about my father, either.”

Peter lets out a choked laugh. “Maybe that’s why we work together.”

Your lips curve upwards, still stroking his hair. His face is still buried in your shoulder. “Maybe,” you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his head.

Peter shifts so that he’s leaning against the back of the sofa and you’re in his lap again. You turn so that you’re straddling his waist, but your fingers find his jaw to cup the skin there. Your thumb brushes soothingly against his skin.

“You mean a lot to me,” Peter murmurs, staring up at you. It’s almost as if the music in the room has stopped; it’s almost as if the two of you are the only souls left in existence. His brows are slightly raised and there is awe in his voice as he says, “I don’t really believe you’re real half the time.”

You let out a soft laugh. “Definitely real, Peter. Definitely here.”

“Yeah,” he says, his tone riddled with amusement, “and here of all places. You could be anywhere. You’re like, perfect and—”

“Ssh,” you murmur, pressing a finger to his lips. “I don’t want to be anywhere but here with you.”

Peter tilts his head up towards you, a silent request for consent, and you kiss him in answer.

He wraps his arms around your waist as he deepens the kiss, your tongue slipping out to meet his own. He makes a low, guttural noise between pleasure and content at the feeling of it, and your free hand clutches at his shirt as your other hand remains at his jaw.

You spend the rest of the evening like that, whether it's on the sofa or in his bed, but in those moments together there’s nothing carnal about it. Your touches are soft and comforting rather than lustful and yearning, and as much as you’ve thought about him that way before, you know that now’s not the time.

Tonight, you both need this. Tonight, your sole purpose is to be there for one another.

“And for the record,” Peter murmurs between kisses, his words random and uncalculated, “I think your tragic backstory’s way worse than mine.”

[peralta-guaranteed]

When they met Jake had a mop of hair (still looked cute) but then he got it cut and went from cute to HOT AF wonder what Amy’s reaction to that was 🤔🤔 or what her reaction to first time seeing him in a suit (suit Jake can step on me)

(gonna smush those together and add the awesome triple Ask part 2, "Amy realizing how hot Jake is early in their friendship like a moment of realization and then it won’t get out of her head)

also, Jake’s suit: like this

and Amy’s dress: like this but in blue

for your imagination pleasures :D

He was cute in a dorky kind of way, she had to admit even before she ever dared to think she might like him.

Well, she didn't exactly have to admit that to anyone, because no one really asked (except for Kylie, who only got a shrug and an eye roll when she inquired about her new co-workers). But she kind of admitted it to herself, whenever she caught a glimpse of his mop of hair bobbing past her desk with a new file, or leaning over her when they were discussing a new case. He was kinda cute.

Annoying and childish and boisterous and a pain to work with, but... in a cute way.

It made no difference to admit that, anyway. It didn't matter. They were co-workers, and that's it. She wasn't here to make friends - especially not with someone as wild and career-hobbling as him. She’d made that decision before she even came to the 99, and it wasn’t going to change.

-*-

He came in with no curls left at all six months into their working relationship, about a month after she’d also admitted to herself that maybe she wasn’t intentionally here to make friends, but had accidentally ended up with a strangely loyal one. 

“Good, right?” He grinned at her with a proud double-pointer to his head, sitting or rather plonking down into his chair across from her while she tried to pry her eyes from him. She had been staring the whole way from the elevator to their desks, but maybe it wasn’t too late to hide that.

It was a bit harder to hide the blush that started at the top of her ears, but she cleared her throat quickly to pull his eyes away from that.

“That’s quite a change.”

“Yeah, Gina set me up with one of her stylist friends. Didn’t work out, but, uh, guess I got something out of it. Which is probably what she was planning for anyway.” He shrugged, answered with a resounding “Uh, duh!” from behind Amy before he stuck his tongue out at the childhood friend she was separating him from.

Something in her face twitched at the mention of another one of his dates - he seemed to be going on a lot of those, and he had no qualms telling everyone so, even though he never elaborated. Why it made her stomach drop a bit every time, she wasn’t quite so sure. Probably because it was so unprofessional to discuss at work, and she was already toeing the line too much joining in with some of his jokes and pranks. He swore McGinley didn’t give a damn, but she was sure she’d seen their captain’s disapproving stare through the half open blinds the last two times Jake had pulled her up from her desk for something definitely not police-related.

Jake was still low-key squabbling with Gina over her head, so she could slip out of that conversation easily, focus on the files she was working on before he came in looking like that, disrupting her… everything. 

“It looks good.” She said instead, cursing herself for opening her mouth the second it closed again, but continuing. “Frames your face much better.”

The infighting stopped, and she could feel Gina’s stare burn into the back of her head. But far more pressing was the look Jake was giving her now, a short blink of… surprise, maybe, before his face broke out into a grin that wasn’t half as goading or over-the-top as usual.

“Uh, I, mh, thanks.” He mumbled, quickly staring down at the files he’d left open yesterday before he left, and she almost thought she could see a blush on the tip of his ears now, finally visible without being hidden underneath all that hair.

But that was surely just her imagination.

-*-

A very overactive imagination, she sighs as she stands in the copier room. An imagination that couldn’t stop staring at him throughout the day, at the way his profile had changed so much now without those curls always in the way, at the short hairs on the back of his neck, her fingers itching to run through them to find out if they’d feel soft or bristly. An imagination that refused to go back to the simple description of ‘cute’.

“I see you, Santiago.” A terrifying voice behind her interrupts her, and she’s glad her files are already in the copier so she can’t throw them at Gina in shock as she turns around to face her.

“What?”

“I see you, staring at my boy.” Gina points two fingers from her eyes into Amy’s direction, a grin breaking out on her face that almost rivals the ‘boy’ she’s talking about. “Getting the hots for the class clown? Gonna go smoochtown on my little bro?”

“As if.” Amy scoffs, maybe a bit too loudly, shaking her head a bit too much. “We’re talking about the same guy here? The one who claims that jelly beans have 4 calories each, so eating 500 a day should fulfil his caloric needs?”

“Uhu.” Gina seems bored now, which is not unusual for her whenever she’s talking to Amy, staring at her fingernails instead. “Keep trying to delude yourself with those negatives, poor girl. Just channel all that unfulfilled desire into some boring paperwork. I’ll be waiting for the day you snap and tear his clothes off right at his desk, so I can be out sick that day and not have to witness it.”

“I’m not going to-” Amy tries to protest, but Gina has already hopped out of the room, her hair bouncing behind her as she gives a wave and leaves her behind with a growl.

She’s not. She’s not going to do anything. There’s nothing to do something about. There- it’s- he’s-

She’s allowed to think someone looks attractive without immediately devolving into sexual thoughts or interest. She can think one of her friends is good-looking without making that weird. She can… she can admit that Jake is her friend and that Jake is attractive and it doesn’t change anything.

It doesn’t.

-*-

They’re all standing in front of the precinct, half shivering because of the wind swiping through their legs, and Amy curses whoever’s idea it was to meet up there instead of straight at the NYPD party two blocks down. We’re supposed to show a unified front as a squad, she remembers Terry saying, arriving together will help with that. 

Well, they apparently won’t even start off together, because they’ve been waiting for Jake - of course, who else? - for close to 15 minutes now, and none of their messages were even answered. (Amy duly noted that hers were actually the only ones signed off with a ‘read’ notification, but she couldn’t think too much about that now, not while she was freezing in a dress she was still worried might be too low cut for a work event, even while Rosa next to her was sporting the most amazing little black dress she’d ever seen.)

“I swear to god, if Peralta isn’t here in 5 minutes, I’ll-” Terry is interrupted in his rant by a far too familiar voice sprinting at them.

“I’m here! I’m here.” Jake coughs a little as he comes to a stop and leans forward, hands on his knees, before standing up with a wide grin as if nothing happened. “I’m here! Let’s go! What are we waiting for?!”

Terry gives him the most dead-set stare he can muster before the group starts moving, all eager to finally get to a place that not only offers free drinks and food, but also heating.

Amy falls back a few steps, fighting with some uncomfortable heels she also should’ve rethought as much as her dress, and finds herself next to Jake, who’s apparently still trying to catch his breath from his run to the precinct. At least that’d explain the little gasp and baited breath as she bonks against him in her next stumble, and finds she’d rather like to stay there - on account of him being warm, of course.

“Geez, Santiago.” His arm wraps around her, suddenly, an even warmer hand rubbing up and down the thin sleeves of the stylish yet impractical soft coat she’d picked. “If you know you run cold all the time, why don’t you bundle up for the weather?”

Because bundling up doesn’t look good, she thinks with a sigh. Bundling up doesn’t leave an impression with the captains at that party. And because, maybe, Kylie had been a little too convincing about her online shopping cart after two glasses of wine each and clicked Buy before Amy could stop her. 

“I wasn’t exactly expecting to spend more than 5 minutes out in the cold today, but we had to wait twice that for you.” She bites back instead, and hates herself for it, because it makes his wonderfully warm arm drop from her side almost immediately.

“Sorry.” He mumbles while staring at the ground. “Hey, you want my coat? It’s fresh dry-cleaned, I promise.”

“I didn’t know you even owned anything but that leatherjacket and at least twenty similar hoodies.”

“Yeah, it’s my grown-up nice jacket I only wear for special events.” He decides to ignore her dig, stroking down the soft grey wool with a strangely proud grin before unbuttoning it. “Here, put it on. Pre-warmed.”

She can’t protest anymore before he slips it over her shoulders, and it is incredibly warm and soft, but that’s not what freezes her mind entirely.

Jake’s in a suit. That much was to be expected, considering the event they were going to specifically asked for it, but it only now dawns on her that she’s never seen him in a suit before, not accounting for his dress blues. And what a suit. It’s dark green, emerald, she thinks it’s called, a colour that works perfect with his light brown curls (slightly grown out again), and there’s- there’s a waistcoat involved, and a pocket square, a  navy blue coloured pocket square, and she realises it’s the exact same shade of blue as her dress, and her mind can’t even focus on how the cut of his suit seems perfectly tailored around his waist while thinking about that, until Charles’ wolf-whistle pulls her out of her fugue.

“Hot damn, Peralta.” Terry nods next to him. “Didn’t expect you to make the effort, to be honest.”

“Gina has this friend who works at a tailor.” He coughs, and yes, there is definitely a blush on his ears now. “Plays himself as a bit of a stylist, but I think he went overboard.”

Charles “Nuh-uh!” mixes with Rosa’s “Why does Gina keep trying to hook you up with horrible people”, and almost overshadows Amy’s “Do you make any fashion choices that aren’t basically Gina-led?”

“Because she’s Gina.” Jake shrugs and seems to answer both Amy and Rosa with that, staunchly ignoring Charles for the moment, which is probably his best bet.

Amy wants to shoot something back, anything, to keep her mind off of that suit and her eyes from staring, but she can’t. She’s glad she has to look forward as they move on, though, focusing more on not stumbling on the uneven pavement with Jake’s warm, heavy coat over her shoulders.

So he looks good in a suit. That’s fine. He cleans up well. Lots of men do. Terry is wearing a nice suit, too. So’s Charles, she has to admit.

But neither of them pull at the seams of her mind like his does. Neither of them makes her wonder how it feels to let her hands slide down his lapels, maybe grab them midway and pull him forward-

The two block walk is far too short to cool her down again, especially with that cursed warm jacket around her, smelling so much like him and his unusual cologne that he’s definitely never worn to work before, but that will be burned into her nose for a while now.

-*-

He helps her slip both his and her jacket off at the coat check, and there seems to be a short moment where he almost drops hers as she turns around again, his eyes rushing up and down her wrap dress, sporting a cleavage and a high slit that really can only be explained by two glasses of wine and Kylie. At least the sleeves are long enough to not make her freeze anymore now that she’s inside.

“Wow.” He mumbles even as she begins pulling at said sleeves, adjusting the collar that already feels like it’s dropped too far.

“I know, it’s too much, my friend-”

“Too much?!” He interrupts with a stare. “Ames, you look-” He seems to be grasping for something to say, and she can see a flash of a lot of words across his mind before he stares at the ground again for a second to find himself. “Good. You look really good.”

She smiles as her eyes drop to the ground as well.

“Thanks. You look good, too.”

He snorts, before lifting his arm in an inviting gesture, and she doesn’t want to rethink it too much as she slips her arm into the hook of his elbow.

“Well, let’s go look good together then.” He says, and yep, she’s definitely rethinking all of that. For the whole evening. Every time he catches her eyes - she’s not staring, she’s not - and smiles at her. The first time he points to his pocket square, mouthing We match! with almost childlike glee in his eyes. The following five times he does it. Even the one time Charles points it out as they find each other in their little group again, met with a round of sighs and a disgruntled “No, Charles” from Jake himself. 

She thinks about it - and about him, and that suit - when he picks up their coats, both swaying and giggling just a little from the free champagne. 

And then she thinks about something a bit more, when he slips his jacket over her shoulders immediately, his hands gliding over her bare neck for just a second, the scent of his cologne from the collar only strengthened by the scent of him right behind her.

So he’s cute. So he’s attractive. So he looks amazing in a suit. 

So she might be a little bit attracted to all that.

It still didn’t change anything.

-*-

what r u wearing 2 NYPD party, he texts her a year later, and she crinkles her nose at his appalling writing.

You know how to write proper English, I’ve seen your reports. She texts back, and then… Why do you want to know?

Thought it would be fun to match again. comes the well-written answer, and she stares at it for a good ten minutes before finally answering.

Green chiffon.

She was going to change her mind about that dress Kylie helped her pick again, but she won’t. Not now.

-*-

What r you gonna wear babeeeee, he pesters her with the 5th message about it in as many days, ever since she sent him the reservations info for their first anniversary dinner.

I told you it’s going to be a surprise.

Not fair! How am I supposed to match?! She grins as she reads it.

Won’t look good on you if you can’t figure that out, detective.

-*-

“I knew it!”, he grins at her wide at the bottom of her stairs as she descends in her navy blue wrap dress, glad it still fits after years in her closet.

“Easy enough for you to say. You probably have a whole colour range of pocket squares ready.”

“Nuh-uh.” He shakes his head, reaching for her hand on the last step already, his other hand unbuttoning the same ‘grown-up nice jacket’ she knows so well by now. “Look?”

She lets out a happy laugh as she’s met with his emerald green suit jacket, a memory burned into her mind for probably forever.

She’s so glad he never changes.

[master-sass-blast]

Front Lines.

Summary:  Given the immense violence law enforcement keeps showing towards those protesting the death of George Floyd and the systemic racism infecting the law enforcement system, the X-Men decide to help protect the protesting groups -and you and Piotr are right there with them on the front lines.

Pairings: Piotr Rasputin x Reader.

Rating: G.

Warnings: Mentions of police brutality, heavily reflects the current political/social situation in the United States, but NO scenes of violence.

Set after “It’s Truly Magical,”  but this one's kinda outside the canon timeline; if the protests hadn't popped up, this fic wouldn't have happened. I doubt it'll be mentioned in other fics or used as a timeline measuring point, but Piotr's mentioned as your husband in this, so it's after the wedding/honeymoon.

Author’s Note: Just to be clear, this isn't me coming back from my hiatus. However, given the protests and the particularly depraved nature of Mr. Floyd's death, I did want to make it clear where I stood --and where the series stands, in particular.

The X-Men, as far as I'm concerned, would never take an idle role in letting the police brutalize protesters. They would stand and protect the crowds and do what they could to ensure that the citizens involved in the (non-violent) protests were as safe as possible. This series doesn't view them or their role as protectors any differently.

Granted, I didn't write a quarantine fic --and I'm not going to. It's the result of an entirely different set of problems, has at least impacted certain communities to some extent on a unilateral level, and -frankly--I'm too stressed out over Coronavirus to want to commemorate a fic to it.

This is different. The history of racism and abuse towards African-American communities --towards all communities of color--in America is far too longstanding. There may be good cops, but the law enforcement system and justice system as a whole are corrupted, abusive husks of what they were intended to be.

I don't want the protests --specifically, what the correct side of the protests were--to be forgotten. Hopefully, this fic will help ensure that they aren't.

I also didn't include any scenes of what happens during the protest or on the front lines because, frankly, I don't think it's my place to. I don't want to set any sort of tones predicting how a protest would turn out; I also don't want there to be any sort of debate over whether it "ought" to end peacefully or not. Also, I think that, while unfortunately realistic, including potential scenes of police brutality would be highly traumatic for any readers, so... Yeah. No protest scene. No recap of how it went. Those aren't the important parts, in my opinion. Feel free to disagree, but it won't change the fic or my stance on what ought to be included in it.

If you are participating in any protests, demonstrations, or marches, please use your best judgement and stay safe. Don't do anything that would unnecessarily put yourself or others at risk. (And yes, I know, the protests have inherent risk because of how the police forces are responding to protesters. All I mean is don't go out of your way to do something risky, please.)

Black Lives Matter.

No taglist for this fic. That’s not what this is about.

There’s a lot of fear. A lot of hesitation and questioning and second-guessing.

“Okay, say we go,” Russell pipes up, breaking the silence that had settled after the Professor’s announcement. “What happens when law enforcement kills another mutant? Or when the government tries to put more restrictions on us? Are these people even going to remember us?”

“Besides, what’s even going to happen to us?” Kitty added, forehead creasing. “We’re all going to be in our suits. We’re easy targets –and the cops already totally hate us.”

It’s understandable, the fear. The doubt. The need for assurance.

You’ve all felt society’s anti-mutant sentiments at more than one point in your lives.

“We’re going to take every precaution necessary to safeguard the members of our group,” Charles states, tone reassuring. “We will not be recklessly risking ourselves or partaking in violent movements. But these protests are important. They reflect law enforcement’s and the government’s ongoing deliberate ignorance to society’s discontent with the status quo –a status quo that impacts mutants, too. And it doesn’t matter if any of the protestors or communities of color remember that we were there. We’ll remember we were there –and, more importantly, we’ll remember that we weren’t.” He pauses, smiles despite the melancholy look in his eyes, and adds, “Sometimes, doing the right thing means there’s no guarantee you’ll gain something from it, even if that something you want isn’t inherently selfish.”

You look up at Piotr, trying to gauge his reaction to everything.

Your husband looks pensive –but also resolute. From the straight set of his shoulders to the determined glint in his baby blue eyes, you can tell he agrees with everything Charles is saying.

Piotr notices you watching him. The corner of his mouth twitches up. He puts an arm around you, kisses the top of your head, then goes back to giving his full attention to those around him.

You lean against him and do the same.

In the end, there’s no way either of you are staying out of this.

***

 The rules are made clear to the nth degree.

First: No member of the X-Men –or those specifically joining the X-Men during the protests—will be armed or interact with law enforcement, members of the National Guard, or other protesters in a violent manner –including partaking in looting and destruction of public and-or private property.

“This protest is about drawing attention to the atrocities suffered by African American communities at the hands of law enforcement, as well as other communities of color,” Charles states, tone brokering no room for retort. “None of us are going to make things more difficult for them or contribute to casting these protests in a negative light. Anyone who refuses to comply will be escorted back to the mansion and held in a safe room until we’re all back before facing further consequences.”

Second: All members of the X-Men participating in the protest will wear last resort masks, both for personal health and the public image of the protests.

“The media’s already trying to treat the protests as a reckless act, given the ones that have devolved into riots and the pertinent Coronavirus threat,” Hank says, pushing his glasses up his nose. “Aside from taking steps to protect the members of our team, we need to make sure we don’t inadvertently expose the protesters to additional criticism.”

Third: Senior members of the X-Men –specifically those with abilities that will let them shield the protesters from potential violence—will stand at the edges of the group. Junior members will stay further in the group with various team leaders for their own safety.

“We have the ability to make sure no one else gets hurt,” Jean says, impassioned. “We need to ensure these people can be heard without risking their safety.

Fourth: Should things devolve into violence, junior members of the team will be promptly taken back to the mansion for their safety. Senior X-Men will stay only as long as necessary to promote the safety of the public, then leave as well.

“We’re not tryin’ to win any fights here,” Logan speaks up when Ellie raises the question of possible rioting. “The only goal is to get people in immediate danger to safety, and then to make sure we all stay safe.”

“But everyone’s going to be in immediate danger,” Ellie argues. “These cops –these soldiers—have guns. And rubber bullets. And –and mace and riot shields and tear gas and—”

“Which is why only senior members would stay, NTW,” Piotr interjects, voice soft and soothing. “And only for short time. We have training to handle dangerous situations and to weigh out who needs immediate help. Everything will be fine.”

“What if we get arrested?” Russell asks, frowning. “Or picked up by the Icebox guys?”

You exchange glances with the other adults in the room. “Pretty sure that’s when Nathan and Wade would break us out of prison.”

“That would be illegal,” Scott says, crossing his arms over his chest. He frowns at you. “The X-Men don’t interact with criminals.”

“Pretty sure the pole up your ass is in violation of the Geneva conventions,” you snap, “but you don’t see any of us whining about it.”

“Measures will be taken to ensure the safety of our fellow mutants –which, for the sake of plausible deniability, will not be discussed at this time,” Charles states, fixing both you and Scott with a stern look. “Are there any other questions?” When there are none, he nods. “Alright. We’ll leave at one in the afternoon tomorrow. Don’t hesitate to come to me with any other queries or concerns before then.”

***

 The crowd is massive. Borderline gargantuan.

“Can we even cover everyone?” you murmur, regarding the throng of demonstrators and signs with concern.

“That’s why we’re here.” Erik lands next to you, along with a few less recognizable –read: “smaller rap sheets”—of his brethren. “To add to the numbers.”

Nathan, Neena, and Wade stroll up to where you’d all parked, along with Piotr’s family members and your uncle.

“We’ve got this covered,” Neena says, squeezing your shoulder reassuringly. “We’re gonna handle it just fine.”

“Is that your way of saying you’ve got a good feeling about this?” you mutter as you eye the litany of cops and National Guard soldiers. “Because I’m not sure even you can swing things in our favor.”

“Doesn’t matter how I feel,” Neena says firmly. “We’ve got it handled because we have to. Plain and simple.”

You hang back as everyone else heads to talk with the protest organizers. You’re not regretting showing up –far from it—but all your scuffles have been with other mutants or the rare team of traffickers, not the people sworn to protect you and this country.

Daunting doesn’t even begin to describe the situation.

“Myshka.” Piotr puts his hand on your back. He’s not armored up yet; he’ll do that at the front of the crowd, when there’s no risk of crushing any feet. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s just… a lot.”

“I know.” He draws you into a hug and kisses your temple. “But you can do this. We all can.”

“I don’t think we can protect everyone if this goes apeshit, honey. There’s a lot of people –on both sides.”

“We’ll do our best,” Piotr says. “That is all we can do.”

You take a deep breath, then nod. You interlock your fingers with his. “Let’s go do our best.”

The two of you walk into the crowd.

[beckzorz]

Out of Nowhere (15/21)

Pairing: Bucky Barnes/OFC Summary: An offhand comment at work draws Jesse Kaplan into the orbit of Bucky Barnes. Bucky’s excited at the prospect of normalcy, but there’s nothing normal about falling in love with the Winter Soldier. Words: 3718 A/N: The song for this chapter is “Ain’t Misbehavin’ - 2016 Mono Remaster” by Ray Charles on The Atlantic Studio Albums in Mono (Remastered).

PART 15: “AIN’T MISBEHAVIN’”

The two-hour drive north to the safehouse passed in silence. Natasha spent the bulk of the time frowning at her smartphone. Jesse pressed her forehead against the tinted window and dozed straight through sunrise.

Only once they pulled off the freeway did Natasha slide her phone back in her pocket with a sigh.

“Jesse.”

Jesse rubbed her sore neck. “Hm?”

“Once we get to the house, I’ll want to talk to you about what happened with Current Relief,” Natasha said. Her eyes were wide, mouth serious. “Is that okay?”

“About what happened last night?”

“That too. But I really wanted to hear what you went through.”

Jesse flinched. She pulled up her feet and wrapped an arm around her knees. “I told Bucky…”

“I know,” Natasha said soothingly. “He told me some of it when he first found out. I just want to hear it straight from you. Things can get lost in translation.”

“What, were you speaking in Russian?” Jesse pursed her lips. Natasha blinked; a smirk ghosted over her features.

“No,” she said. “But still. You had some time to rest. Think you’re good to talk? It’ll help us make sense of all the data. And talking things over can help.” She sighed. “To a degree, anyway. It’s better than not talking.”

Jesse turned to stare back out of the window, her cheek pressed against her knee. She hadn’t been able to talk about any of it with Bucky. She hadn’t wanted him to see her at her worst. Better to have written it out.

Jesse bit her tongue to keep from swearing. She should’ve brought the notebook with her.

But Natasha wasn’t Bucky. Maybe with a stranger, it wouldn’t be so hard to keep her cool. And if she did get all panicked, at least it wasn’t Bucky seeing her fall apart.

“Yeah. Yeah. Sure.”

“Thank you, Jesse,” Natasha murmured. She reached out and gently squeezed Jesse’s shoulder.

Wherever they were, it was disgustingly suburban—exurban, even. This was the sort of place people went when they had a flock of kids and a flock of dogs. They turned off onto an even more remote road. Sparse woods grew thicker as they wound along, reaching up into the dull blue sky.

“I don’t know how people live out here,” Jesse muttered.

“They have cars and they enjoy open space,” Natasha answered. “This is nothing. I know someone who lives on a farm. With a tractor.”

Jesse’s lips twitched. “How quaint.”

The car pulled up to a house at the end of the paved part of a narrow road in sparse woods. The road continued on into the trees as just gravel and dirt. Jesse stared at the two-story house. Big yard, shuttered windows. Dilapidated detached garage. The place looked semi-abandoned. There was no sign of life. Natasha opened her door, but Jesse paused.

“How is this place safer, exactly?” Jesse asked. “It looks like anyone could just… waltz on over.”

“It’s more secure than it looks,” Natasha said with a roll of her eyes. “Come on.”

Jesse sighed. “At least Bucky’s place had a doorman,” she grumbled, but she clambered out with her backpack and trailed after Natasha the weedy path to the front door. Behind them, the car peeled away.

Natasha didn’t put a key in the front door. She didn’t even ring the doorbell. Instead, she lifted the whole doorbell up off the wall and pressed her fingers in rapid succession over a tiny electronic pad. Jesse stared as a red light turned green and the door whirred, clicked, and swung open.

“Welcome to your safehouse, Jesse,” Natasha intoned. She led the way inside; Jesse shut her gaping mouth and followed.

Despite the unlived-in exterior, the inside was neat. Painfully neat, to Jesse’s eye. There was a garland of fake flowers hanging in the front hall, but without any hint of dust among the leaves or on the floor.

It all reminded her of the freaky neatness of her own room when she’d been brainwashed. Did the beds in here have hospital corners? She wouldn’t be surprised.

“That’s the way up,” Natasha said, pointing towards a staircase. “Don’t open this door. It’s locked, anyway.” She patted on what Jesse assumed was the basement door.

“What’s down there?” Jesse asked.

Natasha raised her eyebrows and looked Jesse over from head to toe. “Skeletons,” she deadpanned.

“Er—right.” Jesse bared her teeth in a makeshift smile and didn’t press the issue. She could just imagine a creepy SHIELD control center, with a hidden prison and a swivel chair in a dark room, surrounded by hissing monitors…

Jesse hurried after Natasha, who circled through the ground-level rooms at a sharp clip.

“Kitchen, pantry, living room,” Natasha rattled off. “Bathroom down here is off the kitchen. There’s an enclosed porch you can use through here. The hammock is nice. Just don’t open the blinds.”

“What can I do?”

“I’ll show you to your room, and you can put your stuff away.” Natasha paused on the bottom stair and caught Jesse’s eye. “You can keep yourself busy, right?”

“Of course,” Jesse said, eyebrows raised.

“Good.” Natasha climbed up the stairs two at a time, but her steps were almost silent. Jesse felt like an elephant in comparison, but then again, did she need to step lightly here? This wasn’t Current Relief.

“And here’s your room.” Natasha pushed open a door right by the top of the stairs. “Make yourself at home. Bathroom’s right there. I’ll be downstairs when you’re ready.” She disappeared downstairs, leaving Jesse alone.

Jesse rubbed the back of her neck and inched into the bedroom. It was small, smaller than most bedrooms she’d seen even in the city, with just one narrow dresser and a nightstand by the full bed. She glanced to the hallway with raised eyebrows. Even her bed was bigger than that. Like at Bucky’s place, both windows were covered. In a way, the soft lighting and red bedspread felt familiar. Safe. Maybe the same person decorated both places.

But there was no art on the walls. No Cyrillic poetry, not posters. No trace of Bucky, nor anyone else.

Jesse dumped her backpack on the bed and rummaged through her clothes. Everything was wrinkled, even the jeans. She spread them across the bedspread. Her fingers lingered on the smooth pillow.

How many people had been here? Was she the first in a while, or just the latest in a long line of helpless civilians caught up in something too big for them?

She climbed onto the bed and fell on her side, exhaustion seeping over her like a wet blanket. Was this the price for knowing Bucky?

Bucky.

Jesse curled up and hugged her hollow chest. Bucky, Bucky, Bucky—she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Everything circled back to him. The bedspread, the blank walls, her own damn aching heart. How long was she going to be caught in this spiral?

She wished she’d had the guts to just tell him before Natasha had dragged her off to the middle of nowhere. This would have been a great place to sob herself to sleep over a predictable rejection. Secluded, surrounded by strangers who didn’t give a shit about her… No chance of seeing Bucky by accident.

I’m such a coward.

Jesse’s heart wrenched a muffled cry from her throat. She clamped a hand over her mouth and took quick breaths to stifle her sobs. He’d never denied her a thing, yet here she was, drowning in misery. Sure, she could dream up a scenario that ended with him holding her, smiling, his lips on hers… But that would only ever be a dream. Add in even a drop of logic, and that dream was fool’s gold.

Bucky Barnes had better things to do than be with her, and she needed to get used to it.

Jesse dragged herself out of bed and made her way to the bathroom. She stared at herself in the mirror. Well, she looked like shit. Bloodshot eyes, red nose, pale mouth. The lingering bloodstain on her blue dress made her wince; was there a laundry here somewhere? She’d have to ask.

Cold water helped with her face, but she was sure Natasha would see right through it. And she was right—as soon as she made it downstairs to the kitchen, Natasha looked up from her laptop and frowned.

“Were you crying?” Natasha asked.

Jesse looked away and nodded. She slid into the seat across from Natasha and knotted her fingers together in her lap where Natasha couldn’t see. “Sorry.”

“For christ’s—” Natasha cut herself off and stilled with effort. “Jesse. You do not need to apologize. This is not a fun spot to be in. You are allowed to have feelings about that.”

Am I, though?

Feelings, sure. Today, Jesse felt like a slave to her feelings. But expressing them? With Bucky off-limits and out of reach plus her own detestation of making a fool of herself, Jesse really didn’t think she wanted to. She screwed her mouth into as much of a smile as she could muster and finally met Natasha’s eye. “Thanks, I guess.”

“Good. Anyway,” Natasha continued, clearly glad to have gotten that out of the way and already back to typing, “I want you to know what’s going to happen here. We have people contacting your place of work and the local police, and we’ll keep you posted as needed. You’ll need to stay inside at all times. Once a week, someone will do a grocery run for the house, so write down what you’ll need for yourself. And there will always be an agent on-duty here. For now, that’s me.”

“How long are you going to be here?” Jesse asked, heart sinking.

“Another agent will be coming to relieve me tomorrow.” Natasha finished typing and glanced up. Something of Jesse’s feelings must have shown on her face, because Natasha sighed and closed her laptop. “You’ll be in good hands, no need to worry.”

Jesse bit her lip. How could she help but worry? This morning, she’d been safe at Bucky’s, safe with Bucky. Then Natasha had whisked her out to the middle of nowhere, and now she was going to be stuck here with a total stranger? Not that Natasha was a friend, but at least Jesse had met her before. She had Bucky’s approval. But Jesse wasn’t sure that the associative property applied here. Sure, Bucky trusted Natasha… but that didn’t mean he’d automatically trust anyone Natasha did.

“Do you know who’s coming next?” she asked.

“Richard Rensselaer. He’s worked with SHIELD for six years. He’s competent. Not particularly sociable, but very competent,” Natasha rattled off.

“So… a guy,” Jesse said.

Natasha raised her eyebrows and folded her hands together. “We can’t just reassign people at the drop of a hat. Besides, you stayed with Bucky.”

“Yeah…” Jesse squirmed in her seat as Natasha stared her down with the intensity of a thousand suns. “But I know him!” Jesse blurted.

“Hm,” Natasha said. She opened her computer, eyes still fixed on Jesse’s, and only after some stuttered typing did she glance down. “Not for very long. He told me all this started when you met—or because of it, anyway. Tell me.”

“Well, I don’t know when it all started,” Jesse said slowly. “We met at the Stark Foundation benefit… I guess three Sundays ago?”

Natasha nodded.

“I had to cover my coworker, who broke her ankle, and Bucky asked me to dance.” The sudden memory of being caught up in his arms brought warmth to Jesse’s cheeks. She hurried on. “And then I told him where Marilyn—my coworker—was staying. I ran into him there, and, um, I told him he should come dancing. And he did.”

“Seriously? You told the Winter Soldier he should go dancing?”

“Erm, yes?”

“You have some guts,” Natasha said, impressed.

“Well,” Jesse said, cheeks hotter than ever, “I think everyone should go dancing. It beats a whole lot of other things.”

“Still,” Natasha said. “James Barnes isn’t just anyone.” A sudden grin spread on her face. “He must be good, huh?”

Jesse bit her lip and nodded. Natasha looked back to her computer, but Jesse still had the sense she was being observed.

“Then what?” Natasha asked, fingers poised on the keyboard.

“Um, he came dancing.” Jesse tucked a leg under her and waited for Natasha to glance up from her typing before she continued. “And he asked if I’d be interested in teaching with him. For my work.”

“The Brooklyn Children’s Education Initiative.”

“Yeah, although we just call it BCEI,” Jesse said. “Multisyllabic words and all.”

All in all, this was an awful lot like a meeting at work, except that for once it wasn’t Jesse taking notes. That was a relief. If she had to talk and type and eventually try not to cry… That would be too much.

“And that proposal went through, as I understand.” Natasha was typing again, her nails clicking gently against the keys in a streaming rhythm.

Jesse nodded, but didn’t elaborate. How much did Natasha already know? Her blushes had been a blunder, she realized—Natasha could read people, couldn’t she? She was a spy. That was her job. There was no taking back what she’d said, but she’d gotten distracted by pleasant memories. No more. Let Natasha take what she could get, at least as far as her relationship with Bucky was concerned.

Besides, that relationship was already established. There was no need to get into details, and Natasha surely had no interest in Jesse’s feelings. Her chief concern was information about Current Relief.

“Tell me about the first break-in.”

Jesse took a steadying breath and launched into as neutral a narrative as she could manage of the morning she’d plunged her hand in the toilet and detailed the other little clues she’d half-ignored.

Natasha furrowed her eyebrows when Jesse finished telling how her day had gone after that. “You say you ignored it, but that’s not quite true,” she said. “Bucky said you weren’t sleeping well…”

“I’m a millennial; bad sleep schedules are practically a requirement,” Jesse said snidely, but her eyes stung. If she didn’t make jokes, she knew she’d cry, and she had as much pride as any Avenger. She rubbed at her pulsing temple. Natasha shook back her red hair and pursed her lips.

“Well, that’s not true, but go on. What next?”

Jesse talked, and talked, and talked. All the while, Natasha probed for more, more—more details, more emotion, more background.

“What do you mean?”

“Tell me about this Mike Fuller.”

“If they bugged your apartment, why didn’t they recognize Bucky when he came over a few days later?”

That, at last, gave Jesse pause. “I don’t know.”

“Bucky says he found multiple listening devices in your apartment. Didn’t you say hi? ‘Hi, Bucky, come in’ or something?”

“No-o,” Jesse said slowly. She bent her legs up and wound her arms around them. “I didn’t call him by name.”

Natasha stared. “Why not?”

“I don’t know!” Jesse cried. She pressed her forehead to her knee and stared cross-eyed at the crosshatched fabric of her leggings, willing her tears to stay tucked behind her eyes. Why couldn’t Natasha leave her alone? Sure, Bucky’s name rolled of her tongue like honey now, but back then it had felt like an imposition. She thought back to their first meeting. Had he even introduced himself?

No. He hadn’t.

“Moving on,” Natasha said. “Talk me through the rest.”

Jesse sighed.

—

“Bucky said you were smart,” Natasha said later, once Jesse had reached Natasha’s arrival at Bucky’s place. They were still at the kitchen table, but Natasha had gotten them both glasses of water, and the light slanted more and more through the curtains. “He was right.”

Jesse’s face burned. She couldn’t meet Natasha’s eye. “If I was smart, I probably wouldn’t have gone through all that. I would have—”

“Cut the crap,” Natasha interrupted, but she was smiling gently. “Even smart people get screwed over. All things considered, you did damn good. You saved that girl Liz, you realized something was wrong… Hell, you even got Bucky out of his comfort zone after what, meeting him twice?”

Jesse bit her lip to keep from snorting. The sniff she couldn’t help. “Alright, alright. Thank you.”

“If you don’t trust my judgment, you might as well trust his.”

Jesse’s breath caught in her throat; her eyes snapped to Natasha’s.

Natasha tilted her glass in a circle; the water sparkled from the evening sun streaming through the lace curtain over the western window. “Last week, he had some good things to say.”

Jesse bit her tongue hard to keep from asking more, but Natasha glanced up at her and nearly smirked.

“He was excited to be working on a normal project. With you,” Natasha clarified.

“Huh.” Jesse smiled ruefully and stifled a yawn. “Well, god willing we’ll be able to get back to it. Someday.”

“I’m sure,” Natasha said. She went back to typing. “Are you hungry?”

“Not really.” Jesse’s stomach did feel hollow, but the sudden heaviness in her limbs was more pressing. “I think I’m going to lie down.” She tried to stand, but her knees buckled. She fell heavily back into her chair and stared dimly at Natasha. This feeling… she’d felt it before. This was the same terrifying exhaustion that had come over her during her abduction! Jesse’s hand shook as she tried to push herself back up; tears sprang to her eyes as her tongue turned to ash in her mouth.

“No, no… Wha—”

“Woah, calm down,” Natasha said. She hurried over and slipped Jesse’s arm over her shoulders, guiding her to her feet. Natasha was slender and not even as tall as Jesse, but her arms were all muscle. “The sedative I gave you must be wearing off. It’s nothing to be worried about.”

Jesse had just enough energy to roll her eyes. “Shoulda told me,” she muttered. “Shoulda.”

“Coulda, shoulda, woulda,” Natasha parrotted back. She led Jesse up the stairs one step at a time. “Almost there. And hey, look on the bright side. You’ll sleep really well.”

“Hmph,” Jesse said, but the moment Natasha guided her onto the bed, she was out cold.

—

Jesse woke to a pounding on her door.

“Get up and come downstairs,” Natasha called. “I’m about to leave.”

Jesse buried her face in the pillow with a groan. Natasha leaving? Already? Jesse propped herself up on her elbow, blinking blearily. The curtains weren’t thick enough to block out all the light. The brightness peeping around their edges made Jesse blink. She stumbled to the window and peeked around the edge; her eyes stung from the bright midday sun. The curtain fell back in place the second she stepped back, blinking furiously. How long had she been asleep?

Her blue dress was more wrinkled than ever. She was growing to hate the sight of it. The bloodstain, the wrinkles, the memories… This was the dress she’d been wearing when Current Relief came after her. When she’d been stuck in the hospital, afraid of every footstep. When she’d been sitting on Bucky’s bed, his forehead against hers and his breath on her lips.

No, dammit, none of that.

Jesse shoved the thought of Bucky aside as she yanked her dress over her head and tossed it aside. Would it be wrong to just ball the damn thing up and throw it away?

Maybe not, but she had no idea when she’d get replacement clothes. For now, all she had apart from a few changes of underwear was the blue dress, the leggings she was peeling off, a single maroon shirt, and a pair of jeans.

Jeans and maroon shirt it was.

In another minute, she was heading downstairs with a hand pressed tight against the wall for support. Natasha was in the living room, talking with a man with dark hair graying at the temples. Despite his hair, he looked no older than forty.

As soon as Jesse came into view, Natasha stopped talking to the stranger and turned to Jesse. “Jesse, this is Agent Rensselaer. Richard. He’ll be here for the next week.”

“Um, hi.” Jesse’s hand twitched forward, but Richard’s hands were buried in his pockets. He regarded her with a tilted head and a serious expression.

“I’m sorry for what happened to you,” he said. “Hopefully we can get you home before too long.”

“Thanks.” Jesse stuffed her own hands in her back pockets.

Richard nodded once and turned back to Natasha. “Anything else, Agent Romanoff?”

“No, thank you.” Natasha zipped up her jacket and pulled her hair free from the collar. “Well, Jesse, it’s been grand. I’m sure I’ll see you around.”

Jesse smiled tightly. Natasha grabbed a black duffel bag from the couch and swung it over her shoulder as she headed towards Jesse and the door. Jesse opened her mouth, but she couldn’t think of anything worth saying. Natasha didn’t want to hear please stay, that much was obvious. Everything else seemed unnecessary.

But Natasha stopped inches away and wrapped her free arm around Jesse’s shoulders. “Chin up, Jesse,” she murmured.

A tear eked its way out of Jesse’s eye. “Thanks,” she whispered.

Natasha let go and stalked away, the rustling of her clothes and the sound of the door opening and closing the only indication of her progress. Once the door shut, Jesse let out a huff and turned to Richard, who took one look at Jesse’s face and gave a smile that bordered on a grimace.

“Well, let me know if you need anything,” he said. He turned on his heel and took up residence in the kitchen.

Jesse stood alone in the living room. She spun on her heel and ran upstairs. Not until her door was closed and locked did she fling herself back onto her bed and let her tears overwhelm her. This was punishment, she was sure of it. Alone with a man she didn’t know, a stranger who had no interest in getting to know her…

Oh, why couldn’t she have just stayed with Bucky?

Jesse buried her head in her pillow and let herself cry. In the solitude of her room, no one was going to stop her.

A/N: Welp, there you have it... Sorry for an utter lack of Bucky, but he’ll be back soon. Everything circles back to him, after all... And yes, Natasha’s ‘someone who lives on a farm with a tractor’ is everyone’s favorite archer <3 Gotta love Clint!

Hope you enjoyed! Let me know what you thought :3

[djinmer4]

Headline News (Noir AU)

NEW YORK MOURNS MYSTERIOUS DOUBLE DEATHS OF ELDEST LAWRENCE SIBLINGS

“Looking for more inspiration?”  Kitty frowned and looked up from hunting the second half of the article among the scattered sheets of the newspaper.  “What?”

Kurt passed her a plate of eggs and toast, then turned away to take a sip of his own coffee.  For once, they were switching roles, with Kitty on her way out to meet with her editor while Kurt had the day off.  He’d offered to go with her but she’d declined.  For some reason, he always made her editor Green very nervous.  So instead, he’d run a few errands that they’ve been letting slide.

“It’s a pretty interesting case.  But I’ll wait to see if anyone else in the family dies.  ‘Once is coincidence, twice is happenstance, but three times is enemy action.’”  She all but inhaled her breakfast, then quickly applied her make-up and was out the door.  “I won’t be back until the evening,” she said, dropping a quick kiss on his thinning hair.

“I won’t do anything you wouldn’t do,” Kurt promised.  When the door had slammed shut, he finished his sentence.  “Or at least, I won’t do anything you wouldn’t write.”

_______

Charles Lawrence, age 34, died two weeks ago in what appears to be an industrial accident.  While inspecting a local meat processing plant, Carl was hit by a stray meat hook and torn apart by an automated dismembering machine.  Authorities have shut down the plant and have started a more thorough investigation into the practices of owner Johann Schmidt.  The death has prompted a recent jump in purchases of Upton Sinclair’s book ‘The Jungle’ with retired . .  .

________

Patricia Lawrence-Tomson, age 32, found deceased last week from strangulation.  Police are investigating her husband Dylan Tomson for any possible motives . . .

_______

John Lawrence was going to be a difficult target.  Two previous deaths, a career in the military during the Great War and a lifetime of paranoia meant he wasn’t going to be taken off guard the way his two older siblings were.  Still, Kurt wasn’t too worried.  He’d been planning this hit since he first got the assignment.  Kurt went up to the gated estate and rang the doorbell.  “Who the hell are you? “

“Language, Mr. Lawrence.  I’m Dr. Kurt Wagner, from St. Patrick’s in the city.  Father Christopher is trying to make arrangements for your siblings’ funerals now that the bodies have been released from the morgue.  As next-of-kin for both of them, we’d like to know any wishes or requests that the deceased made.”  He waited a minute.  “May I come in to discuss these arrangements with you?”

Rather than the gate opening, a man came out, carrying a shotgun.  “I’ve heard of you.  The Father called last night to tell me that you’d be coming.  Any reason he couldn’t make it himself?”  

“Father Christopher is in his seventies and more than a little apprehensive about automobiles.  Since I had the day off and a car, I offered to take his place.”  He waved some papers at the younger man.  “The reading of the wills for both your siblings has been delayed, but the solicitor was kind enough to make carbon copies of any relevant requests.  Charles Lawrence wrote he wanted to be buried in the Long Island National Cemetery rather than the nearer Cypress Hills and Patricia has several requests about the flowers and decorations for the mass and wake.  Are you aware of any other preferences or requests that the two did not write down?”

John Lawrence ignored his words.  “I recognize that accent.  Did Father Christopher send a Kraut spy to speak to me about my siblings?”

“Please, sir,”  Kurt kept his hands in the air, careful not to advance towards the paranoid ex-soldier.  “I’ve lived in this country for over five years now, I’m not a spy.”

Brown eyes narrowed over the shotgun.  “I don’t fucking care.  I’m not letting some Jerry onto my property.  You can either get the hell away from me or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

“I’ll leave then, but at least let me give these to you.  These are the arrangements the Church has made for your siblings and it also has the number you can reach Father Christopher at if any changes need to be made.”  Kurt took a step closer and Lawrence lifted the gun and pulled the trigger.  The German ducked . . . but it turned out that was unnecessary.

Instead of a bullet whizzing by where his head was a few seconds ago, the shotgun misfired.  Not only misfired but did so spectacularly, with a blowback that shattered Lawrence’s chest.  Kurt stared as the light faded from John’s eyes and his body went limp in death.  Then he turned and raced towards the nearest neighbor, shouting for them to call an ambulance.

_______

“Sorry, it took so long to get ya outta there.  They didn’t keep ya from anything, did they?”  Kurt rubbed his wrists.  The handcuffs hadn’t been too tight but it had still been an uncomfortable couple of hours waiting for the police to check out his credentials and clear him from their list of suspects.  The German suspected they would have kept him overnight if not for Logan coming by to take over the case.  “It’s fine.  That was my last errand for the day.”  The Canadian waggled an eyebrow at him.  “And Kitty’s got a meeting with her editor.  They’ll probably be out all night.”

“In that case, why don’t I buy you a drink to make up for this?”

“Hypocrite.  Shouldn’t an agent of the Volstead Act refrain from being caught in a speakeasy?”

“Hey, I work the supply side of the chain, I don’t care about the people distributing it.  Besides, tonight’s case got nothing to do with alcohol.  I just want to bounce some ideas off ya.”

“Lead the way then.”  They wandered over to the Black Cat Nightclub and ordered a meal from Felicia Hardy.  The food wasn’t the best but it was cheap, the servings were generous and no one had gotten sick from it yet.  Logan took a generous sip of something that perhaps could be called whiskey if you were being kind and started talking.  “So, they’re upgrading the case to a serial killer.”

“I see.  ‘Once is coincidence, twice is happenstance, three times is enemy action.’”  The shorter man squinted at him.  “I got that quote from Kitty.”

Logan snorted.  “Oh yeah, she’d definitely know all about that.  Eh, I guess Charlie could have been a freak accident but Patsy was definitely murdered.”

The German nodded then took a bite, carefully turning away so that the other couldn’t see his face.  Logan had known him before the gas had ruined his good features and even several years later couldn’t look at him without the mask.  “And there’s no way that misfire could have been natural.  I was a sharpshooter, I know misfires don’t explode like that.  And I find it hard to believe a man as paranoid as John Lawrence could have had a weapon in anything in other than top condition.”

“Right.  Killer didn’t want to take chances.  The guns were fine, but all the ammunition’s been tampered with.  We’re gonna go back through his supply chain and see if we get some leads that way.”

“So are you still looking for clues?”

“Yes and no.  Our biggest suspect right now is the younger brother, Mace Lawrence.  Guy’s scum, hires out as low-level muscle to all the different gangs in the area.  Word on the street says he was angling for a bigger share of the Lawrence inheritance than the parents left him in the will.   Add that John had a successful import/export business and the proceeds from selling it will go to the survivors . . . “

Kurt took another sip of the not-whiskey.  “But you have a different idea.”

“I’m thinkin’ it might be the work of the Demon.”

“The Demon?  Not the younger siblings?”

“Two reasons.  First, there’s a big gap between the elders and the younger ones.  John was thirty, then Mace at 22, then Mary at 18.  Mary’s old enough to want the money but she’s too smart to be doing this.  Second, method.  I can definitely see Mace wanting to kill his siblings, but we’ve got three different styles used.  One person gets violently ripped apart, another is found strangled to death and the third falls prey to sabotage.  If all three of them had been poisoned or savaged, I’d be more likely to believe it was the brother.  A killer may vary their methods when first attempting to murder someone but once they’ve come across a method that works, they usually don’t change their habits.  The Demon is the only serial killer we’ve seen who regularly varies her methods when killing people.”

The shadows hid the grimace that formed on the German’s face.  “And I don’t need to ask why you think serial killer rather than strange coincidences.  People die every day, but the chances of three siblings in one month are minuscule.  There’s only one problem.  What’s the Demon’s motive?”

“Yeah, that’s why Chief Magnus dismissed my theory.  But the Demon’s an insane serial killer, it’s not like she needs a motive.”  The Canadian took another bite of salmon and potato mash.  “That reminds me, I’ve got a favor to ask ya.”

“Shoot.”

“The Chief won’t let me pull anyone off the other cases to bodyguard Mace Lawrence.  But if it is the Demon, he’s the next target.  I was wondering if-”

“Logan, I work now.  I’m not the dockworker who can just not show up for a few days to help you run a stakeout.  Besides, even if he won’t assign someone to protect him, wouldn’t the Chief lend you some people to tail Mace in case he decides to go after his younger siblings as well?”

The older man’s voice dropped.  “He already did.  But Dukes ain’t much good as a bodyguard, too slow.  Pete’s better but he’s a rookie, he doesn’t know how to watch a target while watching the surroundings too.”  His voice strengthened after that.  “Anyway, ya won’t be the only one.  I’m gonna pull in a few favors . . . from Slim and some other people I know.  I just need to know what day you’ll be taking so I can work out a schedule for everyone.”

“Do you want me to ask Kitty-”

“No!”  He took a deep breath and deliberately lowered his voice again.  “Thanks, but no thanks.  Besides, Kitty doesn’t have any self-defense or weapons training.  She won’t be much use as a bodyguard.”  Then below his breath he added.  “Or at least, that’s what she claims.”

Kurt resisted the urge to roll his eyes.  Logan was clearly still hung up on his theory that Kitty was the Demon.  “Fine, I’ll check when my next day off is.  By the way, you’re paying for the meal tonight.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.”

After he’d seen Logan off but before he went home, Kurt went to check on the mailbox he kept at the Black Cat.  As a hub of the underground, Felicia Hardy provided a means for customers to contact various services provided by criminals such as himself, a network she had taken over after the death of her unlamented lover, the Crime-Master.  Having just completed a job, Kurt was hoping the final installment of his payment would be in, although he rather doubted it.  This last client had been a pain in the arsch from the very beginning.  If he didn’t get his money within the week, he was going to take a pound of flesh instead.

There was some cash in the box, and another letter as well.  When he opened it, he noticed it was the same typewriter that had been for the earlier notes.  With some unexpected contents as well.  “This will make things much easier,” he muttered to himself.

_______

Mace Lawrence proved to even less impressive than his reputation made him out to be.  The man was a lush, a lech and a braggart.  He regaled an indifferent audience with imaginary exploits in an attempt to lure some of the working girls into his bed but needless to say, they were all too jaded to fall for his antics.  Kurt was thankful Kitty was buried in her next chapter today, she had barely heard him on his way out.  With her so focused on her typewriter, there wasn’t much chance of spending time together, so he wasn’t missing out by helping Logan watch this fool.

Rejected and out of money, Mace made his way out of the speakeasy.  The nippy fall weather made it easy for Kurt to tail him, just another trench-coated figure in the crowd.  By the time Mace was ready to cross the 8th to get to Penn Station, the German was right behind him.  From there it only took a light shove to send the inebriate stumbling into the street  . . . and in front of a bus.

As soon as the body stopped rolling, Kurt was at its side, shouting (as much as he could with the damage to his throat) that he was a doctor and turning it to lie on its back.  He had one of the other bystanders (white hair, was this Logan’s Peter Magnus?) steady the torso while he pulled the arms up and down to stimulate breathing.  Despite the best efforts of himself and the cop (and Dukes when he came puffing up), Mace Lawrence was pronounced dead on arrival at St. Lukes.

“Sorry, Logan.  I tried to keep up with him but . . . “

“It’s alright, Kurt.  I was really expecting something more subtle from the Demon this time.  Although I guess a random figure pushing another in the crowd is as subtle as ya get.  Without other clues, there’s no way to track everyone who was there at the time.  Only good news is that Chief Magnus is taking my theory more seriously now.  The last three Lawrence siblings are gonna be moving outta New York, where the Demon probably can’t follow ‘em.”

_______

“How did you know you know Mace had hired me to kill your siblings?”  Mary Lawrence stopped and turned to the man standing in the shadows of the pillar.  Average height, trench coat and a fedora on his head, he could have been anybody.  But the dull blue mask and harsh accent . . . it definitely matched all the descriptions the police had given her about the Demon.

“Why ask about Mace and not my other siblings?”

“I asked first.”  He moved his hand and she could see a pocket knife gleam in the dim light.  Deciding this was no time to be brave, she caved and answered first.  “Mace was an idiot.  There were a bunch of drafts contacting you that he hadn’t disposed of properly at our house.”  She took a deep breath.  “I burnt them before the police could find them.”

The anonymous man nodded.  “All the letters were done on the same typewriter, but there was a different writer for the last letter.  The first client gave me all three names at once, then sent a note delaying part of the payment after each death.  You, on the other hand, paid half up front, then the second half the day after he was confirmed dead, and didn’t bother to boast at all in the one letter I have from you.  You were very efficient.”  He paused.  “Also, there were a lot of pictures of you with the others in John’s home.  You don’t seem the type to be willing to kill for money.  Vengeance on the other hand . . .”

She sighed.  “Too bad Mace didn’t feel the same way.”

“If it makes you feel better, he only had three names on the list.  He didn’t intend to kill you or the younger ones.”

“That might be because until John died, he couldn’t afford it.”

“Maybe.  But he doesn’t seem like the type to think ahead like that.  So, are we free of each other?”

“Yes.  I’m taking my siblings out of the city and moving to Saratoga or Albany.  Someplace in the northern part of the state.  And I take it you have no quarrel with us or any intention of giving the police an anonymous tip?”

“You’ve paid your price, dame.  You won’t hear from me again.”

[wildroseofarran]

Call Back || Oliver, Luke, Tristan, & Gina

Tristan: Tristan pulled off his gloves and shoved them in his back pocket. His hair had escaped his bun and he needed his hands free to tame it. Could probably do with a trim.

"So I forgot to ask how it went the other day," he called to Oliver Langdon.

Oliver: Oliver was in his own little world, picking at a patch of sunburned shoulder for the tenth time that morning. How he had managed to do so in winter impressed him.

"How what went?" he called back.

Tristan: "Remember, you asked for Luke's number. Ya'll hang out?" He frowned at his arm. "When the hell did I scratch myself?"

Oliver: From the other side of the boat, he was answered with silence. Until, "You're pullin' my leg, right?"

Tristan: "No, look at this." He held up his arm. "Looks like a damn kraken tried to rip my arm off."

Oliver: "Not your fuckin' arm. The shit with that guy - Luke."

Tristan: "Oh, right. So how'd it go? Judging from the fact that you're still calling him 'that guy' I take it not well."

Oliver: His back to Tristan saved him the trouble of masking the confusion and panic. "...When did I ask for his number?"

Tristan: "Uh...a week and change maybe? What, you don't remember?"

Oliver: "No...I don't remember shit." Nausea crept into his body. Tristan wouldn't lie about something like that. But - no. He could make no logical path to his having Luke Graham's number.

"So, I asked ya?"

Tristan: "Keep telling you not to drink whatever O’Charlie’s has on tap. Probably one step above motor oil."

Tristan nodded. "Yep. You insisted and persisted until I did. I was hesitant, no offense. He's just been in such a bad way."

Oliver: Oliver frowned at his boss, tossing the dirty rag in his hands to the side. "Well, yeah...he just - the shit from before. Dunno what's wrong with that man."

Tristan: "Grief," Tristan said simply. "Pain. Uncertainty. It'll fuck up the best of us."

Oliver: "Don't make people lay on someone unconscious. That's another kinda fucked up."

Tristan: "What?"

Oliver: "When ya came t'get em. I woke up with him layin' on me, man. S'why I have em a shiner."

Tristan: Tristan's brow furrowed. "He didn't say anything about you being asleep or passed out...."

Oliver: "I tried t'kick him out n'he started in on that Robert shit. I don't remember askin' for his number, man. I swear I didn't."

Tristan: "Well unless you have a twin no one knows about, you did." Which opened up a whole can of worms about Oliver actually losing time because of his lifestyle choices but Tristan wouldn't go there. It wasn't his place.

"Maybe you decided not to go through with whatever made you ask and you deleted it."

Oliver: Oliver looked up, deadpanned expression running pale. Tristan was abandoned to his own devices, his employee disappearing below deck to his locker, to his phone.

Had he stored the number? He couldn't have lost that much -

Graham, L.

Oliver stared at his phone.

Tristan: Tristan gave a sympathetic look to Oliver's retreating back, trying to imagine losing time on a regular basis. That was the only explanation here.

He knew he wasn't lying. Oliver knew he wasn't lying. Luke knew he wasn't lying. So if they were all telling the truth...

He got started on their daily clean up. He'd go down to check on Oliver if he didn't come back up soon.

Oliver: There was no way. He clicked through messages. There were none. Recent calls? Cleared. He never emptied his Recent Calls page. He should be upstairs helping Tristan Seger. Instead, he was pacing.

Luke Graham was called, phone pressed to his ear, dropped to his hip, and returned.

"This is fucking stupid."

Luke: Miles away at the library, Luke was frozen, staring at his phone. It was on silent but he could swear that Dana's name had flashed across the screen for a moment.

He slowly set his pen down. Should wait for a call back? Call back himself? Text?

Or should he do nothing at all? What if it was Oliver and not Dana?

Oliver: "Doin' what-the-fuck-ever. Talkin' shit 'bout some fucker named Robert. The fuck is goin' on with my life."

The phone continued to ring, sent him to voicemail.

He called again.

Luke: Luke took a deep breath. Another call. Maybe it was Dana.

He made his way to a more private area and very cautiously answered.

"Hello?"

Oliver: "Luke Graham?"

Luke: Not Dana.

"Yes....?"

Oliver: Oliver held his breath for a moment, letting it escape in a sharp exhale. "How the fuck do I have your number?"

Luke: Definitely not Dana. "I...I don't--" He forced himself to relax. "I don't know. I didn't give it to you."

Oliver: "Don't fuckin' lie t'me."

Luke: "I'm not lying, I didn't give it to you. Why would I? So you could hit me again and make my relive my worst memories over and over?"

Oliver: "You're the one that was on top of me when I woke up!"

Luke: "You wer--no, I'm not doing this with you. You called me. You got my number. I don't know how but you did, and now you're calling to yell at me because you got my number."

Oliver: "Tristan Seger said I asked for it from him. I did not fuckin' do that. Just like I did not let ya lay on top of me. Stop actin' like I'm a fuckin' idiot. I dunno what game you're playin' but I'm fuckin' done."

Luke: "Tristan Seger gave you my number? Why?!"

Oliver: "He said I asked!"

Luke: "Why the hell did you ask?! For this delightful experience?"

Oliver: "I didn't fucking ask!"

Luke: "Then why did he say you did?!"

And that's when it clicked. Oliver hadn't woken up one day and asked for the number of a man be most likely hated.

Dana did.

Oliver: "I don't fuckin' know!" he all but screamed. "I wanna know why ya keep showin' up in my life!"

Luke: "I haven't gone near you in weeks!" Not unless Dana was present, and even then he never made the first move. He waited for his boyfriend to come to him.

Was that a bullshit technicality? Yes. But that was the only way to give Oliver an answer without incurring more of his wrath.

Oliver: He couldn't have the police involved. This was a lawyer. Nothing would be done anyway. He was trapped with this man in his life.

"Ya pull somethin' on me again n'you're gonna wish ya hadn't. I mean it, man. Enough." But would Luke catch the trepidation in his tone before the dial tone...

Luke: "You called me! Are you seriously threat--?!" No, he didn't catch it. He was too busy feeling his heart trying to leap out of his chest.

Luke closed his eyes. This wasn't going to work. They needed someone else to borrow.

Oliver: His phone, jacket and wallet were collected. He had no idea what that phone call was meant to yield, but so much did he want a cigarette, a joint, a beer. Something; anything.

"Sorry 'bout that," he muttered once he returned on deck.

Tristan: "No worries," Tristan said casually. He'd managed to make a good dent in the clean-up while Oliver had been below deck. "Good work today. Sorry if the whole phone number thing freaked you out."

Oliver: "S'fine, man. It ain't your problem. I'll deal with it."

Oliver looked around for something to busy himself with, already drifting into his thoughts once more. He forced himself back, picking up a large wet broom.

Tristan: Tristan nodded and continued wiping down the deck.

"Oh, want some overtime this weekend? It's not dock related."

Oliver: "What's it related to, then?"

Tristan: "Cleaning out my mama's rain gutters."

Oliver: "I can do it on my own."

Tristan: "You sure? She'll try to feed you her entire pantry."

Oliver: "I ain't gonna turn down a home cooked meal."

Tristan: Tristan chuckled. "Well, then you'll have enough food for a week and some overtime pay."

Oliver: "How about just the meal?"

Tristan: "No, come on. No matter what the work or how short the time is spent doing it, people on my crew get paid. You know that."

Oliver: Oliver sighed and stared at his boss for a beat.

"Overtime n'one meal, not a week. Deal?"

Tristan: "You're more than welcome to attempt talking her into it," he said with a grin.

Oliver: He smiled back, though scarcely reaching his eyes. "Yeah, sure."

Tristan: "All right, then. Tomorrow morning, seven sharp."

Oliver: "Your place, or here?"

Tristan: "How about my place? I'll drive us over, give you a ride back."

Oliver: "...Alright. Thanks." Why him and not someone else, he wondered.

"Ya good for now?"

Tristan: "Yep, all good," Tristan said with a nod. "Enjoy the rest of your day."

Oliver: "Kay. Tomorrow." He waved behind, lighting a cigarette as he walked away. It was time for O'Charlie's.

Gina/Charlie: For someone else in Edenton, it was also time for O'Charlie's. For a very different reason, however.

"Charles, would you tell your customers to quit judging me? I'm not drinking. I'm not drinking!" Gina added to the patrons sitting at the bar, staring at her.

And at the bump visible under her coat.

"I don't tell 'em what to do. Ain't their daddy," Charlie grunted from behind the bar. "What'd you want again?"

"The bourbon on the sticky note I gave you. I don't have it, Pete doesn't have it, the liquor store doesn't have it, The Brig doesn't have it."

"Why this one?"

"Because I have a rude guest demanding it and I'm worried he's going to do gross things to the room if we don't serve it to him."

Oliver: Oliver adjusted in his seat two stools to the right of Gina Lawson, blatantly listening in as other patrons were. He had nothing to add, but he was curious...

"Which bourbon is it?"

Gina/Charlie: Gina turned toward the man who'd spoken, hope lighting her face. "Crocodile...uh..."

"Croc Jaw Poison," Charlie supplied.

"Yes, that! Do you know it?"

Oliver: The blond twirled the unlit cigarette between his fingers. Sounded familiar. Something back during his army days.

His brows rose suddenly.

"Dark green label? Ya ain't looked everywhere. That drive through convenience store in Windsor has it."

Gina/Charlie: "Oh, thank you! You just saved my inn's reputation and my husband from having to clean up god knows what."

Gina was reaching for her keys when Charlie snatched them away. "What the--!"

"I ain't lettin' a lady in a delicate condition buy bourbon. Store won't either."

"But I need it! Want Lawrence to have to clean some man's fluids from my curtains?"

"Sit and hush. I'll send Dwight."

Oliver: Oliver stared at the owner, frowning. What a prick. But then again, she was in a state.

"Why ain't your husband doin' the askin' 'round?" he finally asked once Charley turned his back.

Gina: "He is," she sighed. "We split it up. He went to the liquor store and The Brig and then got called back by the staff."

Oliver: "Just kick the guy out if he's bein' a dick."

Gina: "Asshole booked the suite for two weeks and has been ordering room service twice a day." That was a lot of money and a lot of potential for more.

Oliver: "He's gonna, like, suicide in that room," he laughed, twirling his cigarette again.

"Ya need insurance or somethin' for that kinda thing?"

Gina/Charlie: "He better not," she said dryly, conceding defeat and hoisting herself onto a barstool.

Gina nodded. "Yep. I need insurance against anything that might get me sued." She blinked as Charlie set a coffee cup and a bowl of pretzels in front of her. "You won't let the pregnant lady buy bourbon she isn't going to drink but you'll give her coffee?"

Charlie scowled. "It's a Shirley Temple. Woulda put it in a glass but that lady was over here sayin' folks were judgin'."

He grunted again as a smile slowly broke out over her face. "Quit givin' me that look and drink it."

Oliver: "Put it in a teacup at the very least." He couldn't judge. The evidence was under his nose. He looked around anyway. Most had gone about their business. Two had yet to take initiative to fuck off.

"Ever heard of Shirley Temple? She's gotta virgin drink named after her. Ain't that somethin'? You're old enough t'know of her, right? You're like sixty."

Gina/Charlie: "Eeeeeverybody's a critic," Charlie muttered, taking Gina's drink and transferring it to the most dainty cup he had. It actually wasn't all that dainty, but it was small and almost nice. That counted for something, right?

Gina chuckled softly to herself as the last two busybodies--giving her savior the dirtiest look they could muster--finally looked away.

"Thank you," she said with a smile.

Oliver: Hell, Oliver was surprised he had even that. He looked from the cup to the man with refrained humor, seemingly ignoring the gratitude.

"Yeah? Where's mine?"

Charlie: "Keep it up, Langdon. I'll replace your beer with Goldschlager."

Oliver: "Ya won't do it," he grinned. "I'll like it too much."

Charlie: "If you do, it'll finally let me get rid of it all."

Oliver: Yeah? His empty frosted glass of beer was pushed forward, gaze steady. Challenge accepted.

"Nothing's stoppin' ya."

Charlie: Scowling mightily and never breaking eye contact, Charlie reached behind him for a rather dusty looking bottle of Goldschlager.

He cracked it open, pulled the glass closer.

Oliver: Oh, shit. He almost forgot - no, priorities. Alcohol was a priority.

"Uh, so uh. Boy or girl?"

Gina: The priority had taken the form of a full glass of cinnamon flavored nightmare fuel that had been placed directly in front of him.

"Surprise," said Gina, clearing her throat to hide a giggle fit. She patted her belly. "Little baby No Name."

Oliver: Good smile, he thought. She didn't belong here. Her husband should have made this stop.

"Ya like them noun names like February, Crystal, or Daisy?"

Gina: "No, my taste is more....marine oriented. Pearl. Marina. Ariel."

Oliver: Oh. Right. The Wayside Inn. "Ya want a girl," he pointed out.

Gina: "I wouldn't mind one. Wouldn't mind a boy either. I stray a bit from the ocean for boy names. Cooper. Elias. Lawrence. Even though actual Lawrence said no, I might make it a middle name."

Oliver: "Hmm." He took his first sip. "Elias ain't bad. What's your last name now?"

Gina: "Atlas. Lawson-Atlas technically but I mostly use Atlas."

Oliver: Another sip. "Ah. Nah. Elias won't work. Too much S."

Gina: "Fair point. What about Ariel? I like that for a girl or a boy."

Oliver: "Ari - no. He'll get the crap kicked outta him for the rest of his life."

Gina: "He would not," she laughed. "Ariel is a million times better than Drift Wood."

Oliver: "That's just a cruel spirit what named him. Ya ain't cruel enough. If anything you're too nice."

Gina: "She's not cruel just cringy. Her last name is Wood and when she found out she was having a boy she decided on Drift because it would be....I don't know, zen?"

Oliver: "N'now look at him. Bein' criticized for his existence in this here bar." Sweet golden cinnamon nectar was swallowed down. That familiar tingle in his arms was like a greeting hug.

Gina: "I heard a rumor he's going to change it, poor thing. His mama's very upset as you would imagine."

She sipped her Shirley Temple. "How's the Goldschlager?"

Oliver: "I'll be a gold statue by tomorrow," he smiled, still dwelling on that sucker Drift and his life over a damn name.

Gina: "You know he's gonna refuse to sell you anything else, right?" she chuckled. She felt an odd sense of pride that she'd gotten him to smile. Something told her he didn't do it very often.

"At least until he runs out. You really will become a gold statue."

Oliver: That laugh, and her rosy cheeks. Pregnancy glow seemed to be a real thing.

"Nothin' wrong with somethin' that'll put hair on your chest. I mean...just mine, I guess."

Gina: Another chuckle. "Or something that'll turn you back into a seventeen year-old that feels really cool drinking in the parking lot with his friends."

Oliver: "Nah. I was never that seventeen-year-old boy. I was gettin' ready t'join the army. I was out runnin' every night with a backpack stuffed with all my textbooks."

Gina: "You were in the army?" Gina could absolutely imagine him, skinny and determined, running laps with his backpack. "Are you still?"

Oliver: "Was, yeah. Retired now," he shrugged, glancing around as though disinterested in the topic.

Gina: "Those seventeen year-olds drinking Goldschlager had nothing on you." She toasted him with her teacup.

Oliver: His laugh was brief. If only she knew everything. His off and on girlfriend since high school; their drama; the daughter he wasn't allowed to see.

He tipped his glass in return.

"N'I got nothin' on your husband," he smiled, winked.

Gina: It was almost magical how her face lit up. "Well, don't go selling yourself short. Nice, strapping, swarthy men are hard to come by these days."

Oliver: "Did ya forget we're in O'Charlie's? I think ya want them men at your own bar, or maybe Pete's Place or whatever it's called."

Gina: "We are in O'Charlie's, and yet here you are." She took another sip of her drink, looking around the bar. "I always thought this place got a bad rap."

Oliver: Was she flirting back? With that in mind, was he truly being flirtatious?

"It deserves it. S'why I come here."

Gina: "No, I don't think it does." If he listened closely, he'd hear the soft, almost sad lilt in her voice. "Anyone who's ever been...in a bad way....understands why people come here."

Oliver: He could hear it, but he chose not to dwell on her tone. "It ain't always pitiable people, ma'am. Sometimes people are just born bad."

Gina: "Maybe," she said quietly. She was staring at one of the empty booths against the wall. "But sometimes something makes them that way."

Oliver: "...Yeah. Sometimes. Not all the time. Sometimes a guy just wants d'peddle drugs t'stupid people, or kids, or..." he shrugged. "There's a market for anything." And suddenly, just like that, he wanted a hit.

Gina: "Yes, there is." She sighed and went back to her Shirley Temple. "You should come by my inn sometime when you're tired of hearing Charles' conspiracy theories."

"I heard that," came Charlie's grunt from the other end of the bar.

Gina smiled.

Oliver: "Ya don't want my sort there," he scoffed, ignoring the man behind the bar.

Gina: She tilted her head. "What sort do you think you are?"

Oliver: He sighed. "The kind that come here."

Gina: "Well, I did too. And I'm allowed in my inn."

Oliver: "You're here on business. What would your husband think?"

Gina: "My trips here haven't always been on business." She nodded toward the booth she'd been staring at. "That was my table."

Oliver: "Why come here when ya got your own place?"

Gina: "Told you." She gave him a sad smile. "Anyone who's ever been in a bad way comes here."

Oliver: "Whatever it is probably wasn't your fault."

Gina: "Took a while, but yeah, finally realized that."

Oliver: "Was it a man?" he asked his glass.

Gina: Gina nodded. "Yep. This was years ago, long before I met Lawrence."

Oliver: "N'he's a different kinda man," he filled in the blanks.

Gina: Another nod. "Yep. The complete opposite."

Oliver: "M'I in the middle?" he smirked.

Gina: "I think you might be closer to Lawrence's end of the spectrum than you think you are."

Oliver: "Mm...s'a nice thought."

Gina: "It is." And her gut told her it was truth.

She smiled. "Really, come in sometime. I promise not to serve you Goldschlager."

Oliver: "Ya say that like I ain't drinkin' it right now. Have ya tried this?"

Gina: "Once. And that was enough."

Oliver: "It ain't that bad."

Gina: "Cinnamon is for coffee, not for alcohol."

Oliver: "Coffee's gotta be black and bitter."

Gina: Gina made a face. "If your coffee is bitter something went terribly wrong."

Oliver: "S'gotta be pure or I won't wake up."

Gina: "Ah, you're one of those people," she chuckled. "No sugar even?"

Oliver: "If I want sugar I'll have gum."

Gina: She laughed. "Are you a dessert person? We make our own ice cream at my inn."

Oliver: "Hmm. I haven't had that since, like... Hell. I dunno when. Childhood."

Gina: Gina's eyes went wide. "You haven't had ice cream since you were a child?!"

Oliver: "Well, yeah!" he chuckled, though the sound was more for show, caught off guard by her surprise. "Just don't have a taste for it."

Gina: "That makes me so sad. You have my deepest sympathies."

Oliver: "It's just sugar! I mean look at America. Should be praisin' me."

Gina: "It's not just sugar. Ice cream is pure happiness." If it wasn't obvious, Gina had quite a significant sweet tooth.

Oliver: "I guess it suits ya."

Gina: "It does not suit the baby. No ice cream, just popsicles and ice."

Oliver: "What, can't have milk or somethin'?"

Gina: "No, milk is fine. Cheese too. It's specifically ice cream that he doesn't like."

Oliver: "'He'? Thought it was a surprise."

Gina: "Feels like a 'he' sometimes," she said with a smile. "Sometimes a 'she'. Today is apparently a he day."

Oliver: "Nah. It's a girl. Ya keep thinkin' of girl names. It's a sign."

Gina: "You think so?"

Oliver: It's what the mother of my child did. "Mhm," he nodded.

Gina: Gina patted her belly. A girl... "I like the thought of that. Between you and me, I've been picturing Lawrence doting over a little girl. He's so patient and sweet." So completely loving.

Oliver: "But is he gonna spoil her?" he smirked.

Gina: "He totally will," she laughed. "She'd be everything to him."

Oliver: "She's gotta be a strong independent woman when she grows up, though. Can't have her bein' a daddy's girl."

Gina: "Oh, we'll make sure she is. Strong and happy and the first ever child to think her parents are cool all the way through teenagehood."

Oliver: "Ha!" he laughed. "Okay. I think you're gonna have t'lower your expectations."

Gina: "Nope, I'm determined. I just need to learn more cool things from now until she turns twelve."

Oliver: "Can't be music. All of it sucks now."

Gina: "I don't have any musical talent anyway. Gonna have to find another way to be cool."

Oliver: He simply smiled. "You'll find a way. Maybe. Probably not."

Gina: "Come on now, have faith. Little No Name here will think Lawrence and I are cool."

Oliver: "You'll be the coolest uncool parent."

Gina: "Thank you," she laughed. "The vote of confidence is appreciated."

Oliver: His attention suddenly turned to the screen above the liquor, reading the news via closed captioning. A snippet on the latest war.

Gina: Gina turned to follow his gaze. "This has to be the only bar I know of that plays news instead of sports."

Oliver: "He plays the Superbowl. Maybe even the uh, what's that channel...Spike TV."

Gina: "Oh yeah, that's true. I only remember him putting it on when that cop show was on."

Oliver: Her cup was glanced. "Want another? Or water?"

Gina: "No, I'm good. If memory serves the bathrooms here aren't an experience worth repeating."

Oliver: "Maybe they've been fixed since then?" Not that he would know.

"Speakin' of bathrooms, I'll be right back."

Gina: "No offense to Charles, but I doubt it. Best to play it safe."

Oliver: A quick nod, and her acquaintance disappeared across the bar to the men's room.

Gina: While Oliver did his business, Gina managed to talk herself into another drink. It was orange juice this time, which she knew for a fact Charlie only kept stocked for anyone who wanted a tequila sunrise.

Oliver: Oliver returned five minutes later. He plopped in his seat and rubbed his head. He sniffed with a crinkled nose and smiled.

"Lemme guess. Virgin mimosa?"

Gina: "Well hi there," she said, smiling back. "Virgin tequila sunrise, hence the grenadine."

Oliver: "We've upgraded from the teacup, huh?" he sniffed again.

Gina: "Yep. Got an actual glass this time. Charles won't serve me orange juice in anything else." She tilted her head. "Feeling sniffly? I have tissues."

Oliver: "Ah. Nah, m'alright." He checked his watch. How much longer on her drinks?

Gina: Not long at all, as Charlie gruffly informed her (and Oliver) that Dwight was on the way back with the bourbon.

"Want more Goldschlager?" he asked Oliver with a smug look.

Oliver: "D'ya actually have more?"

Gina: "Two cases worth."

Oliver: "Try and give me alcohol poisonin'."

Gina: "Well I ain't givin' it to you all at once."

Oliver: "What m'I payin' ya for?"

Gina: "A hangover."

Oliver: "Then make my migraine count."

Gina: "Don't come in here and mean mug me tomorrow." Charlie left Oliver the bottle.

Oliver: Well alright then. He poured himself a shot's worth.

"Your husband drink?"

Gina: "Not often these days. Solidarity."

Oliver: "What cha gonna drink when you're free?"

Gina: "Coffee," she said with great feeling.

Oliver: "I meant cocktails!" he smiled.

Gina: Gina laughed. "Gin martini."

Oliver: "A gin lady!" he nodded, lips downturned in exaggeration. "Fancy that."

Gina: "Yep. A gin lady who married a gin man. Only proper way to make a martini."

Oliver: "I have a friend that would agree with ya. 'Fore he was in my unit, he was a bartender. Could make anything taste fruity. M'a simple man. I drink alcohol, I wanna taste alcohol."

Gina: "Gin doesn't taste fruity, it tastes....herby." She smiled. "Martinis are pure alcohol. Gin and vermouth and you're done."

Oliver: "I am drinking the cinnamon n'gold untouchable. I know what gin tastes like," he laughed. "I've tried it all!"

Gina: "Even the obscure bourbon Dwight's bringing for my demanding guest?"

Oliver: "Mhm. Reminds me of hickory."

Gina: "Is it worth sending two expectant parents and Dwight on a wild goose chase through two counties?"

Oliver: "If the guy was gonna trash the place, it shoulda been handed over t'the cops."

Gina: "He didn't explicitly say it, just heavily implied it."

Oliver: "What's done is done, I guess."

Gina: "Yep. Luckily his stay is ending soon."

Oliver: "Don't let him back. Your place is magically always booked."

Gina: Gina laughed. "It might just be. It actually will be soon. I have two weddings back to back."

Oliver: "Hmm. I don't get marriage, really. No offense t'you n'yours."

Gina: "None taken. Doesn't always work for everyone. For some it's pure hell."

Oliver: "N'then they cheat, or hate each other, n'ya wonder what they ever loved 'bout em t'begin with."

Gina: "Yep," she said with a nod, sipping her drink. "Seen my share of those."

Oliver: "This your first rodeo?"

Gina: She shook her head. "Second rodeo."

Oliver: "So ya know of love lost."

Gina: She nodded. "I do. And then some."

Oliver: "What makes the next guy any different?"

Gina: "When you've seen bad, you recognize good."

Oliver: "Maybe," he returned half-heartedly.

Gina: "Well, if you manage to pick yourself up you do."

Oliver: "Well, you're lucky."

Gina: "I am now," she said softly, absently running her belly.

Oliver: "First child?" he asked.

Gina: There was no response for a few long moments before Gina shook her head. She offered nothing more.

Oliver: Not worth touching whatever that was. He simply nodded and sipped his drink.

Gina: Gina gave a silent thanks to the heavens that he accepted her answer and didn't press for more. That was the most comforting thing about O'Charlie's to her; nobody asked anything.

"What about you? Got anyone you're seeing?"

Oliver: O'Charlie's also meant getting little from the questions you did ask. Or the opposite, hearing a story for the good part of your evening.

"Not really. Ya know, dates, I guess."

Gina: "That's good," she said with a smile. "You should bring your next one to the inn. You'll earn so many points."

Oliver: "Tryin' t'hook me up with someone already?"

Gina: She chuckled. "Even if I was, I don't know anyone to set you up with."

Oliver: "Mhm." Too clean and well-mannered for me. Your friends wouldn't want some medically retired infantryman.

Gina: "But if I do find someone...." She let her voice trail off and smiled.

Oliver: "I'll be holdin' my breath."

Gina: "I accept your challenge and you'll have a date by the end of next week."

Oliver: "No I won't. You're wild on shirley temple."

Gina: "My skills are many and powerful."

Oliver: Just humor the woman. "Alright. Like I said... holdin' my breath."

Gina: She grinned. "I'll reserve a table at the inn for next Friday night."

Oliver: Jesus. He swallowed down his drink hard. "Hey now, you're gonna - ya can't - you're gonna raise your friend's hopes up too much."

Gina: "Impossible."

Oliver: "Ya just met me. Err to the side of caution." When a man tells you he's bad news, listen.

Gina: "Fair enough." She suddenly blinked. "You never told me your name."

Oliver: Didn't I? Maybe I've already had one too many.

"Oliver Cole." He offered his hand.

Gina: Gina smiled and shook his hand. "Nice to meet you, Oliver Cole. I'm Regina Atlas. I go by Gina."

Oliver: His hand was rough and uninviting compared to hers. Labor verses the life of a business owner. He felt the gap between them widen another inch.

"Gina," he nodded.

Gina/Charlie: "Yep, unless you're Charles or Peter Graham. They call me Regina."

"Dwight's back, Regina," Charlie said, right on cue.

Dwight was indeed walking up to the bar, holding up a bag.

Oliver: Goodbye, pretty woman. Wait. "I'll walk ya t'your car."

Gina: "Thank you. And thank you, Dwight. My curtains thank you also." She finished her drink and took a deep breath.

"Help me off the stool first?" she asked Oliver.

Oliver: "Yes ma'am." How much was all this? "I got her drinks," he muttered to Charles. He offered his hand once on his feet.

Gina: "Oh, you don't have do that." Gina took his hand in one of hers and braced herself on the bar with the other to hoist herself up. "God, this is getting harder and harder."

Oliver: "Probably 'bout time t'make the husband do all the work n'ya keep on keepin' on with makin' your daughter. M'still gettin' your drinks."

Gina: "We're starting to make that transition. Been taking half days and doing all the office work." She took a moment to find her center of gravity and gave him a grateful smile. "Thank you."

Oliver: "Mhm," was his version of 'you're welcome'. Money was placed on the counter for both of their tabs. Whatever change was leftover would be chalked up to tip.

"Ready?"

Gina: She gathered her purse and the bag and nodded. "Yep! Thanks again, Dwight!" she called over her shoulder.

Her small, light blue SUV was parked as close to the door as she'd been able to manage.

Oliver: Oliver shrugged his old weathered jacket on at the door, breathing in the frigid air as soon as a breeze hit him.

"Ya have a good night now, Mrs. Atlas."

Gina: Gina gathered her coat around her, grateful she hadn't taken it off. "Thank you, Oliver, you too. Better buy a nice shirt for your date."

Oliver: "We'll see, won't we?" He was heading to the road. He knew he'd had too much to drive, and was on the lookout for... something. Someone.

Gina: "Yes we will," she said with a smile. She got into her car and started it up, watching him walk away for a while as she let it warm up. She was going to find him a damn good date.

But first, she had business to take care of.

{Text to Lawrence} Got the bourbon! On my way back

[citizenscreen]

As the new year approaches I reflect on the last twelve months and gather my hopes for those to come. Unlike most people I also think about The Thin Man, specially about William Powell and Myrna Loy who play Nick and Nora Charles in the memorable six-movie series released between 1934 and 1947.

When I saw that Steve of Movie Movie Blog Blog was hosting The Happy New Year Blogathon I chose to focus on Nick and Nora Charles right off the bat for several reasons, not the least of which is that there are few other people I’d rather celebrate with to close out the year. I rewatched the first two movies in the series, W. S. Van Dyke‘s The Thin Man and After the Thin Man both of which are centered around the holidays, Christmas and New Years to be specific. As I watched these movies I’ve seen many times before I began to think about why Nick and Nora are so enjoyable. Why is it that everything they touch is so entertaining? In trying to answer that I came to the realization that what they have is what everybody should have, a Charles kind of life, the kind of life where quips rule the day and love abounds and friendships glow and no one judges. And so I’ve put together the 10 things we all need in order to celebrate New Year’s like Nick and Nora Charles.

  1. The Perfect Union

I begin with the obvious ingredient, the one without which the others would be for naught. This is common sense, but not easily obtained. What you need is a debonaire, detail-oriented husband who is as comfortable in intimate settings as he is in big crowds. This man is aces at feigning surprise, doesn’t mind that his wife gets her own Christmas presents, gets up to make her breakfast and can hold his liquor. AND HOW! The wife is just as important to this union, of course, She has to be beautiful and fashionable and must crinkle her nose on demand. Although Mrs. perfect union comes from high society she doesn’t mind – or rather, is excited by – the prospect of hosting suspected murderers for dinner and doesn’t mind getting her own Christmas gifts on behalf of her husband. As one of the coppers refers to her, Nora’s “a girl with hair on her chest.” Of course, Mr. and Mrs. perfect union must be perfect together, compliment each other and have the same goals in mind. For instance, Mr. and Mrs. Charles are each adept at physical comedy, they excel at fast-talking and self-deprecating humor and good-natured jabs, which are key to keeping things spicy in the marriage, and they both look great in fancy pajamas.

  2. A Murder

Under most circumstances murder is grim and painful, but if you want to have a Nick and Nora experience during your New Year’s celebrations then…sorry…someone has to die by suspicious means. There’s just no way to get around that.

As you know, Nick Charles is a former detective who left the business upon marrying Nora. Since her father’s death Nick spends his time balancing drinking, romancing and running her businesses with the latter taking up almost no time at all. In truth, former detective Nick spends a lot of time detecting, trying to figure out who murdering low lives are as dead bodies have a way of falling at his feet. Nick’s talent and stellar reputation for crime detection ensure the police and past associates turn to him for assistance. Due to that the Charles celebration is always centered on crime in some way and there never was another couple who makes the best of the macabre happening. Not only does Nick thrive on solving the puzzles, but Nora is excited by his talent. Needless to say then, a murder is necessary as the driving force behind any and all holiday celebrations. Oh, and it helps if newspapers report the incorrect suspect or details of the crime.

From THE THIN MAN (1934)

From AFTER THE THIN MAN (1936)

  3. Colorful Friends

This one’s simple. If you have no friends called Face, Fingers or Willie the Weeper, find them. There’s no way you can enjoy the festivities without a motley group. In fact, if possible find the establishment where these characters go and spend New Year’s Eve there. You can use the Lychee Club featured in After the Thin Man as a guide. Or…the investigation will lead you to the perfect place. A warning, though – the husband has to be flexible and easy-going enough to ignore remarks about his wife by these character, and the wife has to ignore the comments overall, but it will no doubt be a fun way to bring in the New Year.

Mr. and Mrs. Charles at the Lychee Club surrounded by Nick’s friends, most of which are past jailbirds

The entertainer at the Lychee Club is involved in the mystery

Nick and Nora welcome the New Year at the Lychee Club

    4. A Rich, Snooty Family

We know Nora comes from money although she hasn’t a shred of snootiness. Still, her family is as snobbish and judgmental as they get, especially her Aunt Katherine (Jessie Ralph) who can’t even stand Nick. Still, I suggest you add at least a few of these old money types to your celebration. Not only do they provide an important contrast to Nick’s seedy friends, which is sure to add interesting goings on, but also because these rich people provide lots of opportunities for enjoyable fodder between the hosts themselves.

Nick gets gets a disapproving nod from Nora’s Aunt Katherine

  5. A Brilliant Pet

It doesn’t matter if the husband or the wife or both are at the top their game where quips and looks are concerned. The situation will always be improved by an intelligent, funny pet. The Charles are uniquely lucky in that their pet is wire-haired terrier scene-stealer Asta (played by Skippy). Asta is hilarious, has perfect timing and adds oodles to the Charles’ exchanges whether they’re at home relaxing or he accompanies Nick to an investigation. Asta completes the Charles trifecta and it’s doubtful whether another trio comes close to these three in style and grace. I admit, however, that this might be the most difficult of the ten ingredients to obtain, but you will not likely have the same kind of heightened continuous fun if you don’t have your own Asta-esque pet. Consider that this pet must be an integral part of the family, he/she must hide when you expect him/her to attack an intruder, he/she must eat a piece of a clue if the opportunity arises and has he/she to be judgmental like when Nick and/or Nora are not present, Asta supplies the double take.

The Charles family

Asta eats part of the clue and hides the other piece

Asta and Nick investigate crimes together

The Charles family with the munchies

  6. Comebacks at the Ready

I know most of us don’t have writers we can count on to ensure every single word we utter is witty and spot on, but you gotta try. I think that if you are paired with the perfect match this becomes easier. Having a similar sense of humor will help as will all of the other ingredients mentioned in this list. For instance, if you find a partner who is from a completely different world then, as mentioned, that in itself is food for fodder. Here are a few examples of what you should aim for:

Nick Charles: Come on, let’s get something to eat. I’m thirsty.

  Reporter: Say listen, is he working on a case?

Nora Charles: Yes, a case of scotch. Pitch in and help him.

  Nick Charles: I’m a hero. I was shot twice in the Tribune.

Nora Charles: I read where you were shot 5 times in the tabloids.

Nick Charles: It’s not true. He didn’t come anywhere near my tabloids.

  Nora Charles: Waiter, will you serve the nuts? I mean, will you serve the guests the nuts?

  7. Shadows

Since the mood we’re aiming for is comedy with mystery overtones, you’ve got to set up your lighting so that there’s plenty of shadow to enhance the drama. Mr. Charles is often encased in shadow himself thanks to his detecting interests, but you can set up the “whodunnit” mood and ensure the colorful characters previously mentioned feel at home. For instance, shadows in stripes on a wall to mock a jail cell might do the trick. Or, you can give flashlights as party favors and not turn on lights at all. You can use The Thin Man as your guide, but know that the bar is set quite high by a master of noir lighting, James Wong Howe.

  8. Dim Policemen

Part of the fun in The Thin Man is supplied by the great Nat Pendleton who plays Lt. John Guild who’s  in charge of the murder investigation. As Guild, Pendleton is not the brightest bulb in the deck – or however that goes. Guild brings Nick into the investigation semi-officially, which highlights just how talented Mr. Charles actually is. Lt. Guild is usually days behind the now retired investigator and he even goes by the papers for facts about his own case. In the final dinner scene where all of the suspects are invited, Lt. Guild is as in the dark as the rest of the guests, which is fun in itself. All you need to do in this case is make sure than one or two of the dumber people you know surround you during these celebratory times. Dumb people tend to be happy and the fact that they automatically give the host a sense of superiority can’t hurt.

Suspect Nunheim (Harold Huber) is interrogated by Nick instead of Lt. Guild

  9. A Gathering

There’s hardly a reason for any of these ingredients to come together unless there’s a final gathering to look forward to. Mr. and Mrs. Charles always bring together the motley crew for a get-together during which Nick shows off his superiority with flare. Nora assists with perfectly timed comments and fashionable, if snooty looks of her own to add to the festivities. The surrounding must be of the highest order with just a touch of street-level guise coupled with the air of mystery.

  10. A Train

Nick and Nora take trains between destinations (and after both the Christmas and New Years celebrations) and I think everyone else should too. I get that the Thin Man stories were produced many decades ago when travel on trains was necessary and in vogue, but man, after a good old-fashioned party where your colorful friends are drunk and mingling with your snooty relatives I can think of no better way to unwind. Not to mention that the likelihood that the close quarters will make Mr. and Mrs. perfect union even more perfect is high. Then there are the close quarters, which will no doubt help in the laughs department with your intelligent pet in tow. If you’ve paid attention and have secured every single ingredient mentioned here then Mr. and Mrs. perfect union will remain fashionable, blissful, will be able to laugh about her snooty family and his colorful friends, and there will no doubt be some mystery just around the corner.

  ♦

Be sure to visit Movie Movie Blog Blog and The Happy New Year Blogathon. Then go off and enjoy life like the Charles. Here’s hoping you and yours have a happy and healthy 2018.

How to Celebrate New Year’s Like Nick and Nora Charles As the new year approaches I reflect on the last twelve months and gather my hopes for those to come.

[bhrarchinerd]

On Sept. 23, Kurt Andreas Reinhold, a 42-year-old Black man, was trying to cross a street in San Clemente, California, when two officers from a special “homeless outreach unit” stopped him. An altercation ensued; minutes later, Reinhold, a father of two and down-on-his-luck former youth soccer coach, was shot and killed. In a cellphone video of the confrontation, Reinhold can be heard demanding, “Where did I jaywalk?”

This is a particularly troubling example of a pattern we see all too often. Black and Brown people, especially men, are routinely targeted by police for jaywalking or simply existing in public space. Often these stops result in an escalating series of fines and fees. In other cases — as in San Clemente, as well as in Sacramento, Seattle and New York City — they can end in violence.

Especially at a time when there is intense focus on police brutality and racism, Reinhold’s death should prompt us to pause and consider who is truly served by jaywalking laws. Their effectiveness as safety measures appears to be limited: Despite heavy handed and selective jaywalking enforcement, pedestrian deaths in the U.S. have increased rapidly in the last decade. As two of the top experts on pedestrian safety in the country, we think it is time for cities to consider decriminalizing jaywalking or eliminating the infraction altogether.

Here’s why.

1.  Jaywalking is a made-up thing by auto companies to deflect blame when drivers hit pedestrians.

Although jaywalking is foundational to the way we think about streets and access today, it is a relatively young concept. As University of Virginia historian Peter Norton explains in his book Fighting Traffic: The Dawn of the Motor Age in the American City, the notion of “jaywalking”  — “jay” being an early 20th century term for someone stupid or unsophisticated — was introduced by a group of auto industry-aligned groups in the 1930s. Prior to the emergence of cars in cities, no such concept existed; pedestrians had free rein in public right-of-ways. But as city streets became sites of increasing carnage in the early days of America’s auto era — about 200,000 Americans (many of them children) were killed by cars in the 1920s — automakers sought regulations that would shift blame away from drivers.

2. The concept of jaywalking encourages drivers to be aggressive toward pedestrians, and for third parties to ignore or excuse pedestrian deaths.

Just as their early proponents hoped, jaywalking laws succeeded in creating a perverse “moral basis” for pedestrian deaths in the minds of the public. We see this reflected today in media reports of pedestrian deaths where the convention is to note the victim “wasn’t in the crosswalk.” This moral framing is so powerful pedestrians who are killed are often slandered as “lazy” or “stupid” by officials charged with keeping them safe.

But this conception is cruel and prevents us from addressing the core of the problem. People don’t deserve to die for the minor offense of jaywalking.

3. Our streets are not designed to make walking safe or convenient.

The core problem lies with street design, not human behavior. Tellingly, pedestrian deaths in cities around the country are concentrated on certain types of roads: wide, fast arterials. For example, in Rockford, Illinois, almost one in four traffic deaths is on a single road: State Street. A similar proportion of pedestrian fatalities Philadelphia take place on Roosevelt Boulevard. These dangerous roads, which lack adequate crossings, lighting and sidewalks, are typically concentrated in Black and Brown neighborhoods.

4. Pedestrians are almost as likely to be struck and killed at an intersection as mid-block.

Support for jaywalking laws rests on the idea that they make us safer. But the data on crossing location and safety is not as compelling as the law suggests.

Federally sponsored research in the 1990s looked closely at the types of situations in which “serious pedestrian crashes” occurred. It found that pedestrians are struck in crosswalks almost as often (25% of the time) as they are struck midblock (26%). In the additional almost 50% of crashes, pedestrians are struck outside of typical pedestrian crossing scenarios — for example, on sidewalks, or walking along the side of the road or highway attending to disabled cars.

5. When pedestrians jaywalk, they are often behaving rationally.

Jaywalking laws are not flexible enough to account for the range of scenarios pedestrians encounter, including prolonged signal timings and delays that give priority to automobiles. In some cases, jaywalking is driven by the fear of crime, particularly in low-income communities. In others, there simply aren’t enough crosswalks, or crosswalks are at the wrong location.

Jaywalking may be the most rational choice given a host of bad options. For example, an investigation into the nation-leading pedestrian deaths in Arizona by the Arizona Republic last year found only about a third of the pedestrians killed in Phoenix were near (within 500 feet of) a crosswalk. The reporters concluded there was a need for more crosswalks, not a crackdown on jaywalkers.

There is strong scientific support for that kind of approach. A 2014 study conducted by the Federal Highway Administration was able to use environmental factors — like the presence of a right-turn lane or the distance between crosswalks — to predict with 90% accuracy whether or not a pedestrian would cross mid-block.

Criminalizing a rational, predictable response to poor infrastructure is unjust.

6. Jaywalking laws are not enforced fairly.

Because police have broad discretion over their response to this petty offense, jaywalking lends itself to biased enforcement.

A 2017 investigation by ProPublica and the Florida Times-Union found that Black people in Jacksonville, Florida, for example, are three times as likely to be stopped and cited for jaywalking as white people. Those living in the poorest neighborhoods were six times as likely. Black men and boys were the most frequent targets.  

The same pattern has been observed just about everywhere it’s been analyzed. An investigation by the Sacramento Bee found that Black residents received 50% of the city’s jaywalking tickets in 2017, despite making up just 15% of the population. Similar patterns have been uncovered in Seattle and New York.

7. Jaywalking stops are frequently explosive.

People stopped for jaywalking are often confused about why they are being stopped. For example, an 84-year-old Asian man was bloodied by police in New York City in 2014. The man, Kang Wong, did not speak English and witnesses told the New York Post he “didn’t appear to understand their orders to stop.” In Seattle, in 2010, a white police officer was caught on tape punching a Black 17-year-old girl when she protested a jaywalking stop.

Often police interpret confusion as lack of cooperation and add on charges — like resisting arrest — or resort to use of force when people complain about being stopped on such a minor offense. But pedestrians who feel unfairly targeted have a point: These laws are enforced arbitrarily, with racially discriminatory effects to questionable safety benefit.

8. The focus on jaywalking reflects the lower political status of those who walk — not the societal harm of the activity.

Pedestrians who are hurt and killed in the U.S. are disproportionately marginalized: Black, Brown, elderly, disabled, poor. Perhaps this is the reason we seize on the jaywalking as the root cause of the problem, rather than offenses by drivers or road designs that create unsafe environments.

9. The safest countries globally allow jaywalking.

The U.K. has about half as many pedestrian deaths per capita as the U.S. (and a much higher walking rate). But the U.K. allows pedestrians legally to cross where they please. Meanwhile, in Norway, the world leader in eliminating traffic deaths, pedestrians are encouraged to cross at certain locations, but there is no rule against jaywalking, and it is certainly not a crime that police go around assaulting people for violating. If the U.S. could match Norway’s traffic safety record, about 30,000 lives a year would be saved, according to the 2018 global status report on road safety by the World Health Organization.

Eliminating jaywalking laws may sound radical, but it’s been discussed before in cities such as Seattle. Other places, like Berkeley, California, are experimenting with new models for traffic enforcement that deemphasize police in favor of crash investigators who are trained to help promote infrastructure changes that improve safety. New York Attorney General Letitia James has advocated for removing police from traffic stops, and a new survey shows a majority of New Yorkers support the idea.

Wider reforms and changes to traffic safety enforcement are needed, from increasing diversity within law enforcement to enhanced data tracking, police training, inclusivity and investment in new social and criminal justice programs. Such efforts must be implemented with a vigilant eye towards reversing existing inequities: Early results from so-called “unbiased” enforcement efforts, such as intelligence-led enforcement, used by cities like Oakland, California, show disparities in traffic stops remain. The time is now, not later, to revisit or eliminate laws like jaywalking that are primarily used as a pretext to stop Black and Brown people — and rarely protected any pedestrians in the first place.

Angie Schmitt is a writer and planning consultant and author of Right of Way: Race, Class and the Silent Epidemic of Pedestrian Deaths in America, which was published in August by Island Press. Portions of this article were adapted from her book.

Charles T. Brown is a senior researcher and adjunct professor at Voorhees Transportation Center at Rutgers University.

[shmosnet2]

10 Offbeat Facts About The Macy's Thanksgiving Parade

10 Offbeat Facts About The Macy's Thanksgiving Parade

Nothing says the beginning of the holiday season like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. Not only does the event have all the delightful hallmarks of the American holiday season, it is one national tradition that can be trusted. But an event beginning in the 1920s doesn’t get this far without a bit of intrigue and a couple of secrets. Add some spicy conversation to your Thanksgiving morning this year by impressing your family with a few fun facts about this American holiday icon. See Also: 10 Unsolved Thanksgiving Mysteries 10 The balloons were introduced to make it less terrifying

When Macy’s first got the idea for the parade in 1924, employees participated along with animals from the famous Central Park Zoo. Originally donkeys, elephants, goats, and camels walked the route. Seems innocent enough, right? It might have been, except in 1925 and 1926, the organizers decided to up the ante, adding lions, tigers, and bears. You guessed it – oh my! Children along the route were so scared that Macy’s decided to trade in live animals for large rubber puppets, eventually evolving into large balloons. The move proved to be the right one, as the larger than life helium-filled animals are now recognized worldwide as a Macy’s trademark.[1] 9 The parade chased one American tradition into obscurity and birthed another

Ever heard of Ragamuffin Day? Started after Abraham Lincoln’s Presidential Declaration in 1863 making the last Thursday in November Thanksgiving Day, this adorable tradition involved children “dressing down” as hoodlums and begging for treats on the street. Eventually, the participants earned the name “Ragamuffins,” and the holiday became widely known. The occasion gained particular popularity in New York City and over time more costumes were added to the act of walking the streets asking “Anything for Thanksgiving?” The rise in popularity of the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade along with the onset of the Great Depression brought Ragamuffin Day to a slow halt. By the early 1950s, however, the tradition had morphed into what we call Trick or Treating. Thanks, Macy’s![2] 8 Extreme balloon chasing, anyone?

The first decade of the parade included a tradition that turned the occasion into a weekend-long event as the animal balloons were released into the air to soar above the city and beyond. Expensive to produce, if found, the balloons could be returned to Macy’s for a cash prize. This incentive also led to the demise of the tradition, when aviator Annette Gipson ruined it for everyone in 1928 by flying her plane into one of the balloons to retrieve it. As the balloon got wrapped around its left wing, the plane began a tailspin, horrifying onlookers. Luckily, Gipson’s instructor took over, but not without the passenger door flying open and nearly forcing her out of the plane. Macy’s decided to put an end to the flying animal balloons from then on.[3] 7 The balloon animals might be cute, but they can also be dangerous

The famous larger-than-life balloons might seem harmless, but they have a dark side. Over the years they have been responsible for multiple injuries of spectators, including children. Most life-threatening was the Cat in the Hat that graced the 1997 route. Along the way it collided with a lamppost, the top of which struck an unsuspecting woman in the head, knocking her unconscious. A month-long coma followed, resulting in brain damage and permanent injury of the 34-year old mother. That’s not the end of the terror. Another incident involved Sonic the Hedgehog’s less-than auspicious debut to the parade in 1993 when he also crashed into a lamppost, leaving two spectators with semi-serious injuries. Oh, and 2005’s M&Ms balloon also failed to stay away from lampposts along the route, knocking into one of them and injuring two sisters. While Macy’s took responsibility for each incident, one has to wonder what the real threat is; the balloons, or the city’s lampposts.[4] 6The balloons are also at risk of violence While they have since tried to keep it under wraps, in the 1997 parade and at the height of his popularity, Barney the Dinosaur’s inflatable version was the victim of an attack. When unprecedented winds made things difficult for the balloon handlers, all were ordered to pause and allow the purple dinosaur to deflate. While waiting for this to occur, however, the Barney balloon hit a light pole and incurred a massive gash in his side, seeing him rapidly approaching the street. The New York City Police, however, didn’t think it was happening quickly enough and, scared for the safety of the balloon handlers, jumped on top of the rubber likeness of everyone’s favorite t-rex and started stabbing it (yes, you read that right). To prevent traumatizing children watching from home, NBC aired a recording of the Barney balloon from a previous parade on the televised broadcast. However, the scene made its way to YouTube in 2003, delighting some and disturbing others as it went viral. Barney sustained another gory injury in the 2005 parade when a tree tore his left leg before he even made it out the gate. The purple friend persevered, however, walking the route with the gash for the world to see. What a trooper. 5 The balloons helped defeat the Nazis

The only times that the parade has been canceled since its inception were the 1942, 1943, and 1944 parades, canceled due to America’s involvement in World War Two. It wasn’t that Macy’s thought it inappropriate to hold such a festive event while soldiers were overseas fighting a lengthy and gruesome war, it was because the military was experiencing severe rubber and helium shortages and regulations against overuse extended even to the famous parade. With no way around it, the event was canceled. Macy’s managed to stay in the spotlight, however, donating the balloons to the armed forces in a City Hall ceremony. We’re talking 650 pounds of rubber and who knows how much helium, not too shabby. Pictured is the 1937 Nazi parade in Long Island . . . yup: Long Island—that really happened.[5] 4 Speaking of helium, the parade keeps the industry afloat

While it may seem cute and cozy from the sidelines and TV screens, the parade is no small neighborhood holiday event. The Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade is currently second to only the United States government itself as the largest consumer of helium worldwide. For now, though, it looks like this consumption isn’t a concern and won’t lead to any shortages, even with the gas needed increasingly for technology.[6] 3Do you have a license for that balloon?

Each of the parade’s inflated balloons has its own “pilot” — the person walking backward in front of the balloon and its group of carriers. The position isn’t just one that employees volunteer for if needed. Rather, anyone selected to perform the duty undergoes special training through Macy’s. Additionally, they must learn to walk backward for 2.5 miles. Training takes place twice a year involving both classroom curriculum and track instruction. And yes, it’s all for the prestige; the crew at the parade work on a volunteer basis, doing it for fun, or to cross off a bucket list item. Even though each of the 15-plus balloons requires 50-100 handlers, jobs are hard to come by. If you don’t work for Macy’s you must be sponsored by a Macy’s employee, which is harder than it sounds, as many volunteers hold onto their positions year after year, with the same gusto as they hold onto their inflatable friends. If you do end up finding a sponsor, you will only be granted a position if you pass the physical requirements for the job. With each balloon handler navigating the route with a 300-500 pound pull, handlers are required to be over 18, weigh at least 120 pounds, be free of heart issues, and bear strapping knees and backs.[7] 2 Felix the Cat gets burned

Does Felix the Cat being the first balloon animal to ride in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade sound familiar? That’s because the actual first cartoon characters licensed, The Katzenjammer Kids, aren’t exactly household names anymore (nor does “Katzenjammer Kids” roll off the tongue as easily). Felix did appear in the parade, but only as a rubber blow-up puppet of sorts. In truth, Felix joined the parade as a helium-filled balloon in 1932. The naughty cat was, however, the first cartoon character in the parade to get into mischief befitting of a feline. The famous cat apparently has a thing for electric lines and playing with fire. The first mishap took place in 1929 when the above-mentioned blow-up puppet got away from its small group of handlers and went straight for the closest electric line, catching fire and going up in flames (also leaving his kitten son, being pulled as a separate blow-up doll, fatherless). The feline showed its pyromaniac tendencies again in 1931 following the onset of the short-lived tradition of setting the balloons out into the wild at the end of the parade. This time, a solo pilot in the air, Clarence D. Chamberlin, tried to claim Felix for his own via lasso (yes, an actual lasso). Alas, the spunky cat broke free, and again headed straight for the electric lines, bursting into immediate flames. Macy’s wouldn’t give up, however, and the releasing of the balloons would last another three years before they decided it might have too many public safety risks associated with it (ya think?).[8] 1 They want you to believe in Santa

Santa Claus has brought the parade to a close for each year of its run, except for 1933, when organizers decided to mix it up by having him mark the beginning of the parade. Seems like a good gig for a Santa-method actor, right? Well maybe, if absolute secrecy about the role is something you can agree to. When the parade was first televised (interestingly, those enjoying the parade at home did so via radio for the first two decades of its existence) in 1948, Macy’s scored Charles Howard, founder of the Santa School (yes, you heard that right) in Albion, Michigan, to play the part. He donned the red suit in the parade until 1965, being hired by Macy’s to work as Santa in their New York City store as well. When Howard retired in 1965, however, the company decided to go back to the traditional stance on Santa — there’s just one, and there he is, on the float! Actors playing Jolly old St. Nick have been anonymous ever since. In a national event featuring only the most famous cartoon characters and celebrities, that’s one impressive feat.[9] About The Author: Janice is a freelance writer and proofreader living in Denver, Colorado. She is a history enthusiast who also loves books, travel, old stuff, and a good list. You can follow her adventures on Instagram and on Twitter.

https://ift.tt/2DQh4mD . Foreign Articles December 06, 2019 at 12:03PM

[junker-town]

Sports movies that would be more fun to emulate in real life than ‘Field of Dreams’

Photo by Charles Ommanney/The Washington Post via Getty Images

MLB wants to emulate ‘Field of Dreams’ next season, and that’s fine. But if we’re being honest, big league adaptations of these movies would be even cooler.

I’ve never seen Field of Dreams. It’s probably fine? From what I gather it’s sickly sweet with a lot of I Love You Dad-type stuff engineered to exploit our too-human hearts.

The effect is apparently pretty strong, because Field of Dreams is still revered 30 year after it was released. So much so that Major League Baseball will try to bring the movie to life by making the Yankees and White Sox play in an Iowa cornfield next season.

If you build it …@Yankees. @whitesox. THE Field of Dreams. August 13, 2020. pic.twitter.com/RuBpS04BgG

— Cut4 (@Cut4) August 8, 2019

Ignoring the fact MLB’s promotional image implies Aaron Judge, Gleyber Torres, Tim Anderson, and Yoan Moncada are ghosts walking out of the cornfield, and therefore will have shuffled off this mortal coil by the time the game is played, this could be fun! Baseball is a goofy sport that is enhanced when played in goofy places. Why not!

But it does get us thinking: What famous sports movies would be even more fun to replicate for a one-off event? Here are some of our ideas. Go ahead and tell us yours via your nearest comment section and/or Twitter account. Being realistic awards you no bonus points.

Eddie (1996)

Pretty sure everyone reading this has had this fantasy. Take a vocal fan out of the stands, let them coach the Knicks, and if they win the fan gets to keep the job until the Knicks lose again. There’s no risk to a cratering team. In fact, the changeup might help break the loop of hope and letdown (and hope and letdown) that the Knicks have been stuck in for 20 years. — Louis Bien

Dodgeball: A True Underdog Story (2004)

I want this. I want this, like, yesterday. How have we gone 15 years without someone trying to take the world of professional dodgeball by storm with professional wrestling-esque characters, overwhelming production values and all the pageantry it entails?

The best part is that since this is a one-off event we can totally get Jason Bateman to do commentary and stick Chuck Norris courtside. I’m almost upset I’m sharing this information here, because I know some wealthy industrialist is going to steal this idea. — James Dator

Nacho Libre (2006)

First off, yes, wrestling is a real sport. The action might be slightly scripted but the moves are real. Imagine a random cook in a monastery becoming a luchador. It’s an underdog story for the ages. He even fights for a great cause: so the orphans in the church can eat better quality foods. It’s a heartwarming story filled with adventure and danger, mostly from the fear of having their bones broken from getting power-bombed. Picking a random person and making them a part-time luchador is an event worth watching. Especially if one of their first matches is an eight-person battle royale. Sign me up for the chaos. - Vijay Vemu

Teen Wolf (1985)

I just want to see people get eaten. — Christian D’Andrea

Air Bud (1997) or Treasure Buddies (2012)

The Air Bud archives, including its spinoff series Air Buddies and Santa Paws, is more voluminous than the Police Academy and Mission Impossible franchises put together. And you really couldn’t go wrong picking ANY of its 14 installments. SO MANY GOOD DOGS.

For the sake of brevity, I’ll narrow it down to two: OG basketball-playing Air Bud, which still holds up 22 years later, and which seems like the most logical choice if we’re talking about replicating it in real life. (Here’s one suggestion for the starring role.)

The other is Treasure Buddies, which I have never seen and technically isn’t a sports movie but gets the nod based on a Wikipedia description that belongs in a museum:

The Buddies find themselves on an Indiana Jones style adventure.

Yes, please. — Sarah Hardy

Over the Top (1987)

Don’t you want to win an arm wrestling championship? — Russ Oates

The Sandlot (1993)

The Sandlot — or more specifically Sandlot 2 (2005), where girls exist and play sports — is truly the only answer here. Since about age 7, all I wanted to experience was playing baseball at the sandlot, and that hasn’t changed as I’ve gotten older. Just make sure James Earl Jones is present. — Kennedi Landry

Brink! (1998)

Brink! is a Disney Channel original movie about extreme in-line skating and how capitalism exerts its influence on our passions. But the X-Games already exists, so we don’t need to bring skating to life, we just need ... more milkshakes to the face.

Pup ‘N Suds forever. — Michael Katz

Like Mike (2002)

I need to see a 4’ tall child dunking on NBA Players. — Tyson Whiting

Ed (1996)

In this film, Matt LeBlanc (who is basically channeling Joey, because what else is he going to do, he is Matt LeBlanc) winds up as an errand boy for a professional minor league baseball team. One of his errands has him cross paths with the titular Ed, a chimpanzee who, it turns out, is really, really good at playing baseball for unsaid reasons. Hijinks ensue. This film has everything — a fart-off, some light animal torture, a magical coin (?), and yes, a meta Friends reference — all of it terrible. In fact, we called it the worst sports movie ever made.

But am I going to sit here and pretend it wouldn’t be awesome to play minor league ball with a farting monkey? No, reader. I am not.

— Ryan Simmons

Slap Shot (1977)

Nobody wears a helmet. Fighting, while not exactly legal, is certainly encouraged. As is putting on the foil. Winning captain has to strip down to his jock strap. Don Cherry would spontaneously combust, leaving a technicolor apparition muttering about “Old Time Hockey” for all eternity. — Paul Flannery

White Men Can’t Jump (1992)

Blacktop basketball, Jeopardy!, and undefeated Wesley Snipes drip. This movie has everything anyone could ever want in a movie, and also two-on-two basketball should be an Olympic sport. — Michael Pina

Brewster’s Millions (1985)

Quasi-sports movie with Richard Pryor portraying a pitcher for the Hackensack Bulls and John Candy serving as his catcher. I’d happily work to spend $30 million in 30 days and have no assets to show for it to inherit $300 million. — David Fucillo

Space Jam (1996)

There is no better time to do this than the present. With talks of wanting to raid Area 51 and kick it with aliens, we can surely assemble a group of five extraterrestrials, have them take the talents of guys like Kevin Durant, Giannis Antetokounmpo, James Harden, Russell Westbrook, or other NBA stars, and do a live-action remake of the original Space Jam. Only difference is that LeBron James replaces Michael Jordan. — Harry Lyles Jr.

Luck of the Irish (2001)

This Disney Channel classic has a description as follows: “A teenager (Ryan Merriman) must battle for a gold charm to keep his family from being controlled by an evil leprechaun.”

Do I need to explain anything else? — Whitney Medworth

Blades of Glory (2007)

It’s really hard for me to comprehend why we haven’t seen an all-male figure skating pair since this movie came out more than 10 years ago, but hey, I’m not in the movie business. Not only was this a highly underrated Will Ferrell film in my humble opinion, the sports world deserves to see two men complete the Iron Lotus (successfully, I feel like I need to add) on live television, dammit.

— Morgan Moriarty

[andinewton]

Second Chances - Avengers Redemption Series - Part One Chapter 85

Characters:  Loki, Maia Tomson (OFC), Sigyn, pretty much everyone from the MCU appears at some point, including some special appearances by members of the X-Men!

Pairings: Loki x Maia Tomson, Loki x Sigyn,

Warnings:  Smut, so much smut, violence, swearing; listen, it’s NSFW and 18+, just bear that in mind!

Word Count: 179105

Summary: Loki has been handed over to The Avengers to pay penance for his past crimes, underpowered and underwhelmed by his post he is assigned a new ‘guide to Midgard’ by his superiors and is more than a little surprised when a petite freckled, redhead is waiting in the conference room, not at all like the previous handlers he has been assigned, who quit after a very short time with the snarky god. Maia Tomson is a trained literature teacher and counsellor, maybe not someone you would have picked out to be a guide to the God of Mischief but her mentor, Charles Xavier, knows she likes a challenge, and when The Avengers ask him to recommend someone she is top of his list. Surprised by the assignment, Maia takes it on, promising to do her best, but was not counting on a mutual attraction with her charge.

Join Loki on a journey to discover that his heart is not as frozen as he believes it to be, an adventure spanning almost a millennia of love gained and lost and rediscovered in the most unlikely of places…

Master List

Chapter 85 - Epilogue 13

Summary:  The time has come for Sigyn to take part in her first mission with the team, but it's not as straightforward as it could have been!

‘Sorry to throw you in at the deep end.’ Steve explained as they ran to the Quinjet hanger. ‘Hey, that’s what makes it an emergency, right?’ Sigyn adjusted the cuff on her armour, knowing Loki was already at the jet along with most of the team. Steve and Sigyn had been going over some old mission reports, showing her just what she could expect to have to complete whenever she got her first mission…which was now. ‘True, and this isn’t as big as it could have been, it’s on our doorstep, but we need to be fast.’

She didn’t reply, simply nodded. The call had come in three minutes ago, four now, that a small passenger plane had gone down in Upper Bay, clipping a couple of buildings on the way down. The Avengers were going to help with the evac. They would get more details when they hit the scene from the emergency services. ‘Ready, sweet?’ Loki called from the open door on the jet where he was already wearing his armour. ‘As I’ll ever be.’ She replied as they reached him, the rest of the team already strapping in as the engines began to come to life. ‘You’ll be perfect.’ He promised her, kissing her knuckles after taking her hand then leading her to the seats, ensuring she began strapping herself in. ‘Ready for this, CB?’ Tony called back from the cockpit. ‘Bring it on, Stark.’ She smiled even though he wasn’t looking at her. She was nervous, she had to admit, even if just to herself. She had been through emergencies at X Manor but never on a public scale, knowing this was effectively outing her as a new member of the team. Loki knew how she felt but as she didn’t mention it neither did he, allowing her to keep it to herself. He squeezed her hand reassuringly as the door began to close and the jet took off.

Loki and Sigyn were part of ground operations with Wanda, Clint, Natasha, and a plethora of SHIELD agents helping the emergency services evacuate and aid the injured, possibly less risky than entering the buildings themselves which was taken by others who were enhanced or, like Tony, had equipment to aid them. The coastguard were overseeing the evacuation of the aircraft which seemed to be as good as complete, the bay within sight of where they were situated. The team split off to aid at various locations around the area, Loki and Sigyn able to use their sorcery to clear larger pieces of debris, allowing access both by road and on foot to more emergency crews, Clint and Nat helping the confused and injured as they left the buildings. ‘Structural issues on the north side.’ Stark’s voice came over the comms. ‘Wanda, can you strengthen it?’ ‘I can get one side.’ She replied. ‘Loki, can you help?’ ‘Just show me where.’ Came his reply, glancing at where Sigyn was moving a car aside. ‘Go, Mischief.’ She seemed to realise he was reluctant to leave her. ‘I shan’t be far, petal.’ He promised, blowing her a kiss. She shook her head as he went, not wanting him to worry about her. There was no direct conflict and he knew she had seen a lot more action in her previous life. The setting was much different, the built up area rather than the more rustic ancient settings of the other realms, the air filled with dust from the debris and rubble, but it was so much calmer than she had expected her first mission to be. Until one of the police officers ran over to her. ‘You’re with The Avengers, right?’ He said, out of breath. ‘Yes.’ She steadied him with her hand on his arm, something obviously desperately wrong. ‘What is it?’ ‘The plane’s starting to go down, we’re still evacuating.’ ‘Shit.’ She spun her head and found Clint the closest. ‘Clint!’ She yelled, beckoning to him before she turned back to the officer. ‘Take us.’ ‘What is it?’ Clint caught them up as they ran towards the edge of the dock. ‘Plane’s going down, not sure everyone is off it.’ Sigyn explained as they ran. ‘How many left?’ ‘One of the stewards has the manifest, we’re checking them off, but not fast enough.’ The cop wheezed and Sigyn gave Clint an alarmed look. ‘Can you hold something as big as a plane?’ Clint asked her as they hit the edge where they could see the inflatable slide from the side of the aircraft floating as the last few passengers wearing life vests swam to the lower dock before climbing up the ladder to the side. ‘We’re going to find out.’ Sigyn jumped down onto the lower dock and swallowed. She threw her arms out as she called her power, wrapping it around the fuselage in an amber wave with everything she had, hoping to keep it afloat long enough to finish the evac. Clint nodded, more to himself than anything else, knowing from their sparring sessions she would need to concentrate. ‘How many are left?’ Clint asked the steward, a young, slender man, dripping wet and pale, standing to the side on the upper level. ‘All the passengers accounted for.’ ‘And crew?’ He looked down at the damp list. ‘I don’t know. I think so.’ ‘No.’ One of the crew climbed onto the dock. ‘Jack, the pilot, he’s still on board.’ ‘Where was he?’ Sigyn asked through gritted teeth. ‘Cockpit, he was unconscious.’ ‘Sigyn, don’t!’ Clint said warningly but it was too late. Sigyn redirected her powers to remove her armour, leaving her in her leather pants and soft black tunic, before diving head first into the water. ‘Shit!’ ‘What did she do?’ Loki’s voice came over the comms desperately, only having heard part of the conversation. ‘She’s jumped into the bay.’ Clint sighed. ‘I’m going in after her.’ He dropped down onto the lower dock then into the water. Loki’s concentration stuttered as he realised what Sigyn was doing, or trying to do. Wanda spun her head to look at him across the street from her, helping support the other side of the building. She knew he was torn but there was nothing he could do. ‘Loki, concentrate!’ Wanda yelled and he returned his focus to the building. ‘Sigyn knows what she is doing!’ He nodded, not trusting his voice, hoping she was right. His every instinct made him want to race over there, to ensure she was okay, to help her, but she needed this independence, this chance to prove herself to not only the team but herself. ‘Be careful, Sig.’ He murmured. Sigyn resurfaced just feet from the inflatable slide and swam towards it, pulling herself along the edge to the door where she could get better purchase on the metal of the plane. As she pulled herself out of the water she felt the entire thing move under her, a sudden lurch that was echoed in her stomach in fear. ‘Sig, back up!’ Clint yelled as he swam towards her. ‘That thing is going to go down!’ ‘But the pilot!’ She replied, pulling herself the rest of the way into the door. ‘I can get to him, Clint, I have to try!’ He groaned and bit back a retort about stubborn women on this team. ‘Make it fast!’ Sigyn flashed him a quick grateful smile before guiding herself through the chaos inside the aircraft, bags and belongings strewn in the slanting interior where the lights flickered on and off eerily, the sound of running and lapping water echoing everywhere. The carpet underfoot was definitely damp from water sloshing through the doorway, but as yet flooding didn’t seem to be an issue. Faint alarms could be heard, a shrill beeping of equipment no doubt coming from the cockpit, and it just added to the rate her heart was running at, the urgency of the situation. She had definitely never experienced anything like this either as Sigyn or Maia before. Holding her weight with her hands on the backs of the seats she made careful progress towards the front of the plane, the floor slanting at about a twenty-five degree angle, making it difficult not to slip or rush forward, but she was afraid her momentum might just be enough to add too much movement to the already precarious position the aircraft was in. Ahead of her the door to the cockpit stood open, and in the faint lights she could see the slumped figure of the pilot in his seat, headphones still attached, equipment beeping and flashing, causing the darkened interior to echo sinisterly, the shadowed depths enhancing the red warning lights’ glow as it flickered menacingly. Water lapped at the windscreen and it was more obvious here that it was slowly edging downwards, but gradually, not the sudden slip she had experienced when she first pulled herself onboard, but it spurred her on and she pressed her fingers to the throat of the pilot. ‘How’s it going?’ Clint’s voice came through her earpiece. ‘Found him, still breathing, but out cold.’ She confirmed as she finished checking him. ‘Should be able to move him without too much trouble.’ She glanced around and spotted the lifejackets in an open cabinet, grabbing one and pulling it over his head, tying it around him as best she could. She unclipped his belt and was just pulling him over her shoulder, grateful for her Asgardian strength, when the entire plane shifted and she lost her footing, toppling back into the console and dragging the limp man on top of her. He was at least six foot and heavy set, making it awkward to push him back off her, but more distracting than that was the screaming Clint was doing in her ear and the water suddenly rushing in up through the equipment as though there were a hole somewhere beneath her, passing her knees alarmingly quickly. ‘I hear you! Coming out now!’ She said quickly as she positioned the unconscious man over her shoulder and started to pull her way back out of the cockpit. There was another door to her right but it was still closed and she wasn’t sure with the water pressure if it would open easily, but the floor was starting to slant more, making it an almost vertical climb, the water now rushing towards her where the doorway she had entered through was now part submerged. A glance back showed the water now filled the cockpit where she had stood just moments ago, bubbling up impossibly dark in a rush that soon lapped around her ankles. The plane gave a metallic moan and dropped suddenly, all the lights going out, and it was only her quick thinking that had her put her feet on the wall beside the doorway, stopping her from falling back into the cockpit, and the rush of adrenaline it gave her made her acknowledge she couldn’t get out the way she came in. The drop made the water rush faster and it was to her hips in seconds, the movement beneath her feet so unnerving it caused the nervous butterflies she had to race through her in terror, her body trembling with it. She swallowed, more to push back the sharp taste of fear than anything else, but it also steeled her nerves somewhat, and she was able gain a little clarity. Lifting the man back off her shoulder she tugged the toggle to inflate his life vest, pulled his back against her chest, wrapped an arm under one of his and across his torso, as she had learned for water rescue training back at X Manor, the cold river now around her waist, and she dragged him to the closed door. Glancing up at the water was rushing in through the open door higher up she thought she had perhaps a minute before she would be fully submerged, and she shoved at the handle, releasing the airtight seal, but pressure kept it in place, water slowly trickling around the edges. She pushed her free hand against the door and called her sorcery, forcing the door with it while she leant into it with all her body weight, the groaning metal joining the other cacophony of sounds that had fallen into background static as she concentrated, her pulse in her ears. The door gave slightly but it became apparent, as the water rushed around her, that this wouldn’t work, it was too slow. She needed to push it out in one big hit. One big hit she wasn’t sure if she was capable of any more, or yet. She hoped she was. Taking a few sharp breaths she focused, drawing on what was inside her, pushing it down yet gathering it at the same time, taking one long, deep breath, then puffing it out rapidly as she screamed, throwing her power at the door. Clint had had to swim back from the plane as it sank, yelling for Sigyn over the comms and receiving no response, until she suddenly seemed to cry out, and there was a bright amber flash in the water, creating waves and a small explosion of water and bubbles. ‘What’s going on? Clint?’ Loki shouted desperately, now running towards the dock as Tony had shored up the side of the building and he was no longer needed. ‘I don’t know!’ Clint sputtered as the wave pushed him back into the lower dock, one of the emergency workers encouraging him to get out of the bay but he refused. ‘There!’ One of the coastguard officers pointed to a disturbance in the water, a moment later the now conscious pilot sputtering to the surface. ‘C’mon, Sig.’ Clint murmured, his eyes scanning the water even as he swam out to meet the pilot to see if he needed help. ‘Where is she?’ Loki’s voice came not only over the comms but from the dock behind him, however Clint didn’t spare him a glance back. ‘She was on the plane.’ One of the emergency workers told him just in time for Loki to see the tail disappear into the water. Loki took a step towards the edge, fully intent on going in after her, when her head broke the surface and she gasped for air, taking in a gulp of water as she sunk again before resurfacing once more. ‘I got you!’ Clint grabbed her, hauling her towards him, knowing the pilot was already making his way to shore. ‘I’m good!’ She replied breathily, followed by a small cough as she cleared her lungs of what she had swallowed. ‘Sure?’ He asked, keeping an arm around her but she nodded, albeit a little faster than normal. ‘Sure.’ ‘Good.’ He let out a relieved sigh and together they started back towards the dock. ‘Holy Valhalla, Sig, you scared me.’ Loki lifted her effortlessly from the water where she gave an almighty shiver as the air hit her, her linen tunic clinging to her. ‘Scared myself a little.’ She admitted as he created a large towel and wrapped it around her before pulling her into his arms. ‘That was incredible.’ One of the emergency workers said as he passed Clint a blanket. ‘Didn’t think you were going to make it back out.’ ‘Yeah, she’s something special alright.’ Clint remarked. ‘I don’t know how to thank you.’ The pilot came over and offered her his hand which she took, allowing him to shake it. ‘Who are you?’ ‘Sigyn.’ She replied simply. ‘Newest member of The Avengers.’ Clint pointed out. ‘And my beautiful bride to be.’ Loki added proudly. ‘Well, you’re my hero.’ The pilot smiled warmly at her and she felt a blush scorch her. ‘It was nothing.’ She said as she realised there were press assembled as they started calling questions at them, mostly about what Loki had said. ‘You’re far too modest, petal. You’re an Avenger now. You have to take the adoration with the job, I’m afraid.’ ‘This is why fictional heroes wear masks.’ She muttered as Steve pushed his way through the assembled crowd. ‘Everyone okay?’ ‘A little soggy, but we’ll live.’ Clint called up as Loki encouraged Sigyn up the ladder ahead of him, Steve helping her the last few rungs as she was trembling with a combination of cold and adrenaline. ‘Are the buildings clear?’ She asked through chattering teeth as Steve positioned himself between her and the press while Loki clambered up. ‘They are, but you don’t need to worry about that. Get back to The Tower and dried off, ready for debriefing.’ He gave her a small smile. ‘You did good today.’ ‘I did what I’m meant to.’ She said dismissively. ‘Take her home.’ Steve nodded to Loki. ‘We’ll finish off here.’ ‘I can still help.’ She argued. ‘There’s enough of us for the clean up. Get gone.’ ‘Captain’s orders.’ Loki bowed his head to him before taking him at his word, curving his arms around Sigyn and teleporting them both back to their room in The Tower. ‘We could have done more.’ She said as he rubbed her with the towel. ‘I could have changed my outfit for a dry one and carried on with the clean up.’ ‘You’ve done enough.’ He said firmly. ‘For a first mission, that was supposed to be relatively simple, you certainly made quite an impression.’ ‘I didn’t do anything the rest of the team wouldn’t have done.’ She argued as he wrung out the end of her braid. ‘I doubt the rest of the team could have made quite such a magical pulse as you did, sunbeam. You virtually lit up the area, for those of us able to spot it.’ ‘I just did what I had to.’ She muttered. ‘You were amazing. You are recovering your control over your abilities astonishingly, and I am so very proud of you.’ She finally smiled, her blush, which had been a permanent fixture since she climbed from the bay, fading. ‘That means more than anything else.’ He wiped a drip of water from her cheek then bent at the knee, throwing her over his shoulder. ‘Wait, what are you doing?’ She asked in surprise, her arms pinned in the towel he had wrapped her in. ‘I am going to join you in a celebratory shower, and then perhaps some of Tony’s wine is in order.’ ‘I can’t argue with that.’ She grinned to herself, knowing full well what was coming, and not minding one little bit.

Chapter 86

[screenporch4-blog]

The Lost Kleinberger Galleries - 12 East 54th Street

Before its two substantial remodelings, the house looked much like the old rowhouse to the left.  from the collection of the New York Public Library

Charles Price Britton's 25-foot wide rowhouse at No. 12 East 54th Street was not typical of those around it.  Unlike the ubiquitous brownstone cladding which Edith Wharton would later describe as "deadly uniformity of mean ugliness," Britton's home was faced in brick.

Like most of its neighbors, the house was erected shortly after the end of the Civil War.   The Britton family were residents at least by 1882 when their address appeared on the membership list of the Fifth Avenue Presbyterian Church.

Britton was the head of the stock brokerage firm of Charles P. Britton & Company.   He traced his American lineage to William Britton, a sea captain who came from Bristol, England and settled in Newport in the 18th century.  (Oddly enough, his name was originally William Summerill, but he took his mother's maiden name before leaving England.)

Britton had married Caroline Berry in September 1866. The couple suffered more than their share of heartbreak.  Their second child, Mary Marsh, died in 1875 at just two years old.  Their eldest son, William Adams died at the age of 20 on September 29, 1888.  Only Henry Berry Britton, born on September 5, 1878, would survive to marry and become a member of his father's firm.

Although Britton was a member of the socially elite Union League Club, his other memberships reflected his familial history.  He held memberships in the Sons of the Revolution, the Society of Colonial Wars, and the New England Society of New York.

In April 1893 the Brittons commissioned architect John Sexton to remodel the interiors.  The filed plans are vague at best, but at about $13,000 in today's money they most likely involved cosmetic updating.

At the time John Daly and his wife Ida lived at No. 208 West 59th Street.   Daly could not have been more different from Charles P. Britton and yet their paths would cross before very long.

Daly ran gambling houses, one of which was very near his home.  The Sun, on August 6, 1893, described his two city operations as "the famous house in Twenty-ninth street near Broadway, and another in Fifty-ninth street opposite the Park."   Reportedly he paid the police as much as $100,000 per week to prevent raids.

But he was best known for his lavish gambling house in Long Branch, New Jersey.   The Sun disapprovingly called Long Branch "America's Monte Carlo," and reported "Gambling is unquestionably a craze in Long Branch,  The average man is overcome by it."  The newspaper was astonished that there a patron could gamble "with impunity and without fear of molestation unless he happens to be a native of the town."

"John Daly's place at the Branch is the house where the biggest games are played and where a man can get just about as big a limit as he cares to make.  It is the house most frequented by gamblers, because it has the reputation of running the squarest games of any at the Branch," said The Sun.

In stark contrast to the seedy gambling dens of Manhattan's Tenderloin District, this was a palace--a forerunner of the Atlantic City and Las Vegas resorts.  "The main gaming room...is a great rotunda with a beautiful stained glass top, and the bright lights glaring through the colored glass are a big advertisement of the vice inside...There is a great wide seaside piazza in front, with big armchairs that invite the passer by, and a yawning doorway that reaches out to take in all."

Like today's casinos, patrons were treated to the best in food.  "John Daly's chef is a banner man in his line.  He is said to be the best chef at the Branch.  The viands he serves for the breakfast of the guests, and the midnight lunch, are even more tempting than the meals at the Ocean Club."

But the purpose of the article was not to compliment Daly's gambling house.  The writer warned "Of course, ninety-nine men in every hundred get the worst of the game," and said of Daly's, "It was there that Senator Wolcott dropped his $24,000 in a few hours, and it was there that Banker Woerishoffer used to go and play to win or lose thousands every night."

John Daly's Long Branch gambling house was built around a central rotunda.  The New-York Tribune, August 3, 1902 (copyright expired)

And so the announcement on March 16, 1895 that the Brittons had sold No. 12 to John and Ida Daly must have sent shock waves through the neighborhood.  The selling price, $67,500, would be equal to more than $1.8 million today.

But before they moved in, the Dalys modernized the out-of-date house.  They hired architect Joseph Wolf to remodel the facade.  Wolf removed the stoop and created an American basement home.  While the entertainment rooms would still be on what had been the parlor floor, the entrance was now located a few steps below street level.

The New York Herald, July 24, 1921 (copyright expired)

The city of Long Branch dealt a severe blow to Daly six years later when it outlawed gambling.   In July 1903 The Evening World commented that the once-lavish gambling houses were "barred and desolate" and the "abode of cobwebs and dust."   John and his brother, Phil Daly (who ran another operation in the town), told the reporter that "the present state of Long Branch is worse than the old."  Gambling never went away, they asserted, but had simply been forced underground.  "Public gambling, according to their argument has a tendency to make men more careful," explained the article.

Nevertheless, Daly was out of the gambling business and turned his full attention to the more socially acceptable line of horse breeding.   He established a summer residence in Saratoga, home of the nation's oldest race track (opened in 1863).  The town lured not only racing and horse enthusiasts, but celebrities like Sarah Bernhardt, Enrico Caruso and Oscar Wilde.

It was at their Saratoga cottage on Union Avenue that Ida Daly died on July 6, 1905.   Less than a year later Daly died at the age of 68 in the 54th Street mansion.  In reporting his death, the New-York Tribune called him the "well known turfman and gambler" and said "he was regarded as one of the squarest men in the gambling business"  The article noted "He frequently said that gambling, properly conducted, was as legitimate as any other business."

The Daly mansion was acquired by real estate operators Michael J. and John O'Connor.   Although still home to many wealthy families, the neighborhood around St. Patrick's Cathedral was increasingly seeing the encroachment of commerce.

Finally, on June 1, 1910 the O'Connors sold the house.  The following day the New-York Tribune reported "The buyer is Mrs. Charlotte E. Van Smith, who will use it for her dressmaking business."

Charlotte did some renovations of her own.  Within two weeks her architect, William Anagnost, filed plans to add an elevator, new doors and fire-escapes.   The transformation of house-to-business cost her around a quarter of a million in today's dollars and included living quarters for her on the upper floors.

Dressmakers like Charlotte E. Van Smith catered to the carriage trade and often used the term modiste to describe themselves.  The cost of their services and glamorous costumes earned them small fortunes, affording Charlotte to live in luxurious accommodations with a still-fashionable address.

Charlotte employed a small staff of experienced seamstresses as well as a boy whose tasks included running packages of completed gowns to her customers' homes, the steamship docks, or shipping firms if the patron were out of town.  Such was the case on December 14, 1911 when three gowns had to be completed and shipped off to Philadelphia, Baltimore and Parkinburg, Pennsylvania.  The New York Times reported that "Miss Smith kept her employees working until after dark last night" on the three dresses.  Each of the dresses were valued at about $300--nearly $7,500 today.

With the garments boxed and labeled and sent off with 15-year old Nathan Friedman, Charlotte felt she could relax.  But disaster was about to strike.

Nathan was headed to the Adams Express Company depot at 48th Street and Madison Avenue.  At around 52nd Street he was approached by a man who said he needed a messenger boy.  Nathan directed him to the telegraph office; but the man said he had been there and simply could not find one.

He offered Nathan $1 to take a message to "F. Marshall" at 838 Fifth Avenue (which was, in fact, the mansion of William Watts Sherman).  The boy refused and started on his way.

Insistent, the stranger said he lived at the Hotel Buckingham and that if Nathan would come with him to get the message, he would guard the packages until he returned.   The boy was finally convinced and went off on the phony task.  The New York Times reported "When he returned the bundles were gone" and surmised a "young man is richer by some $900 worth of evening gowns which he purloined by trickery from the boy."

Apparently now retired, in January 1919 Charlotte E. Van Smith leased her shop (in what the Real Estate Record & Guide now termed "the Van Smith Building") to another high-end dressmaker, "Miss Jean, designer of gowns." 

Exactly one year later, on January 27, 1920, the business was looking for a new model.  The advertisement in The New York Herald not only reflected the caliber of the clientele, but a change in the dress sizes today.  "Model.  Attractive, size, 36, preferably brunette.  High class dressmaking establishment.  House of Jean, Inc."

Significant change would come to No. 12 when Charlotte E. Van Smith next leased the building to the interior decorating firm of Leed, Inc.   On July 24, 1921 The New York Herald opined "One of the latest and perhaps one of the most interesting examples of remaking an old Gotham dwelling into an appropriate home for business has just been accomplished by Leed, Inc...who recently moved from 631 Fifth avenue into the four story and basement house at 12 East Fifth-fourth street, once the home of 'Phil' [sic] Daly, the gambler."

Surprisingly, the firm's president, L. R. Kaufman, did not seek the help of a professional architect.  Instead, he personally remodeled the facade with striking results.  What had been a modified Victorian rowhouse was now what pretended to be a glorious French Gothic mansion; its yawning, deep-set entrance recalling a 15th century gatehouse.

Carved crockets adorned the entrance arch, a faux balcony introduced the second floor with grouped, stained glass windows, and a series of pointed Gothic arches--including two blind arches at their end--finished the top floor.   Inside Kaufman attempted to retain a domestic environment in which to display the firm's furniture, artwork and bric-a-brac.  The New York Herald said he had finished the walls in "rough old terra cotta plaster with marble terrazzo floors in black and white squares.  The general effect is the production of old Italian walls in warm colors."

A new staircase lead to the main showroom on the second floor.  Leaded windows similar to those in the front opened onto the rear garden, "which is to be finished with a terrace and loggia with playing  fountains,"

The New York Herald, July 24, 1921 (copyright expired)

Leeds, Inc. operated from the lower two floors.  The third floor was leased to Louise & Annette, Inc., a millinery shop; and the upper apartment where Charlotte E. Van Smith had lived was sublet to  Mrs. Wendell Phillips.    

Mrs. Phillips would be forced to perform an unpleasant task later that year.  She was the president of the Carry-On Association which operated the Carry-On Club for disabled soldiers on Madison Avenue.   Clubs for military men who had returned from the war were common and rarely prompted anything but favorable press.

But in September 1921 seven men complained to the courts that they had been ousted from the club and asked to be reinstated.  A journalist from The New York Herald visited No. 12 East 54th Street, but on October 1 reported "Mrs. Phillips refused to discuss the matter other than to say the men ejected were considered 'disturbing elements.'"

In the fall of 1927 the esteemed Kleinberger Galleries moved from 725 Fifth Avenue to the former Leeds, Inc. showrooms.  Kleinberger routinely dealt in Old Masters and catered to the country's wealthiest and best informed collectors.  Just before leaving its former location, the gallery exhibited a modern piece--an oil portrait of American hero Charles A. Lindbergh.

The New York Times reported "The portrait is the work of M. A. Rasko, a New York artist who went to Mitchel Field and sketched Lindbergh on the day before his take-off.  The aviator was shy at first, thinking Mr. Rasko had gone there to photograph him.  Finally he relented and allowed the artist 'five minutes.'  Mr. Rasko stayed forty-five minutes and completed his sketch."

Now at No. 12, Francis Kleinberger returned to more familiar territory.   In January 1928, for instance, he was asked to settle a dispute when London art critics declared that "The Lute Player" by Vermeer in the collection of Philadelphia attorney John G. Johnson was a forgery.   The controversy arose when an identical picture appeared in the Royal Academy's Winter Show in London, on loan from the collection of the late Lord Iveagh.

Kleinberger emphatically defended Johnson's as the original.  "I am positive that the painting is a genuine work by Vermeer," he said.  As for Lord Iveagh's painting, he withheld an opinion until he had the opportunity to examine it.

Later that year, in November, the gallery held an exhibition of paintings by early German masters, including Hans Holbein's portrait of King Edward VI of England as a boy.  The show was to benefit the American Red Cross.

Kleinberger Galleries remained in the building at least through 1935.  By the early 1940s it had been converted to a Swedish restaurant, the Three Crowns.  It was operated by John Perrson and Bror Munson who had run the Sweish Pavilion at the World's Fair.  Robert W. Dana in his 1948 Where to Eat in New York said "It has a beautiful dining room and bar, not too large, but nicely proportioned."  The successful eatery operated into the early 1960s.

postcard from the collection of  the Columbia University Libraries

In 1970, about a century after it was erected as a brick-faced Victorian rowhouse, the unique structure was demolished.  The 43-story office building known as 520 Madison Avenue now occupies the site.

photo via The Skyscraper Center

Source: http://daytoninmanhattan.blogspot.com/2018/11/the-lost-kleinberger-galleries-12-east.html

[tremendouslyhappypeach-blog]

(Seeing the pictures above, there is a big story for each one. If youll notice the golf cart, the mini suv and van, they have stated that they are deathly afraid of us but are driving past our house daily and there really was no reason for them to do so. The pictures of the injuries, this is from the golf cart slamming into my partner riding that bike above at about 20mph from the rear, story to follow. Police did nothing to the man when he stalked my partner to the community pool, threatened him calling him a fuc*en fag, tried to hit him, a witness stepped in, police were called, the report will be posted since it a matter of public record. The police refused to speak with the witness, said the man used foul language but didnt hit anyone so no crime happened, but he said he was sorry. Then two years later runs my partner down trying to kill him. As you can see, we had put alot of money into our house, some 50K and it showed. The big issue was the picture of my partner above, the wives really liked when he walked around without a shirt on, the husbands didnt like it (jealousy is a bitch, isn't it) and they attempted to pass an HOA rule to ensure he wore a shirt when he was out, riding is bike or walking around, this was because they were jealous of his body and that they were fat and out of shape. The rule failed and so they tried another course of action. The further pages will go step by step on what had happen, how the hate crime came into place, how the community management brushed it under the rug and how the Largo Fl ploice covered it up, when it was brought up and wanting to have them look further into it, we were told that if we pursued that course of action, that they would open up a stalking case against my partner and eight months he was arrested on trumped up charges costing 25K. The person who made up the charges, was caught lying in court, she lied on her police complaint, police used faulty software to determine the validity of a paraody videothat was made and with in three hours issues a probable cause warrent. Below, you be the judge. Well here we are, April 2009, Charlie, myself and a friend went looking for a house in the Down Yonder Community Park, it always looked nice, it was all adult, a 55+ community, but I was able to get in, they needed to allow 42 and up in to meet some quota. The place we looked at was a large 4 bed room, much older home, the floors were sinking in, meaning lots of floor work, it needed tons of care plus the outside was a dark pumpkin brown. I wanted to throw up, so Caress and I went for a walk, leaving Charlie there talking with the owner. As we walked, we seen a house for sale on the corner, it was nice, and for the price, perfect. I called them and meet up with them a few hours later. The guy from the pumpkin home found out, didn't like it, started rumors that Charlie was a drug dealer. As I mentioned Baba, he was way out there, his wife would love to stare at Charlie as he worked out in the yard, or when he was on the pourch, he would catch her staring at him, this at times would freaked him out, but hell why not, he has a body that most liked looking at. That pissed off Baba. He Killed two of our pine trees because he didn't like cleaning up the needles, he then began dumping tons of dirt at the base of one of our trees saying "Im trying to help you out and build up the yard" that was BS, he just didn't want to get rid of the dirt so he dumped it on us. He got on a ladder and re-positoned our back yard security light into the air so it would not shine in the yard as he was partying on the weekends. I guess he didn't like it when Charlie made fun of the carpet he wore on top his head. We got into it with him and he stopped after his wife passed and he moved away. Thank GOD for that. The neighbor behind the new house came by, his name was known as BABA and was full of himself and of IT! The neighbor accross the street his name was was BAD DON, he had a license plate saying that as well, total nut case plus he had a one eyed dog that he allowed to run all over shitting in everyones yard. Well we moved in, we gave several things to Don, air conditioner and other things and when the free things stopped, this nut case really showed out. He attempted to run Charlie over twice while in his car, he would get into shouting matches with Charlie over the garbage blowing in our yard and that his dog was shitting in our yard, Charlie kept running him out, the dog that is daily, Charlie kept picking up the crap. He called the dog pound since the community mgt refused to do anything about it. Bad Don then yelled out to Charlie, "I have a bullet and it has your name on it" well of course the police said they could do anything unless he shoots Charlie, now how messed up is that. Any how, Bad Don ended up leaving the community. Charlie discovered facebook and opened his own page, it was a rant page, a place he could vent, a place he could release, I worked some 16 hour days, I was an overnight, promoted to a manager then to Director which took alot of my time running 8 residential facilities. If you pissed off Charlie, you made his facebook page, now whether it would be in good taste or not and everyone has that right to accept it or not. Everyone in the community was blocked from seeing the page, he only had a few friends. These nosey M/Fers would create fake facebook pages just to see what Charlie was saying. Now good taste or bad, it was his own page, he didn't friend request, email, text, instant gram or call anyone, they chose to seek him out and see what he was saying. It's the pandora box theory, if you know it's something you souldn't see, don't seek it out, don't open the door, don't open the box because you just might not like what people are saying about you. Charlie would put horns on them, color their eyes red, swastikas on thier fore heads, would make comments like "Look the Ass holes are back" again, this was intended to be only for him, his own rant page, of course we knew that they were reading his pages just from the talk from the neighbors within the community. Now with that being said, as strong as it sounds for Charlie, many of times he was found by me crying, depressed, kind of lost in moods that I couldn't get thru too and this would last for days at times. I would do my best to keep things together, but thru his eyes, these people he really didn't know some how hated him for what he was or for how their wifes acted when he was around. What ever the case, Charlie was depressed 80% of his life while we lived there. Now understand that this isn't a "Cry me a river, build a bridge and get over it" I had enough streangth for the both of us. By no mean was Charlie ever short on words, but my dad raised no pussies neither, we were fighters, but when the person you love is going through this hell, what you do if put in them shoes. Now as I mentioned above, Charlie liked to work, ride his bike and walk around without his shirt and the comments he would get from the older women just pissed off their husbands. So a bunch of the community HOA residents attempted to stop him and get some fictitious rule to get him to wear a shirt. We were members of the HOA at the time, I had to work so Charlie went to the meeting to address the HOA about the shirt issue, all the "SO CALLED FRIENDS" didnt say one word in Charlies behalf, some real friends, but they sure did support him when the meeting was done and everybody left. The rule never passed since ELS, Equity Life Styles, said that this is Florida, everyone goes around without shirts. The husbands stated that if offends the women, which again pissed the hell out of the husbands and still the rule they wanted "FAILED" So the communities little click began their attack on us. Here is What Charles looked like before and after the OLD POOP ran him down like a dog in the road, then has the nerve to say "That me and my girlfriend FEAR for our lives" and looky looky here are pictures of him, his freak of a girlfriend and his family in the white van, doing nothing,,, but harassing Charles by driving by the house, taunting Charles. There was no reason for them to even come by since they FEAR for their lives, but the City of LARGO seems to think its just fine for them to FEAR for their lives and just drive on by harassing us. Think about it... FEAR for their LIVES.. Really!! This is what our house looked like when we were FORCED out of it by DOWN YONDER/ELS 50,000.00 LOST Here is what happens when it rains! Drive thru that! This Charlie and Me, together almost 19 years, yeah I can see why they hate us so much.. they can't stay married let along together.. Jealous, what a terrible thing.... Add Text Here... THE HATE!!!!! They got away with in LARGO!!!!! The Attempted MURDER while on a bike, and LARGO looked the other way!!! Figure that!! This what I drove over for years damaging my car and the community Mgr LEFT it like this, who cares its just two fags right?? This is what Down Yonder and the HOA didnt like, they put their attorneys on us and forced us out of our home. I never thought in a million years that old people were this BAD. A word of advice, STAY OUT OF LARGO AND THE DOWN YONDER COMMUNITY OWNED BY EQUITY LIFESTYLES... Unless you just want to throw your money away.... Well just a fast update, today 4/12/16 I filed a complaint with the Pinellas County Sheriffs Office about Charlies experience, well guess what was sitting outside my work site... a Pinellas County Sheriffs SUV. Hmmm can we call that INTIMIDATION!!! Im not going away guys, I will speak mine and Charlies story, no matter how much intimidation or harassment I get from you, your friends or any officials. You will not shut me up, gage me or other wise silence me, nothing Im doing is against the REAL LAW, what you may make up, I will not listen to. SO put on and buckle your seat belts, Its going to be a LONG RIDE!!via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RsYE-xthERg)

[jestyrsfilmreviews]

Death Note (2017) - A Review

Title: Death Note

Release Date: August 25, 2017

Director: Adam Wingard

Writer(s): Charles Parlapanides, Vlas Parlapanides, Jeremy Slater

Main Characters: Nat Wolff as Light Turner/”Kira”, Lakeith Stanfield as L, Margaret Qually as Mia Sutton/”Kira”, Shea Whigham as James Turner,  Paul Nakauchi as Watari,  Willem Dafoe as Ryuk (voice), Jason Liles as Ryuk (costume)

Death Note is a 2017 American dark fantasy horror-thriller film loosely based on the Japanese manga of the same name created by Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata. The film is directed by Adam Wingard and written by Charles Parlapanides, Vlas Parlapanides and Jeremy Slater. The film stars Nat Wolff, Lakeith Stanfield, Margaret Qualley, Shea Whigham, Paul Nakauchi, Jason Liles and Willem Dafoe, and follows the story of a high school student named Light Turner, who finds a mysterious notebook known as "Death Note". He soon meets the demonic death god Ryuk who teaches him how to use the notebook and tells him that the book causes the death of anyone whose name is written within its pages.The film was released on Netflix on August 25, 2017.

The plot is as follows:

In Seattle, Washington, high school student Light Turner (Wolff) encounters a notebook marked "Death Note". He is visited by the death god Ryuk (Dafoe/Liles), who tells him that he can cause the death of anyone he wishes by writing their name in the book, as long as he knows their real name and face. Ryuk coaxes Light into testing it out on a bully (portrayed by Jack Ettlinger). The bully is decapitated in a freak accident shortly afterwards. That evening, Light is compelled to write down the name of Antony Skomal (portrayed by Artin John), the man who killed his mother in a hit and run. Skomal dies in a similar freak accident at a restaurant. Ryuk explains other rules of the Death Note, including the ability to control the actions of the victim for up to 48 hours after their name is written before they die. Classmate Mia Sutton (Qually) asks Light about the Death Note, and he demonstrates how it works. She encourages Light to use the Death Note with her to rid the world of criminals, improving the world. They decide to work together under the guise of a god they call "Kira", using the book's coercion powers to have their victims reveal this name to the world.

Kira becomes beloved by the public, as its killings are seen as righteous by the majority of law enforcement, and Light and Mia become lovers. Kira's actions draw the attention of "L" (Stanfield), an enigmatic detective who is able to track down Kira's location to Seattle and his source to the city's police database. L and his assistant/father-figure Watari (Nakauchi) travel to Seattle and meet with James Turner (Whigham), the chief of police and Light's father, to discuss how they will catch Kira. L gives a televised speech with his face concealed, taunting Kira to kill him, and when this fails to happen, L suspects that Kira must know a person's name and face to kill.

L has FBI agents follow Light and other suspects. Mia suggests killing the agents, but Light refuses. The FBI agents thereafter commit mass suicide and Light accuses Ryuk of killing them. James appears on television and vows to apprehend Kira. Mia urges Light to kill him for the greater good, but Light can't bring himself to do it. When James is not killed, L comes to the conclusion that Light must be Kira. L confronts Light, revealing his face to him. Realizing that L is closing in on him and with Mia motivating him, Light uses the Death Note to force Watari to uncover L's real name. As Ryuk explains, Light can burn the page with Watari's name on it within the 48 hours to cancel his impending death; however, this method can only be used to save a victim of the Death Note once. Watari leaves suddenly for the abandoned New York orphanage where he found L years before; L learns Watari has disappeared and orders Light's house to be searched; he finds nothing, as Mia was able to sneak the Death Note out.

Knowing that Light is still being followed, Mia helps him to sneak away at the school dance, allowing him to collect the Death Note and contact Watari via phone. Watari finds L's records moments before the 48-hour deadline, but Light finds Watari's page missing. Watari is then shot and killed by unknown soldiers before he can reveal L's name. Mia reveals that she used the Death Note to kill the FBI agents in order to protect herself and Light, took Watari's page, and has also written Light's name in the book, giving him until midnight before his heart stops. She offers to burn Light's page if he gives the Death Note to her, as she believes he is not capable of making the right decisions for the good of society. Meanwhile, L is devastated by Watari's death and goes on his own manhunt for Light.

Light tells Mia to meet him at the Seattle Great Wheel where he will turn over the book, and then flees from police, who are closing in on him. L catches up to him and prepares to kill him, but a passerby knocks L out after overhearing that Light is Kira. Pursued by police, Light meets Mia and takes her to the top of the ferris wheel. Light tries to convince Mia that they will be happier without the Death Note, at first seemingly dissuaded, Mia takes the Death Note when Light turns to look out, much to Light's intense dismay. Confused at first, she realized that Light must have written her name in the book, with her death contingent on her taking the Death Note from him. With both of them doomed, Ryuk causes the Ferris wheel to collapse. Mia falls to her death, while Light and the Death Note fall into the water. The page with Light's name on it drifts into a burn barrel, an event witnessed by L. Though Light is rescued from the water, he has fallen into a coma.

Two days later, a man leaves the Death Note at Light's bedside. When Light wakes up, he finds his father there, who tells him he knows that Light is Kira. James explains that he found a news clipping about Skomal's death in Light's room and realized that he was Kira's first victim. Light explains that he used the Death Note at the school to plan out Mia's death in a way that would ensure his own page got burned if she took the Death Note. He also manipulated several criminals to induce him into a medical coma, having them use the Death Note during his comatose absence to give himself an alibi. With Kira continuing to kill while Light was in a coma, L is taken off the case and forced to return to Japan. As his plane is about to take off, he ponders a comment Light made during their standoff, realizing Mia's involvement, he stops the plane and races to her home to search her possessions. He finds the Death Note page with the names of the FBI agents she killed on it, and in a hysterical fit, contemplates writing a name on the page. Back in Light's hospital room, Ryuk appears, laughing. When Light asks him why he's laughing, he simply comments "You humans are so interesting".

The plot of the story, as stated in the beginning of this review, is loosely based on the Japanese manga of the same name written by Tsugumi Ohba and Takeshi Obata.

What did I think of it?

Considering that upon release it received mixed to negative reviews from critics and audiences and much of the criticism was directed towards the incoherent writing, pacing, and numerous changes from the source material, I liked it at first; however, after watching it over and over again, I can see why people hated it. 

The film follows the same concept as the manga; however, it does it sloppily. 

There is just so much wrong with this movie on so many levels:

- The mother is killed in the movie which is why no one sees her.

- The female lead is supposed to be Misa (Sure it was close to Misa, but whitewashing and Hollywood made it Mia).

- The setting is completely different from the manga.

- It adds another person playing Kira (like in the manga), but it made it so that the two already know each other from school. In the manga, they have no recollection of knowing each other until they eventually meet later in the series.

- Rem (another Shinigami in the series) wasn’t even present/mentioned.

- There were multiple Death Notes/Shinigami in the manga but only one in the film.

- The Shinigami eyes are hardly even mentioned in the film (maybe like once or twice).

- All the characters have been whitewashed (because Hollywood).

- L is black (not trying to be racist, but L needed to be Asian or white).

- L was killed off in the manga but not the film.

However, there are a couple saving graces. Wingard's direction, production design and the cast received some praise (particularly Dafoe's performance as Ryuk). The cinematography was absolutely brilliant given the shades and hues setting the mood of the film. Gory as all hell (I love me some gore).

The saving graces, however], did not save the film from being completely laughable. It made Light seem weaker than his Japanese manga counterpart, even with the whole power trip. There were several key characters missing in the film that were present in the manga but not this film.

Because of all of this, I give this a solid 2/10

Disappointing and an all-around bad flick.

[tremendouslyhappypeach-blog]

Seeing the pictures above, there is a big story for each one. If youll notice the golf cart, the mini suv and van, they have stated that they are deathly afraid of us but are driving past our house daily and there really was no reason for them to do so. The pictures of the injuries, this is from the golf cart slamming into my partner riding that bike above at about 20mph from the rear, story to follow. Police did nothing to the man when he stalked my partner to the community pool, threatened him calling him a fuc*en fag, tried to hit him, a witness stepped in, police were called, the report will be posted since it a matter of public record. The police refused to speak with the witness, said the man used foul language but didnt hit anyone so no crime happened, but he said he was sorry. Then two years later runs my partner down trying to kill him. As you can see, we had put alot of money into our house, some 50K and it showed. The big issue was the picture of my partner above, the wives really liked when he walked around without a shirt on, the husbands didnt like it (jealousy is a bitch, isn't it) and they attempted to pass an HOA rule to ensure he wore a shirt when he was out, riding is bike or walking around, this was because they were jealous of his body and that they were fat and out of shape. The rule failed and so they tried another course of action. The further pages will go step by step on what had happen, how the hate crime came into place, how the community management brushed it under the rug and how the Largo Fl ploice covered it up, when it was brought up and wanting to have them look further into it, we were told that if we pursued that course of action, that they would open up a stalking case against my partner and eight months he was arrested on trumped up charges costing 25K. The person who made up the charges, was caught lying in court, she lied on her police complaint, police used faulty software to determine the validity of a paraody videothat was made and with in three hours issues a probable cause warrent. Below, you be the judge. Well here we are, April 2009, Charlie, myself and a friend went looking for a house in the Down Yonder Community Park, it always looked nice, it was all adult, a 55+ community, but I was able to get in, they needed to allow 42 and up in to meet some quota. The place we looked at was a large 4 bed room, much older home, the floors were sinking in, meaning lots of floor work, it needed tons of care plus the outside was a dark pumpkin brown. I wanted to throw up, so Caress and I went for a walk, leaving Charlie there talking with the owner. As we walked, we seen a house for sale on the corner, it was nice, and for the price, perfect. I called them and meet up with them a few hours later. The guy from the pumpkin home found out, didn't like it, started rumors that Charlie was a drug dealer. As I mentioned Baba, he was way out there, his wife would love to stare at Charlie as he worked out in the yard, or when he was on the pourch, he would catch her staring at him, this at times would freaked him out, but hell why not, he has a body that most liked looking at. That pissed off Baba. He Killed two of our pine trees because he didn't like cleaning up the needles, he then began dumping tons of dirt at the base of one of our trees saying "Im trying to help you out and build up the yard" that was BS, he just didn't want to get rid of the dirt so he dumped it on us. He got on a ladder and re-positoned our back yard security light into the air so it would not shine in the yard as he was partying on the weekends. I guess he didn't like it when Charlie made fun of the carpet he wore on top his head. We got into it with him and he stopped after his wife passed and he moved away. Thank GOD for that. The neighbor behind the new house came by, his name was known as BABA and was full of himself and of IT! The neighbor accross the street his name was was BAD DON, he had a license plate saying that as well, total nut case plus he had a one eyed dog that he allowed to run all over shitting in everyones yard. Well we moved in, we gave several things to Don, air conditioner and other things and when the free things stopped, this nut case really showed out. He attempted to run Charlie over twice while in his car, he would get into shouting matches with Charlie over the garbage blowing in our yard and that his dog was shitting in our yard, Charlie kept running him out, the dog that is daily, Charlie kept picking up the crap. He called the dog pound since the community mgt refused to do anything about it. Bad Don then yelled out to Charlie, "I have a bullet and it has your name on it" well of course the police said they could do anything unless he shoots Charlie, now how messed up is that. Any how, Bad Don ended up leaving the community. Charlie discovered facebook and opened his own page, it was a rant page, a place he could vent, a place he could release, I worked some 16 hour days, I was an overnight, promoted to a manager then to Director which took alot of my time running 8 residential facilities. If you pissed off Charlie, you made his facebook page, now whether it would be in good taste or not and everyone has that right to accept it or not. Everyone in the community was blocked from seeing the page, he only had a few friends. These nosey M/Fers would create fake facebook pages just to see what Charlie was saying. Now good taste or bad, it was his own page, he didn't friend request, email, text, instant gram or call anyone, they chose to seek him out and see what he was saying. It's the pandora box theory, if you know it's something you souldn't see, don't seek it out, don't open the door, don't open the box because you just might not like what people are saying about you. Charlie would put horns on them, color their eyes red, swastikas on thier fore heads, would make comments like "Look the Ass holes are back" again, this was intended to be only for him, his own rant page, of course we knew that they were reading his pages just from the talk from the neighbors within the community.

Now with that being said, as strong as it sounds for Charlie, many of times he was found by me crying, depressed, kind of lost in moods that I couldn't get thru too and this would last for days at times. I would do my best to keep things together, but thru his eyes, these people he really didn't know some how hated him for what he was or for how their wifes acted when he was around. What ever the case, Charlie was depressed 80% of his life while we lived there. Now understand that this isn't a "Cry me a river, build a bridge and get over it" I had enough streangth for the both of us. By no mean was Charlie ever short on words, but my dad raised no pussies neither, we were fighters, but when the person you love is going through this hell, what you do if put in them shoes. Now as I mentioned above, Charlie liked to work, ride his bike and walk around without his shirt and the comments he would get from the older women just pissed off their husbands. So a bunch of the community HOA residents attempted to stop him and get some fictitious rule to get him to wear a shirt. We were members of the HOA at the time, I had to work so Charlie went to the meeting to address the HOA about the shirt issue, all the "SO CALLED FRIENDS" didnt say one word in Charlies behalf, some real friends, but they sure did support him when the meeting was done and everybody left. The rule never passed since ELS, Equity Life Styles, said that this is Florida, everyone goes around without shirts. The husbands stated that if offends the women, which again pissed the hell out of the husbands and still the rule they wanted "FAILED" So the communities little click began their attack on us. Here is What Charles looked like before and after the OLD POOP ran him down like a dog in the road, then has the nerve to say "That me and my girlfriend FEAR for our lives" and looky looky here are pictures of him, his freak of a girlfriend and his family in the white van, doing nothing,,, but harassing Charles by driving by the house, taunting Charles. There was no reason for them to even come by since they FEAR for their lives, but the City of LARGO seems to think its just fine for them to FEAR for their lives and just drive on by harassing us. Think about it... FEAR for their LIVES.. Really!! This is what our house looked like when we were FORCED out of it by DOWN YONDER/ELS 50,000.00 LOST Here is what happens when it rains! Drive thru that! This Charlie and Me, together almost 19 years, yeah I can see why they hate us so much.. they can't stay married let along together.. Jealous, what a terrible thing.... Add Text Here... THE HATE!!!!! They got away with in LARGO!!!!! The Attempted MURDER while on a bike, and LARGO looked the other way!!! Figure that!! This what I drove over for years damaging my car and the community Mgr LEFT it like this, who cares its just two fags right?? This is what Down Yonder and the HOA didnt like, they put their attorneys on us and forced us out of our home. I never thought in a million years that old people were this BAD. A word of advice, STAY OUT OF LARGO AND THE DOWN YONDER COMMUNITY OWNED BY EQUITY LIFESTYLES... Unless you just want to throw your money away.... Well just a fast update, today 4/12/16 I filed a complaint with the Pinellas County Sheriffs Office about Charlies experience, well guess what was sitting outside my work site... a Pinellas County Sheriffs SUV. Hmmm can we call that INTIMIDATION!!! Im not going away guys, I will speak mine and Charlies story, no matter how much intimidation or harassment I get from you, your friends or any officials. You will not shut me up, gage me or other wise silence me, nothing Im doing is against the REAL LAW, what you may make up, I will not listen to. SO put on and buckle your seat belts, Its going to be a LONG RIDE!!