#construction container rentals

[disposalqueen]

Disposal Queen is your go-to waste disposal and recycling solution provider in the Metro Vancouver Area. Our roll-off containers are available 24/7 for construction sites and residential home renovations. Whether you're planning a big move, decluttering your home, or need to do a bit of spring cleaning, our roll-off containers are the perfect solution for getting rid of the extra clutter. Because our containers are available 24/7, you can schedule your waste disposal at your convenience without any long-term contract or hidden fees.

[ecostardisposal]

Best 10 Yard Dump in Hamilton

Renting one of the Best 10 Yard Dump in Hamilton could be expensive, but homeowners and do-it-yourselves can save money by only paying for the space they really utilise.

[ez-rolloff-containers]

Construction Dumpster Rental Asheville NC

It is crucial to rent a construction dumpster when starting a construction project in Asheville, NC, to manage the waste produced effectively. Whether a large-scale commercial construction or a small home renovation, having a construction dumpster rental in Asheville, NC, helps maintain a clean, safe, and organized work environment. Follow these essential steps for a smooth rental process.

Before beginning the rental process, it's necessary to thoroughly assess your project's specific needs. This involves carefully considering the type and volume of waste that will be generated. Understanding the scope of your project will help determine the most suitable time frame for your construction dumpster rental in Asheville, NC. Additionally, different projects may yield various types of waste, so consider the materials that will be discarded, such as general debris or specialized materials like asphalt or metal.

Remember that specific regulations or permits may be required for placing a dumpster on your property or in public spaces in Asheville, NC. Familiarize yourself with these local rules to avoid potential legal issues or fines. Contacting the local municipality or zoning office is essential to determine whether a permit is needed for your dumpster rental, especially if it will be on a public street or sidewalk.

After carefully assessing your project's requirements, familiarizing yourself with local regulations, and selecting an appropriate location for the dumpster, the next step is to schedule your rental. Planning ahead and securing your dumpster early is advisable to guarantee its availability, especially during peak construction seasons. Determine the precise timing for when you will need the dumpster on-site and coordinate the delivery and pickup times to align with your project's timeline.

Before finalizing your rental agreement, it is vital to have a clear understanding of the terms and conditions. This includes the rental period, any fees associated with exceeding weight limits or rental durations, and the types of materials that can and cannot be placed in the dumpster. Clarifying these terms will help you avoid unexpected costs or complications during the rental process.

On the day of delivery, it is crucial to ensure that the designated location for the construction dumpster rental in Asheville, NC, is free of any obstacles. This includes removing any vehicles, equipment, or debris obstructing access. This meticulous preparation will facilitate a smooth and efficient delivery process.

As you progress with your project, you must be mindful of how you fill the dumpster. Distributing the weight evenly and avoiding overloading is advisable, which can lead to safety hazards or additional fees. Also, adhere to any restrictions on materials and refrain from placing prohibited items in the dumpster. Properly managing the waste throughout the project will help maintain a safe work site and ensure compliance with local regulations.

Upon completing your project or when the dumpster reaches total capacity, it is time to schedule the pickup. It is essential to ensure that nothing obstructs the dumpster and that it is ready to be removed. Expeditiously scheduling the pickup will allow you to seamlessly transition to the next phase of your project without any unnecessary delays.

A construction dumpster rental in Asheville, NC, can be straightforward with careful planning and adherence to these essential steps. By meticulously assessing your project's needs, understanding local regulations, and preparing your site for delivery and pickup, you can ensure that your waste management is handled efficiently and effectively. A well-managed dumpster rental can significantly contribute to the success of your construction project, maintaining a clean, safe, and organized work site.

Featured Business:

EZ Rolloff Containers provides high-quality construction dumpster rental in Asheville, NC. We prioritize reliability, efficiency, and customer satisfaction. We offer various roll-off containers customized to suit the specific requirements of construction projects, regardless of size. We aim to provide the right waste management solution to maintain a clean and organized site. Understanding the demands of construction work, our simplified rental process ensures you can quickly obtain the necessary dumpsters, allowing you to concentrate on completing your project on time and within budget.

Contact: EZ Rolloff Containers 385 N Egerton Rd, Hendersonville, NC 28792, United States 9GF5+JXC Mountain Home, North Carolina, USA (828) 215–3988 https://www.ezrolloffs.com/dumpster-rental-asheville-nc/

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[valleycontainers]

How Container Offices Enhance Efficiency and Productivity in Construction

Site offices are crucial for managing operations efficiently on-site, offering a practical solution for businesses with ongoing projects. By opting for site office rental, you provide your team with a dedicated workspace that enhances productivity and streamlines communication.

Advantages of Choosing Site Offices:

Streamlined Operations: A dedicated container office ensures that all team members have a focused workspace close to the project site. This proximity enhances operational efficiency, as team members can quickly access the office to manage tasks and make decisions without unnecessary delays.

Enhanced Communication: On-site offices improve communication between project managers, site supervisors, and team members. With containers for rental, you create a central hub where all essential updates and discussions can take place, ensuring everyone stays informed and aligned with project goals.

Customizable Workspaces: Container rentals offer the flexibility to customize your site office according to your specific needs. Whether you need additional storage, workstations, or specialized equipment, many providers allow you to modify the container’s interior to fit your operational requirements.

Cost Savings: Renting site offices is a cost-effective alternative to building permanent structures. Container rent reduces expenses related to construction, site preparation, and long-term maintenance. This affordability makes it an attractive option for businesses looking to optimize their budget.

Mobility and Versatility: Container rentals are easily relocatable, making them ideal for projects that move frequently. You can rent a container and relocate it as your project progresses, ensuring that your office space remains close to the action.

Valley Containers offers a range of containers rentals suitable for various business needs. From small office setups to larger configurations, we have the perfect solution for your site office requirements. Get in touch with us to learn more about our container rentals options and how they can enhance your project's efficiency.

[ronexmark]

https://allindumpsterrentals.com/ - Streamline your construction waste removal with All In Dumpster Rentals, Asheville's trusted choice. Our wide range of dumpster sizes fits any project, ensuring a clutter-free work environment. Enjoy flexible rental periods, straightforward pricing, and prompt delivery and pick-up services. Our commitment to environmental responsibility means your debris is handled sustainably. Partner with us for a clean, efficient, and eco-friendly construction site. Reserve your dumpster today and focus on what matters most – your project's success!

[disco-archetypes]

SHIVERS - All around you, rain falls on the great city of Revachol. Rain drips from the eaves and floods the gutters, washing the filth away.

SHIVERS - Winter's grip on the city is loosening. The spring thaw is here.

YOU - Finally. What now?

SHIVERS - Your shirt sticks to your chest. The shoulders of your disco blazer grow heavy. The cold finds its way in under your skin. You shiver, and the city shivers with you.

YOU - What is in the west?

SHIVERS - Sheets of rain over the water. A flight of stairs leading into the ocean. Wave after wave washing the coast of Martinaise, with its motorboats and gently swaying reeds.

SHIVERS - The ruins of a half-sunken seafort crumble on an inlet. Beyond the Bay of Revachol, ghosts rise into the sky.

YOU - Who are you, ghosts?

SHIVERS - The skyscrapers of La Delta, the financial district. Faint golden light seeps from the office windows.

YOU - What is down the shore?

SHIVERS - Urban coastline, rain dripping off eternite-covered roofs. Cinder blocks left over from half-finished construction. A defunct research and development building once seized by revolutionaries. An old wooden church stands on stilts above the water.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - Coal City, end of all lines.

YOU - Run your fingers through your dampened hair.

SHIVERS - Your hair is an oily mess flecked with ash from neighbouring coal plants. Smoke stacks rise somewhere in the distance.

YOU - What's in the east?

SHIVERS - The great gates of the industrial harbour are locked. A chill runs down your back. You shudder like an animal trying to shake water from its hide.

YOU - Clench your teeth to stop shuddering.

SHIVERS - Behind the gates -- heaps of supply crates. Red and blue metal shipping containers slick with rain. The Greater Revachol Industrial Harbour is an artificial mountain range. Immense wealth resides within, and immeasurable poverty in its shadow.

YOU - And beyond that?

SHIVERS - La Drisienne, King Dris's Passenger Harbour. Cruise ships flanked by dock arms. Cranes watching over the mouth of the river distributary.

YOU - What is across the distributary?

SHIVERS - Couron, the lower middle class. Distributary after distributary cuts the city blocks in half. Seven-story buildings trail off into the rain.

YOU - What is beyond the Couron?

SHIVERS - A silvery curtain of rain over the houses. The class divide.

YOU - What's in the north?

SHIVERS - Capeside apartments -- tower blocks crowd one another, 4.46 mm bullets still lodged in their war-torn stone walls.

SHIVERS - Hallways collapsed from the mortar hits of a war that was lost long ago. Clotheslines go to waste in the rain. Radios play.

YOU - And closer to here?

SHIVERS - A yard. Rain falls onto the roof of a woodshed. Filthy water pools around a body. Droplets of rain slip from the dead man's cold cheeks.

YOU - What's in the south?

SHIVERS - A traffic jam. Rain thrumming on the roofs of motor vehicles. Inside, drivers watch water streaming down their windshields. The statue of a king shudders, he too is cold. The canal bridge has been raised.

YOU - What's on the other side?

SHIVERS - The road ascends; a raised motorway loops above the ghetto. Beneath its concrete columns -- a sea of rooftops, woodwork, and tar stretches northward. Four-story buildings as far as the rain can fall. The snows melt in Jamrock.

YOU - Why am I not there?

SHIVERS - To be in Martinaise, where no one goes. At the run-off point of a long-forgotten canal, in the whitest part of town. In the shadow of the day the Revolution failed.

YOU - What am I doing here?

SHIVERS - Standing in the rain, looking north, where Jamrock Rock City stretches inland.

YOU - Where do I live?

SHIVERS - On a street there that flows like a muddy river in the snow, with fire traps rising on either side. A film rental opens its doors to the rain, an armoured motor carriage rushes past the corner where you used to walk together... Suddenly, the hair on your back rises.

SHIVERS - YOU CANNOT RETURN.

YOU - Shudder, look further...

SHIVERS - In the rain-swept distance above the rooftops of Jamrock, a re-purposed silk mill stands perched above the motorway exit. Precinct 41 hunches in the rain.

SHIVERS - Your vision blurs. You wipe your face with your hand. The rain stings your eyes, making you look up and blink.

YOU - What's above?

SHIVERS - More coalition aerostatics. Way up there -- where rain forms -- rotors flutter silently. Your sight clears.

YOU - What's below?

SHIVERS - Collapsed storm drains. Old sewage systems flooded with rainwater. Hidden weapon caches from the Revolution. Doors leading down to Le Royaume -- the catacombs to which, for three centuries, they delivered the blue-blooded dead.

YOU - "Motherfucker." [Finish thought.]

SHIVERS - These spring thaw will not last. The winter will return to Revachol.

[brenayla]

fin - AO3

The end is anticlimactic. As soon as the clock strikes 4:50pm, Doggett leaves politely with a one-armed hug and well wishes for the little one.

And then it’s just them. Scully and Mulder in their secretive underground den.

Scully sits at his desk and he perches in front of her.

Of all things, Mulder says: “You remember that time we got food poisoning from Wendy’s?”

God, does she ever. She complains, “Mulder, do we have to go there?”

They were barely two years in, somewhere in rural Missouri. It might have been the only time Mulder stopped driving before 7PM and to her absolute horror, the first motel he found to pull into was fumigating or doing construction or something. Whatever. They shared a bathroom for 24 hours and mutually concluded that they would never discuss it again.

“Not if I have any say in it,” Mulder says, “I haven’t been there since.”

“Seriously, Mulder," she warns with a good glare. "I'd rather hear about the praying mantis man. My gag reflex isn't what it used to be.”

“Doesn’t seem any different to me.”

“Mulder,” she scolds him around a barely contained laugh, as if the walls have ears.

Mulder dodges and shifts topics expertly. “I got you something,” he says, free hand scouring around in his pocket.

He produces a stress ball painted to look like a little baseball. “Happy anniversary, Scully.”

They have never celebrated an anniversary and even if they were to take up the practice, it would be somewhere in the crisp dew days of spring, not today.

“Our other anniversary,” Mulder explains, “I’m a little late.”

“Ah,” Scully says, taking the gift and turning it in her hand. He is several months late, actually.

Their first time was not what she expected but it was what she needed. In her more creative moments, she’d imagined that when the dam broke, he would tear buttons from her blouse and pull her panties aside, no frills maneuvering her into position. And that is Mulder, but it is not first time Mulder. First time Mulder wanted to kiss her forehead and take her in. Before, he asked, can I and after, he fell asleep grasping her thumb like a newborn.

It seems like you two have an intense relationship, Scully's therapist once told her, accurately. Leg shaking, concussed sprinting after them intense; pre-sunrise giggling on his couch intense.

“Thank you,” she tells him, slipping it into her bag on the floor.

“It’s my contribution to your labor pain management plan.”

“Yeah. Thanks for that.”

“We can add it the hospital bag checklist.”

“Sure, Mulder.”

Mulder waits under the hum of the AC. “You’re welcome.”

A smoke detector is still hanging by a wire from when she took it apart to discover a bug. Sharpened yellow pencils that appeared in the ceiling – again – without explanation. The chunky patterned blanket from his couch, slouched over the back of the computer chair, brought in when she was sick and cold.

Nobody down here but the FBI’s most unwanted.

“Mulder, there have been periods where I spent more time here than at home,” she confesses.

“Me too. Probably too many times, actually.”

“I met you down here.”

“Yeah. You did.”

“And I– …we –” Her voice cracks, an all too common occurrence recently. We fell in love down here.

Or maybe not – maybe it was the rental cars or the autopsy bays – but she can’t quite remember because the where and when was never all that important. Now that she’s leaving this place behind, it feels like it happened here.

“I know.”

Mulder could say: This place isn’t going anywhere, Scully or you can always come back to visit, but it would be a sore consolation and they both know it. This is the wheezing death rattle of Special Agents Mulder And Scully. It’s such a Mulder thought, she would never dare voice it. It wriggles into her temporal lobe anyways.

She is leaving behind the birthplace of them, the first space they ever shared. Early Them live down here, with their shoulder pads and patterns and loose-fitting suits, stealing shy glances at each other over his whirring slideshows. And Middle Them survived the fire, too; floppy haired and caught in crackling tension and sopping with grief and fear and love that they don’t yet know what to do about. Even flirty, curious Right Before them are down here, testing out new boundaries; lighter, dreamier, sweet and sticky them.

Fudge the dates a little and their baby could have been conceived down here, and in the moment, that's the story she tells herself. It's a nice one. Maybe the fetus is a little bigger than typical, or maybe she misremembered the dates of her last menstrual cycle. Maybe she’s carrying a child made from dusty file cabinets, tacked up printouts, scrawled handwriting, crumpled up sticky notes left beside the trash can filled with takeout containers, and them; all the Thems.

Scully amends her last comment. “Well, I’m not sure that it happened down here. But I realized it down here.”

Mulder takes her hand. “Tell me?”

“It’s nothing crazy.”

“Haven’t you heard? I’m good with nothing crazy these days.”

She smiles; damn, he’s got her. “Okay, well…it was a weekend. You had this dark blue jacket on. It was more casual than you’d typically wear.”

“I think I know the one. I can find it, if you ever need a reminder.”

She gives him a look and continues, unperturbed. “You were sitting here at your desk and I was over there working at the computer. You were eating Reese’s Pieces. Very loudly, I might add.”

“When are we gonna get to the flattering part?”

“Never, if you’re going to interrupt.” Scully gets her bearings again. “You were humming something, I’m not sure what but it was a short tune, over and over. And I looked over to tell you to quiet down so I could focus. You were leaning over your report – or whatever it was you were writing. You had a little cut here above your eyebrow. And I just…I just knew.”

He stares, disbelieving but still holding her hand. “That was it, Scully?” He asks. “I was being annoying and you looked over to tell me to knock it off, and that’s how you had this grand realization?”

She shrugs. “I think maybe it was the mundaneness of it.”

“You’re gonna have to elaborate on that one, Scully.”

“Well,” she tries, “how many times have we had very similar conversations? How many times have I probably been working at the computer and looked over to tell you something? Hundreds, maybe.”

“Maybe more.”

“Right. So, it was all of those…everyday things that made up our relationship, our partnership in the first place. It only makes sense that it would be one of those everyday things that...triggered something.”

Mulder takes that in.

“Huh,” he says, gently splaying out her fingers as he processes. “Did you ever tell me to knock off the noise?”

When she puts herself back in the moment, nothing breaches her memory but the all-consuming red sun dawn of the revelation that she knew she was not going to be able to ignore like she had with all the prior little stair step realizations.

“I don’t think so. I don’t think I said anything to you.”

“You might have saved us a lot of time if you had.”

“No, I don’t think so, Mulder. I don’t– maybe it’s all the hormones, but I don’t think we were ready then.”

Mulder takes a moment to digest that idea. He doesn’t necessarily agree, she can tell and it occurs to her to push it. But when he lapses into quietly dragging a fingertip across the lines in her palm, she decides against it.

A gush of self-consciousness rolls over her and she see it hit him like an aftershock. “Well,” she covers, “what about you?”

He presses his thumb against one of her nails, scanning his print into the keratin of her nailbed.

“When you came to my room in Bellefleur,” he says.

“You– …the first time?”

He smiles, covering. “Yeah.”

“No,” she insists, “Mulder.”

“Yes, Scully.”

In the moment of silence, Mulder fiddles with her fingers, their heads bowed over their joined hands. Then he kisses the middle of her palm like a stigmata and releases her, gauging her mood.

When he gets a reading, he stands and offers her a hand up. “You ready to go, Agent Scully?”

She takes it, shaking hands with this little death.

“I think I am, Agent Mulder.”

[delopsia]

what remains of wabang | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 6,900   Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB Reader, the plot is inspired by a bizarre nightmare I had. A fumbled proposal. This could count as a dystopian AU, depending on how you interpret it (it wasn't intended). Unprotected sex (with lots of feelings!), reader comes untouched, cunnilingus. One (1) mention of the reader owning/wearing a babydoll. Royal has passed a 'gift' on to his sons.  Brief Summary: Two months after Rhett mysteriously went missing, he appears from nowhere to ask you to run away with him. You don't expect to see what havoc BY9 has wreaked upon Wabang. Nor do you expect to learn new things about your cowboy.  

This old trashcan couldn't be any louder. 

Plastic wheels grind against the pavement, the echoes of it bouncing off the walls of identical homes. Alerting everyone on this street of the fact that you're once again taking the trash out at eleven o'clock at night. It's strange, being this close to other houses; you've grown so accustomed to your rental home in the outskirts of Wabang that you now struggle to adjust to the customs of neighborhood life. All of you packed into the same microscopic homes, like a bunch of sardines. 

Temporary homes, they'd said, in the emergency evacuation notice. Meant to last no longer than a week, just long enough for them to clean up the nondescript biohazard spilled into Wabang. 

But the trash runs bi-weekly, and this is the third time you've brought the can out to the curb. 

Yet, when you let go of the container, ready to walk back into the shoddily constructed building you're supposed to call home, there's a rumbling that doesn't quite stop. A distant sound that seems to grow louder the longer you stand here. Sounds like a truck, but the street suffers a significant lack of headlights. You squint. Fighting to see what lurks down the dark street, unlit and empty. 

It's a truck. 

Too small to be anything modern, its headlights shut off as it slowly creeps down the street. Intent on not being seen, like the driver is afraid of drawing even the slightest bit of attention to themselves. And so far, they seem to be doing a great job of it. If anyone had noticed, BY9 trucks would be swarming the area by now. 

Your shoes scrape against the concrete driveway as you stumble away from the road, ready to get inside before the truck crawls past your home but unable to look away from it for even a second. 

It stops just short of your mailbox. Engine dying as the door opens. 

A figure steps out. Dark. Still. 

You bolt at the same time it does.

Racing for your half-open front door. Feet pounding against the ground as you all but tear past the crudely placed bushes by your sidewalk. Throat tight. Mouth open but can't make a single noise. Who is this? Who is this? Who is this?

 "Wait!" 

You know that voice.

You know that voice. 

That figure doesn't slow down as he all but hurtles toward you. Shoes skid against the dirt as frenzied feet try to stop. His body slamming into yours. A runaway train that's gone off the rails. The arms that wrap around you are the only reason you don't fall.  

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," words frantically uttered into the crook of your neck. Words spoken by a voice you thought you'd never hear again.

"Rhett?" Asking it feels like a dream. A sick fantasy played upon you by your own imagination. But your arms are wrapping around a firm torso, just as warm and alive as you remember. The labored breath tickling your skin feels too real to be a trick. 

Your tongue is heavy in your mouth as you try to speak again, struggling to so much as lift it. "Rhett, where have you been?" And even though you're asking it, you're not sure if it's really him. "It's been two..." He smells exactly how you remember, something airy and crisp, maybe a little bit sweet, like the autumn breeze. "You've been missing." 

"I know, I'm so sorry," Rhett's pulling away, and you're already clinging to him. Unwilling to let more than an inch of space between your bodies. Nose to nose. So close that maybe you'll be able to keep him from disappearing again. God, those eyes. You've missed those eyes. "Please just, please, I don't—please, I don't have time to explain." 

He's so worked up and all over the place that you can't follow. Palms trembling against your cheeks. Eyes so wide that you almost see nothing but the whites of them. Where has he been? Why is he so nervous? 

You've never seen him like this. 

"I have an apartment, and I have a job at a ranch, and I want, I want," voice wavering as he pauses to push your foreheads together,  "I want you to come with me."

"Rhett, what are you—"

"I never meant to leave you behind," he's still talking. Speaking so quickly, you can't keep up. Body shuddering against yours.  "I promise I was comin' to get you the night I left, but then those people started followin' me and, and, and, I'll explain it all if you come with me."

You don't... 

You don't understand. People chasing him? A job? An apartment? Why didn't he come back sooner? What people is he talking about? You don't even know if you're hearing him correctly. If this is even real. There's no way this is real.

Headlights pierce through the dark. Attached to the front of a white Chevy Tahoe, bearing a familiar triangular logo on its side. BY9. Belongs to the mining group that put you all here in the first place. 

Rhett's tugging on your arms. Downright drags you down behind the bushes. Crouching. Barely concealed from the view of the officer driving the vehicle as it rolls past. Eerily slow. Looking for something.

Or someone. 

"Please. I can't...I can't leave you here," Rhett whispers, and you don't know if that's his heart pounding like a drum or if it's yours. A loud thump, thump, thump in your ears. So loud you're surprised the patrol officer doesn't hear it.  "You're not safe here." 

You don't know where he's been for the past two months. Don't know what triggered him to leave in the first place. Or why he's come back now, in the dead of the night, without warning or notice. Does this have something to do with the interview BY9 had with you right as you were moved into this temporary residence? All those questions about Rhett...were they ever meant to help you find your missing cowboy? 

So many thoughts fluttering about your head. But as you watch that cruiser stalk past your driveway, and you feel Rhett tremble against you, something clicks. Your confused mind made up in an instant. 

"Alright," and as soon as that vehicle is out of sight, you're rushing toward your front door. 

The hinges squeal as you rush past. Snatching your blanket from the couch, on your way to the tiny excuse of a bedroom you've been given. Rhett's boots thump behind you. Spurs chiming with every step. 

"You're already packed?" He's hardly stumbled into your bedroom before you're shoving one of your two suitcases toward him. The wheels rumbling across the cheap linoleum, catching on the planks that are already beginning to curl up from the ground. 

"Correction, I never unpacked," you're scrambling, shoving your few belongings back into your open bag; a toothbrush, blanket, a stuffed cow Rhett bought you for your first anniversary,  "We were only supposed to be here for a week." 

Never did you expect him to sling that heavy suitcase over his shoulder. Bicep bulging under the weight. Knuckles white as his fingers cling to the handle. "You let 'em move y'here?" Hearing that low drawl doesn't feel real.

Reaching out and squeezing his wrist doesn't feel real, either. 

"We had no choice," you mutter under your breath, almost mindless as you let him take you by the hand, guiding you back to the front door. Through an unfamiliar hallway and past a bathroom you know you've spent time inside but have little recollection of. "They issued an evacuation order and sent us all here."

Evacuation for what you're not quite sure. The paper had claimed it was a biohazard, but if it was so serious, then how did they have the time to build these miniature homes? An answer doesn't come, too distracted by Rhett leading you through the yard, shoving your suitcases into the bed of his truck. 

At the end of the street, a pair of blinding headlights flicker on. Siren wailing to life.

"Shit." And Rhett doesn't need to say anything further. 

You don't understand why you're scrambling for the passenger door. Hands missing the handle on the first try. Barely clawing it open on the second. All but falling into the truck, door slamming behind you. The engine roars to life. A deep rumbling that you can hardly hear over the squealing siren. Red and blue flashing from the roof of a BY9 SUV. 

Rhett's hat flies off the dash as the truck lurches forward. His hands flying across the steering wheel. Rolling up into the neighbor's yard as he turns. Front bumper slamming into the corner of a mailbox. 

A second pair of lights appear on your right. A sleeping car awakening. Another on the left. Then another. And another. The street alight with white, red, and blue. Sirens screaming. A sea of color that chase you down. Hot on Rhett's squealing tires as he veers to the right. Barely clinging to the pavement.

"Rhett, what's going on?" You squeak. Bouncing in the passenger seat. Scrambling for purchase on something. Anything. Your suitcases audibly slam into the side of his truck bed as he swings to the left. Narrowly avoids hitting the front end of a Wabang police cruiser. "Rhett?"

"I don't know," his voice shivers through clenched teeth. Frantic eyes bouncing between the road and the mirrors. Back and forth. Up and down. Never still for more than a second at a time. "All I know is that they ain't gettin' you and me."

Your seat belt tightens as he hits the brakes. Tires smoking as the old GMC careens to the left. Barreling down a one-way street. In the wrong direction. Blowing past the barrier arm that tries to block your path. Wood splintering. Too flimsy to stop Rhett from tearing out of this copy-paste neighborhood. Fleeing back to the safety of familiar Wabang streets. 

Streets that you don't recognize. 

You know there should be a little white farmhouse off to your right. Nestled next to a towering Oak tree that serves as home to a small wooden swing, and the lawn littered with children's toys. But now, all you find is a parking lot. Opening up to a sea of drill rigs. Swinging up and down.

God, they're everywhere.

"They found somethin' on our land," Rhett's saying. As if he can see the questions fluttering through your head. "Whatever it is, they're rippin' the whole town apart to drill for it." 

Wabang isn't your hometown. Not by a long shot. But the sight before you has your heart twisting in your chest. That old, fairytale small town no longer exists. Those old family ranches were bulldozed weeks ago. Historical buildings and small mom-and-pop shops reduced to empty land, fodder for newly built drill rigs. 

All that remains of Wabang are the streets. 

Light appears in the distance. A tiny speck that splits into two. Three. Four. Five. Until all you see is blinding white. An army of vehicles speeding toward you. A flurry of red and blue flickering. A clash of voices echoes over PA systems. Orderings to stop the truck. Pull over. Surrender. We mean you no harm. 

Rhett jerks the wheel to the right. Jumping the ditch and tearing straight into an open field. A small farm once stood here, but not anymore. Nothing but flat land that this old truck tears through like it's nothing. Bouncing you in your seat. Luggage slamming into the sides of his truck bed, leaving a myriad of dents in their wake. 

"I hope you planned for this," yelping as you cling to the seat. Fighting to stay put. 

Rhett's right-hand rises up from the wheel. Making a fist. You can almost swear that you see something move in the distance. 

The truck hits a bump. Wheel jerking out from his grip. Forcing him to scramble with both hands. Forearms flexing as he forces the truck back in the right direction. "I did." 

But you're running out of drivable land. A thick collection of trees drawing closer and closer. Too closely packed for his truck to fit between. He makes a fist again. So tight his hand turns white.

The trees warp. 

Twisting in a circle, like a cloth spun from the center. Wrinkling and blending into a plume of blackened dust, sparkling as it dances past the truck. A bunch of tiny stars that lead to a deep, dark abyss. Towering before you, circular, like a tear in the seams of your reality. 

Rhett drives straight through it. 

Like a door, the hole spits you out into another field. Empty and dark. Devoid of any other vehicle but your own. The only light coming from Rhett's busted headlights and a lone street lamp, not too far away.

As you look over your shoulder, the hole closes. That cloth untwisting, returning the land to its former, peaceful glory. In an instant, those daunting lights are gone. Whisked away by the black smoke that twirls up into the night sky. 

Maybe now is a good time to take a drug test because there is no way that just happened.

But the squeal of Rhett's brakes sound real, the vehicle slowing to a complete stop. Rhett's chest heaving is heaving, sweat rolling down his forehead and past reddened cheeks, as if he's just run a marathon. And that looks pretty real, too. 

"I ain't pinchin' ya," he breathes, the corner of his lip quirking upward as he says it.

And that's exactly what he would say after such an event. 

It takes you a moment to find your voice. "What the hell just happened?" Comes out as nothing but a croak, your throat far too dry to produce anything more. 

Rhett's head shakes back and forth. Like he doesn't have an answer himself, "the folks chasin' us or the whole...hole thing?" 

"Is both an option?" 

That gets a smile out of him, lazily sprawling across his scruffy face. The first one you've seen in months. Hand leaving the steering wheel, reaching out to squeeze your knee. You reach down, curling your hand overtop of his, fingers slotting together. 

"I think it's 'cause of somethin' related to my family," he says, after a moment, his gaze locked on your hands, "After them BY9 folks took the land, they came knockin' at our door. Took Dad...came back for Ma 'n Perry a couple hours later, sayin' somethin' 'bout how we all had a gift."

You suppose you can infer what that gift could be. "They didn't come for you?"

The hand on your knee squeezes a little tighter, making sure you're still here, "Ma told 'em I wasn't home, 'n one of  'em said they'd come back for me later." His tongue pokes against the inside of his cheek. Pushing back and forth, thinking. "I grabbed a bag 'n went lookin' for you...figured I'd ask to hide with you for a bit." 

In the back of your head, you can't help but wonder what would have happened if he'd gotten the chance to hide in your home. Would they have taken you too? Would they have even known Rhett would be hiding from you?

"But then they started trailin' me," his index finger twitches against yours as he continues, "I got frustrated 'cause they wouldn't let me on your street...next thing I know, I'm goin' through a hole."

You catch yourself glancing up at the rearview mirror. Searching for any instance of the hole you just drove through, almost expecting it to still be there. But all you find is an unfamiliar pasture and a lamp post. "Where did it take you?" 

"South fuckin' Dakota." 

Your eyes might pop out of your head. "We're in South Dakota?" 

His sheepish grin is the biggest 'yes' you've ever received in your life.

Rhett's definition of an apartment is very different from your definition of one.

When he'd said it, you pictured a small place, one bedroom, one bath, tucked into a housing complex that served as home to more people than you could ever count. A laundromat in the basement and a slightly too big parking lot with more spaces than there are tenants. 

But this isn't that at all.

No, it's a bite-sized cabin tucked away in the forest. A little worse for wear, part of the railing on the porch could use replacing, and the door doesn't want to shut at first, but it's more than you could have imagined. With a tiny kitchen and an even tinier living space attached, nothing but a thrifted couch, a plaid blanket, and a television, he found on clearance. 

"You got this all together in two months?" You ask, reaching out to brush your fingers against brown plaid curtains, unsurprised to find them here. You've yet to see his bedroom, but you can already imagine his comforter must bear a similar pattern and color. 

"Yeah," Rhett's scratching the back of his neck. "I know it ain't much, but..."

"It's perfect," words delivered a little too quickly, not letting him finish that sentence. 

His eyelashes flutter; surprised. "Yeah?" Smiling as he speaks, big and dopey, the corners of his eyes wrinkling with it. A touch proud of what he's built here. His socked feet thump across the floor, eager to minimize the space between the two of you. Big palms settling on your hips, smoothing up your sides, drawing you in. 

When you daydreamed about him coming home, you'd always imagined that you'd throw yourself into his arms. Cling to him and never, ever let go again. But it's been well over an hour and a half since he raced down your driveway, and you're terrified to lift your arms and wrap them around his waist. 

Because maybe this is just that. A daydream. A trick of the mind that will end when you pull him close to you, disappearing into a misty dreaminess that throws rocks at your glass heart. 

"I'm so sorry I left you," he whispers into your ear with the faintest shiver in his voice.

On its own, one of your arms begins to move. Wrapping around him, weakly squeezing that big, warm body against yours. Feeling his chest rise and fall, warm and full of life. The same old cowboy that you remember from two months ago. 

He doesn't disappear. 

Rather than vanishing from your arms and floating away, he pulls you a little closer, arms a little tighter. Scruffy cheek scratching against your softer one as he buries his face into your neck. His breath tickles your skin, fingertips drawing invisible shapes into your clothed back. 

"Just a one-arm hug?" His voice rumbles down your spine like thunder; can never stop himself from teasing, even in times like these. 

Blindly, you reach up with your other arm, no longer allowing it to dangle limply at your side. Hoping to find purchase between those perfectly strong shoulders.

Your knuckles catch on the edge of something hard.  

It falls, hitting the floor with an explosive, metal clatter. Silver bursts out of the tiny wooden box. Rolling in all directions. Heading into the living area, some even stretching to the kitchen, others race to the bathroom, a few strays wander between your legs, and two let themselves right into the bedroom. 

"Are these...rings?" You chirp, watching one as it spirals, circles growing tighter and tighter until it falls on its side with a soft sound. They certainly look like rings, but there's such an obscene amount of them that you're unsure. 

Rhett's quiet as you step away from him, crouching to pick up one of the little things. Doesn't make a sound when you roll it between your fingers, feeling the way the uneven metal rubs against your skin. This one is far too big for any of your fingers, and so are the next two you scoop up. Another is too tiny, and the one that seems the right size suffers a big crack in the side. 

"I..." he starts, twisting at the hair resting on his nape, "they're...yeah. They're rings." 

But that doesn't make any sense. Why would he have so many? From what you can gather, they're all similar. Made of the same silvery material, visibly handcrafted; some with etchings of letters inside, others bear empty brackets meant to hold a stone. 

Rhett hardly moves as you reach for the one next to his foot. Just as identical as the rest, plain and with rough lettering on the inside of the band.

'Marry me?'

You nearly drop it. Caught off-guard by the sudden text.

"That's not..." Rhett's crouching next to you, teeth worrying his bottom lip, staring down at the engraving like it owes him money. "I...I was tryin' to make you an engagement ring." 

He reaches over, scooping up a handful of rings that have collected against the wall. Moves them in such a way that you can see his attempts at asking you to marry him within the ring itself. Along with all of his deviations from the concept and the failures that came along the way. One has your name on it, the letters overlapping with the edge. Another has 'marry' written as 'mary.'

"Couldn't get it right, so I figured I'd..." One of them falls from his hand, bouncing across the floor and rolling into the bedroom. He doesn't speak again until it falls. "You know...wait 'till I could afford a proper ring." 

You hum, tracing your nail against the rugged markings. Messy yet lovingly crafted. "Did you still want an  answer?" 

That gets him. Head snapping up to look at you, then jerking his attention back to the floor. Unable to take in your expression, fearing what he could find hidden there. "It ain't...it doesn't have to be right now. If you don't want to..."

You twist this little ring down your finger. It's uneven, not perfectly round, but it fits near perfectly, only the slightest bit loose. Made just for you.

His eyelashes flutter. Jaw slackening. 

Your answer never leaves your tongue, but it's the loudest thing you've ever said.

Gradually, the corner of his lip wavers upward, "yeah?" 

"Yeah," the ring feels foreign around your finger; you can't wait for the day that it feels naked without that little bundle of metal. 

It glints in the light when Rhett takes your hand in his, smiling giddily to himself as he runs his finger over the ring. And it probably isn't the one he would have picked for you; there are likely nicer ones in this scattered mess of silver, but it's the only ring you want. 

He presses a kiss to the back of your hand, avoiding your eye as he does so. Like the slightest eye contact will cause him to crumble into nothing. The presses another to the inside of your wrist, then a third, and a fourth, and a fifth. Slowly crawling up your arm until he's close enough for the tip of his nose to bump into yours. 

Kissing him while crouching isn't easy; the gentle press of his lips against yours is enough to have you worrying about losing your balance. But then he's rising to his feet, drawing you up with him, and it's so, so easy to stumble forward and close that gap once more. Hearing him grunt against you, warm arms coiling around you in the same fashion they always have. 

Oh, how could you have forgotten that he tastes like honey? Warm with a hint of butterscotch, can never seem to keep himself out of those darned little candies. Sliding your arms around those broad shoulders, fingers winding into his hair, listening to his breath catch in his throat. 

It's been two months since you've last felt him part your trembling lips with his own. 

Two months too fucking long.  

"Rhett," you don't mean for it to come out as a whimper, but it does, and you can hardly stop yourself from hiding your face behind your hands. A little too needy, a little too fast. 

But Rhett's rumbling your name in return; doesn't seem to notice your embarrassment, only pulls you closer to him. Hands roaming, soothing up and down your sides, as he pushes you backward, doesn't stop until you're right up against the wall. No way to escape from the rough hand that curls around your cheek, bringing you in to meet his burning mouth again and again and again. 

Rings chime against the floor as he steps forward, jean-clad knee sliding between your legs, fits like it belongs there. Muscled thigh pressing against you, grinding up into your heat. 

You don't realize you've made another noise until he grins into your mouth. Proud. A little too eager to repeat the motion, rolling upward in loose circles. Your hand falls from his hair. Nails biting into his shoulder. Panting against his lips. 

"Fuck, I missed you," he's whispering as he breaks away, pressing wet kisses down your jaw, working toward your neck, "so, so much."

Words are hard to come by. Don't know what you want to say; all you know is that this shirt of his needs to come off. Tugging on the thin material, fumbling with tiny buttons that you can't seem to get ahold of. 

Rhett lets go of you. Breath burning against your neck as he yanks the flannel open. Buttons flying, bouncing across the hardwood, quickly joined by his now ruined shirt. 

"Need this yellow off you," grumbling directly into your ear, big hands returning to your sides, lifting the hem of your shirt. Your arms rise, and in one quick motion, he pulls it off. Dropping it to the floor, drawing you up against him, away from the wall.

Rings scatter beneath your feet as the two of you stumble into the bedroom, metal clinking and rolling with every uncertain step. Uncaring of paying attention to where you're going, distracted by wandering hands, breathy kisses, and noses bumping together.

Your back hits the mattress with an unceremonious thump, the springs squealing their dismay. That wild-eyed cowboy is on you in an instant, lithe hips slipping between your parted thighs, bare chest against yours, nipping at the shell of your ear. His forearms brace themselves on either side of your head, bracketing you in. Gives you an eyeful of the wicked veins that snake down them. 

"Fuck, Rhett," sucking in a sharp breath of air. The layers of clothing between your bodies aren't enough to stop you from feeling that bulge grinding against you. 

"'s it too much?" His lips brush against your ear, sends a shudder down your spine. 

Your head shakes, rolling back and forth against the sheets, "not enough." 

"Yeah?" Pressing his lips to the meet of your jaw, then again to your collar, "take it y'missed me, then."

He's skipping over the courtesy of more kisses, absolutely shameless, as he wraps his lips around your nipple. Big hand curling around your neglected breast, thumb working circles into it. 

"Of course, I fucking missed you," it's hard to keep the bite in your tone, with that wet tongue laving over you like that, downright messy. "Idiot." 

Just as quickly as he jumped to your breast, he's leaving it alone; your skin glistening with his saliva as he licks further down. Darkened eyes peer up at you all the while, once ocean blue, now dark as the night, eagerly drinking in your every reaction. Hungry for everything about you. 

He doesn't need to ask you to lift your hips; they rise the moment his fingers curl beneath your waistband. Then he's pulling down those pastel yellow sweatpants, the soft ones that were in the gift BY9 left for you during the beginning of that so-called evacuation. 

"Fuck, I was hopin' you were wearin' these," Rhett breathes, devious fingers skittering up the inside of your thigh, not stopping until they can slip beneath the edge of your underwear. Always so obsessed with these, despite being the simplest thing you own. Something about the dainty little bow at the top just does it for him. 

"You should've warned me you were coming," you're trying to tease, but fuck is it hard to focus when he pulls your underwear to the side, exposing you to those hungry eyes of his. "I could have put on that matching babydoll." 

A rough index finger strokes up between your folds, collecting your wetness. Rhett so mesmerized by the sight that he struggles to speak, "Baby, I don't think we'd even make it back t'the truck."

Historically, every time you've worn that soft lace garment around him, you've never even made it out of the room. 

There are words sitting heavily in your mouth, already formulated and ready to go. But you don't get the chance to say them because Rhett's leaning down, pressing a kiss to your sex. His tongue pokes out of his lips, eagerly licking a fat stripe up your wetness.

"Can y'get the lube off the table, darlin'?" He's speaking right against your clit, lips tickling it.

The bottle is within reach, but it might as well be on the other side of the room. Rhett's lips are wrapping around that sensitive little button, makes it so, so hard to keep yourself from tangling both hands in his hair instead. Thighs fluttering around his head, hand shivering as it wraps around the small container.

It's new; the plastic still wrapped tightly around the cap. And though Rhett's short nail claws at the edge of it, the plastic refuses to tear off. 

"Come on, you damn..." giving up on the correct way of removing it, he raises it to his mouth, biting at the material until it tears. 

His nose wrinkles. 

"Did you hurt your tooth?" Asking despite knowing the answer. 

How dare he look so shy when he's coating two of his fingers with lube. Meekly grinning to himself, the tips of his ears flaming with crimson as he mutters a soft "maybe."

Dumb cowboy hasn't learned from the time he chipped his tooth while opening the last bottle. 

Wet fingertips circle around your entrance, his mouth returning to your core, deviously lapping at you. Fuck, fuck, fuck that's a lot. 

Sensitivity has jumped a couple of notches during his absence, squirming against the bed, unsure if you want more or if you want to run away from it. So distracting that you don't realize his fingers are pushing into you. Slow, letting you loosen for them on your own accord. 

"That's it," he praises, peering up at you from beneath thick lashes, "take my fingers for me, baby."

They're impatient, curling up, massaging against your walls as he gingerly works them in and out to the tune of his lazy tongue. Drool sliding down, wetting his fingers even further. You whimper before you even realize he's found that little spot. The pad of his index finger rubbing against it. Has your hips lifting off the bed. 

On their own, your hand wanders down, tangling in his messy hair. Rhett all but moans as you pull on it, wet tongue audibly working you over. 

"Another," you whisper, can't get your voice any louder, "please." 

That third finger isn't what you wanted. Isn't thick or long enough to give you that full feeling you've been so desperately craving. But it's a necessary evil that you've learned to put up with in exchange for no soreness the morning after. 

Rhett groans, eyes falling shut as he works into a rhythm. Slow and sloppy, unconcerned with the intricacies of perfect movements, his hips grinding down against the bed. Massaging his neglected cock, still straining against his jeans. 

Fuck, it's such a simple sight, but it has your head spinning. Heat burning between your legs, spreading up into your chest, heart jumping. 

"St..." you can hardly speak, "stop." 

Rhett freezes. Tongue halfway out of his mouth and all. 

Your lungs ache for a breath that you can't quite catch, panting, fighting to form words, "close."

"Were you wantin' to cum 'round my cock instead?" He asks, lifting his head the slightest bit. His chin wet, shiny lips swollen. 

You can't find the words you need to answer him, but something in your face must tell him all he needs to hear because he's moving again. Wet fingers slipping out of your pussy, reaching right for his belt buckle. It jingles as he opens it, the button hidden below damn near hanging on by a thread. 

No matter how many times you've seen this exact scene, it never seems to get shorter. Time downright dragging by as Rhett tugs his jeans and boxers down his legs. Cock popping up, smacking against his left hip. The tip dripping and flushed red, angry, begging for attention. That should be all the waiting you need, but now he's reaching for your underwear, properly tugging them off, like the gentleman he just has to be. 

You reach for the lube, pouring some into your palm, and admittedly, it's way more than you needed, but you just don't care. Reaching out to wrap your dripping hand around him, feeling him jump. 

"Fuck," Rhett gasps, eyelashes fluttering like tiny butterflies, "didn't see you reachin' for...God, jus' like that." 

It seems you're not the only one whose gotten sensitive during your time apart. Rhett's head tilts back, mouth agape as you loosely stroke him. Simple little ups and downs, with the slightest twist of your wrist. 

Then you're impatiently guiding him to your entrance, already so wet with your own wetness,  lube, and saliva, never mind the extra lubricant you've coated him with. His hips tilt forward, leaving no room for further teasing as he begins to push into you. 

All that wetness, and he's still a stretch. The kind that has you biting your lip and your eyes screwing shut, feeling that fat head gradually open you up.

"Shit," Rhett's swearing, leaning back down, chests bumping together, pressing kisses to your quaking jaw, "forgot how tight this cute 'lil pussy of yours gets." 

If you could speak, you'd remark that you forgot how obnoxiously thick he is. 

But you can't. All you can do is curl your hands around his thick biceps and fight to relax. Feeling the tip of him fully slip inside. Just the tip. Fuck, there's still a whole six inches of him left, and you don't know how he's going to fit. 

"Y'need me to stop?" He murmurs, scruffy chin bumping into yours. You think his voice has dropped a little.

Shaking your head, "Keep...keep going." 

Looking between your parted legs is the biggest mistake you've ever made. Because the moment you make eye contact with the sight of Rhett's thick length slipping inside of your spasming cunt, you can't look away. Absolutely transfixed by the way he works his way into you, balls hanging low and heavy.

"There you go," Rhett's cooing, pressing kisses to your cheek, "takin' my cock so damn well for me, doll."

His pelvis comes flush with yours, and you think you may float right up into the clouds. Lightheaded, panting, can hardly keep your eyes open. Can't even look down again when he cautiously swivels his hips into you. Does nothing more than jostle his cock inside of you, yet it knocks the air from your lungs. 

"Want me to move?" Yeah, his voice has definitely dropped a little. Rough and gravelly as he speaks. 

Weakly, you hum. "Uhuh." 

Oh, you've missed how his cock head drags against you, so thick that he's always massaging against that little spot. Drawing back a little under halfway, pushing back in just as slowly as he did the first time. 

This is what you needed.

Your favorite cowboy on top of you, his face nuzzled against yours while he slowly fucks into you. Long, deep strokes that are so undeniably him, reaching deep into the farthest parts of you. The kind of thing you struggle to recreate with a toy. Isn't quite as thick and never brings the warmth that Rhett does. Toys don't come with a big, strong body and untamed hair that falls down to tickle your cheek. They don't give you kisses or pant against your lips with every thrust.

"Missed you so damn much," Rhett whispers against your lips like it's a secret meant to only be shared between the two of you. "Y'don't know how many times I've come back tryin' t'find you."

On its own accord, your hand reaches up to rest against his jaw. "I was so worried that you'd never come back," his hips twitch upward, cock driving directly into that little spot. It takes a second to unscramble your words. "Or that something happened—"

"No, no, hey," he's reaching for your hand, bringing it up to rest fully against his cheek. Presses a kiss to your wrist. "There ain't nothin' in this world that's gonna take me away from you, ya hear?" 

Your eyes water. 

So do his.

It's so much. So many feelings and emotions and thoughts floating through your foggy mind. And there's more you need to say, but you're pulling him into you. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, letting him bury his face in the crook of his neck. Hugging him tight as he gently thrusts into you. 

Slow ins and outs that completely fill you with him. Kissing your sweetest spots, bringing you to flutter around him, spasming in the way he's always loved. The soft squelch of wetness, balls softly thumping against your ass each time he bottoms out. So much of this cowboy. So, so much.

The ring on your finger glints in the dull light. Imperfectly crafted but looks perfect around your finger. You don't want a new ring with a precious gem and a highly valued metal. You want this one. 

"Rhett," you whimper, muffled by his broad shoulder. There's a warmth settling between your thighs. The soft kind that has your skin prickling and thighs quivering.

"I know," Rhett's groaning. Unable to keep himself quiet any longer, "I am too."

He's panting into your collar, thrusts growing uneven. A little shaky. Your legs are wrapping around his hips, squeezing tight, anchoring him to you. You could reach down, pay attention to your forgotten clit, and bring yourself to the edge faster, but all you want is this. Your cowboy in your arms, fucking you like you're made of glass, the most precious thing he's ever seen. 

Your mouth falls open, whimpering into the open air, "Rhett, Rhett, Rhett." Over and over, like a mantra. Like it'll make up for all the time you've spent apart. And he's murmuring your name, whining high in his throat, your voices weaving together into a wistful melody.

One, two, three more drags of his cock against that sweet little spot, and you're gone. Head falling back against the bed, his name still shivering off your tongue as you spasm around him. Heat washing over your body, floating up into the heavens on a plush, cowboy-shaped cloud. 

Distantly, you think you can feel Rhett shudder above you. Breath hot against your neck as he cums with the softest whine. You never, ever thought you'd feel this again. The involuntary jerk of his hips. The kisses he tries to press to your skin when he's too incoherent to move his mouth. The heaviness of his body as he settles against you. 

It's hard to tell how long it takes you to find the strength to open your eyes. Feels like hours before you pry them open, but it's probably closer to a minute or two. The first thing your gaze drifts toward is the bed.

"Of course, you would have a brown plaid comforter."

Rhett sputters against your neck. God, you've missed that laugh. "That's what happens when 'm left by myself."

This room screams his name in every way it possibly can. Cowboy hats scattered in places they don't belong, blankets occupying every surface. There's a basket of dirty laundry in the corner, what you suppose is a bag of chips laying in the middle, and there is absolutely no reason for one of his socks to be on the ceiling fan. 

You love it.

You love this.

And you don't need to say it out loud. Rhett already hears you, and your heart hears him in return. 

"This place has a clawfoot bath," he says, after a moment, "d'you wanna...give it a shot?" 

Why this old cabin has a clawfoot bath, you'll never understand. What other odd things have you to learn about this place? "Would this entail me having to use your three-in-one body wash?" 

He's quiet at that. The biggest goddamn yes you've ever heard. "...I have bubbles?" 

In the morning, the first thing you're going to do is haul his half-feral ass to the store to do some shopping. Get him away from whatever the hell monstrosity lies in that three-in-one bottle and replace the couple of items you've forgotten back in Wabang. Maybe you'll make him explain how the hell he took you to South fucking Dakota in the blink of an eye while you're at it.

But for now, you're happy to nod your head, "bubbles sound nice."

[disposalqueen]

Are you new to roll-off dumpster rentals? This guide has got you covered! If you’re embarking on a home renovation project, a landscaping endeavour, or managing waste for your business, understanding the ins and outs of renting a roll-off dumpster is essential. This comprehensive article offers expert tips and advice tailored specifically for first-time renters. Discover everything you need to know, from selecting the perfect dumpster size to navigating local regulations seamlessly. Whether clearing out clutter or tackling a major construction project, empower yourself with the knowledge and confidence to make your first dumpster rental experience a resounding success.

[mapping-elysium]

Let's start this off right with one of the most notable lore-dumps in the game, the Plaza Rain Shivers check.

In the west

Stairs to the water

Sea Fortress > Bay of Revachol > Sky scrapers of La Delta

What’s down the shore?

Defunct R+E building > Abandoned Church > Coal City

In the east

Industrial Harbor (Locked) > La Drisienne - King Dris’ Passengers Harbour > River Distributary > Couron > “The Class Divide”

In the north

Whirling Yard > Capeside apartments

“Standing in the rain, looking north, where jamrock rock city stretches inland”

In the south

Traffic jam, roundabout, statue > Road ascends to 8/81 (ghetto beneath) > Jamrock

OTHER NOTES

Where do i live?

On a street there that flows like a muddy river in the snow, with fire traps rising on either side. A film rental opens its doors to the rain, an armoured motor carriage rushes past the corner where you used to walk together... Suddenly, the hair on your back rises.

“YOU CANNOT RETURN”

SOURCE MATERIAL BENEATH THE CUT

Shivers - All around you, rain falls on the great city of Revachol. Rain drips from the eaves and floods the gutters, washing the filth away.

Shivers - The spring thaw must be here. The snow is melting...

You - What am I doing?

Shivers - Looking up at the sky, cold water dripping from your hair.

You - What do I see?

Shivers - Grey sky like great battleships, clouds colliding with one another. Rain falls down on the world.

You - How does it feel?

Shivers - Your shirt sticks to your chest. The shoulders of your disco blazer grow heavy. The cold finds its way in under your skin. You shiver, and the city shivers with you.

Composure - You're not dressed for this weather. You should get an overcoat, or a patrol cloak.

You - What is in the west?

Shivers - Sheets of rain over the water. A flight of stairs leading into the ocean. Wave after wave washing the coast of Martinaise, with its motorboats and gently swaying reeds.

Shivers - The ruins of a half-sunken seafort crumble on an inlet. Beyond the Bay of Revachol, ghosts rise into the sky.

You - Who are you, ghosts?

Shivers - The skyscrapers of La Delta, the financial district. Faint golden light seeps from the office windows.

Inland Empire - Will you ever go there?

You - Will I?

Shivers - No. You are just one of the hundreds of thousands who watch them rise across the bay from Martinaise every day.

You - What is down the shore?

Shivers - Urban coastline, rain dripping off eternite-covered roofs. Cinder blocks left over from half-finished construction. A defunct research and development building once seized by revolutionaries. An old wooden church stands on stilts above the water.

You - And beyond that?

Shivers - Coal City, end of all lines.

You - Run your fingers through your dampened hair.

Shivers - Your hair is an oily mess flecked with ash from neighbouring coal plants. Smoke stacks rise somewhere in the distance.

You - What's in the east?

Shivers - The great gates of the industrial harbour are locked. A chill runs down your back. You shudder like an animal trying to shake water from its hide.

You - Clench your teeth to stop shuddering.

Shivers - Behind the gates -- heaps of supply crates. Red and blue metal shipping containers slick with rain. The Greater Revachol Industrial Harbour is an artificial mountain range. Immense wealth resides within, and immeasurable poverty in its shadow.

You - And before that?

Shivers - You -- on the Martinaise plaza. A small dot looking up at the sky. Droplets form on your eyelashes.

You - And beyond that?

Shivers - La Drisienne, King Dris's Passenger Harbour. Cruise ships flanked by dock arms. Cranes watching over the mouth of the river distributary.

You - What is across the distributary?

Shivers - Couron, the lower middle class. Distributary after distributary cuts the city blocks in half. Seven-story buildings trail off into the rain.

You - What is beyond the Couron?

Shivers - A silvery curtain of rain over the houses. The class divide.

Rhetoric - You have never been there. They don't need the law east of the river.

You - What's in the north?

Shivers - Capeside apartments -- tower blocks crowd one another, 4.46 mm bullets still lodged in their war-torn stone walls.

Shivers - Hallways collapsed from the mortar hits of a war that was lost long ago. Clotheslines go to waste in the rain. Radios play.

Rhetoric - The morning news.

You - And closer to here?

Shivers - A yard. Rain falls onto the roof of a woodshed. Filthy water pools around a body. Droplets of rain slip from the dead man's cold cheeks.

You - What's in the south?

Shivers - A traffic jam. Rain thrumming on the roofs of motor vehicles. Inside, drivers watch water streaming down their windshields. The statue of a king shudders, he too is cold. The canal bridge has been raised.

You - What's on the other side?

Shivers - The road ascends; a raised motorway loops above the ghetto. Beneath its concrete columns -- a sea of rooftops, woodwork, and tar stretches northward. Four-story buildings as far as the rain can fall. The snows melt in Jamrock.

You - What is Jamrock?

Shivers - Revachol is the capital of the world. Jamrock is the capital of Revachol. Droplets form on your eyelashes.

Inland Empire - It's home.

You - Why am I not there?

Shivers - To be in Martinaise, where no one goes. At the run-off point of a long-forgotten canal, in the whitest part of town. In the shadow of the day the Revolution failed.

You - What am I doing here?

Shivers - Standing in the rain, looking north, where Jamrock Rock City stretches inland.

You - Where do I live?

Shivers - On a street there that flows like a muddy river in the snow, with fire traps rising on either side. A film rental opens its doors to the rain, an armoured motor carriage rushes past the corner where you used to walk together... Suddenly, the hair on your back rises.

Shivers - YOU CANNOT RETURN.

You - "Motherfucker." [Finish thought.]

[cherrytimemachine]

So I just realized something about the Pizzaplex location and its connection to the Pizzeria Simulator location.

Isn't it weird how there are now two large parts of the Sister Location building inside the underground area of the Pizzaplex?

Not only is the scooping room and the scooper itself down there, but we get to the claw machine we go through in PQ4, we are led by OMC to the Sister Location elevator, this time going up. So the elevator in SL is connected to the FFPS location, which we see the ruins of at the end of SB, in Ruin, and we literally play from there in HW2. You can tell by the matching show stages and the models for the chairs that it's the same as FFPS.

The scooping room seems to have been reorganized in a way, and the scooper looks like it can flip around and fold up to be stored on either side of the room if the matching walls are supposed to be the same spot. That would make the four doorways that you run through in Ruin to get to the scooping room part of Ballora Gallery if I remember correctly.

Here we can see two different perspectives of the elevator, whereas in SL we're up against the back wall looking through the doorway, and in PQ4 we're stepping in through the doors. The tubing on the wall even matches up with the original SL design, aside from the new poster decorations. Whether that was just an artistic choice or a hint that someone has been down there and felt the need to replace the decor that's somehow lore relevant, I don't know.

This means that Pizzaplex is built on top of where Henry's house would've been in the books, as Sister Location is directly connected to his house in the novels like it's theorized to be with the Afton house in the games. But below that is the Pizzeria Simulator location, which you would think would be the end of it, but no, there's a giant sinkhole in the FFPS location that you play in during HW2, and that's where the Mimic was locked away. And that's where I'm about to suggest something that might blow your mind.

What if not only was the FFPS location connected to the Pizzaplex, but below that was the Sister Location? What if I were to tell you that the Mimic had been trapped in an old area of the SL rental service and had potentially come from there to begin with, but was sealed back inside? The placement of the mascot costumes in the files of Ruin make more sense if we think about it as an older location, and specifically with SL, William had a hand in owning it, and potentially Henry as well.

People have already made the connection between Henry and Edwin Murray (who also happens to have a son that holds an animal plushie a lot of the time and who seems to be neglected by his father), so it wouldn't be impossible for Henry to have locked the Mimic down there in the games since it was basically a storage facility for bad robots that nobody wanted to think about anymore.

This changes an understanding we have of the lore in a new way. We know there was most likely a house built on top of the SL building, whether it was Henry's or William's in the games is up for debate and might never be confirmed or mentioned again, but these games are connecting the underground locations of SL and FFPS not in them being the same building, but them being connected, one on top of the other, with FFPS being above SL.

This could mean that the FFPS building was an old space that wasn't just built or some random location that was left to rot, that location could've been part of the SL storage facility, or just a specific upper floor dedicated to storing who knows what before it was turned into the trap to burn all the robots. It could even be that FFPS is where the Mimic had come from originally, and by the building being broken into with the new Pizzaplex construction, they unknowingly set the Mimic free. But now it makes sense why they couldn't escape the fire, because they were trapped underground in a building made to contain robots like them. But instead of it being Henry's more recent creation, it's either one he's had for a long time or it was made by William a long time ago, though because William was so intrigued by invitation to enter the facility, I wonder if he'd actually been involved with the place, or if Henry was actually the one who operated it and was using it to store evidence of William's twisted creations. We still don't have a definitive reason as to why William sent Michael down there instead of going himself anyway, and it would make sense if he did because the facility was underneath Henry's house, and it's heavily hinted by Candy Cadet's stories in FFPS that Henry was aware William had been the killer behind the MCI, and his awareness seems to be dating back to around the same time the murders were committed. He wouldn't want William on his property, despite his reluctance to turn him in for whatever reason.

Sorry for the long rant, I just had this realization while thinking about the ending of HW2, and all of a sudden, I had an epiphany. Anyway, I'd love to know what other people think of this and what it means for the upcoming games and lore. Safe to say I think I get why this game had an extra focus on SL, FFPS, and SB specifically, it's because all three locations are connected.

[suzirya]

Joys:

Found a leaf to meditate on throughout the day in blazing colours, pet a dog named Milo who kissed my hands and whose excitement at being loved was palpable, saw dryer-lint clouds scudding across the sky so fast, saw leaves whirling into the air like notes caught up and scattered. Read the first chapter of Inciting Joy by Ross Gay on the bus and felt it tug on me.

Walked to the coffee shop and when I came inside the barista said yeah you better come in here and not walk on by and we smalltalk shot the shit while I got a cayenne-orange coffee. Went next door to the bodega-style store that was being restocked on fresh fish and other sundries and whose delivery people were polite, excuse me, thank you, and the owner went to the cafe next door to get me little containers of butter and a knife so that I could have those to serve with the sourdough I got for any of us who are at work today. Also Milano double-chocolate cookies. And the loaf was gone by end of day, and the cookies well-munched.

The smell of a perfume I wore that reminds me of two people at once and that I can enjoy by holding my inner wrist up to my face, interesting weathering shades and tones on concrete, seeing construction workers stretch and hold ladders steady for each other, heartbreaker chile made by El.

Listening through a playlist and feeling happy with the flow of it at last. Warm breeze on a lunch walk. Everyone cutting each other a bit of slack, a lot of grace, don't worry about it.

Lovely convos on and off by text with a best dearheart friend. My coworkers and I wishing each other a night, be well, take care.

Seen: a young man having his hair cut by another young man on a rental-house porch while wearing a giant T-shirt, and it's dusk, and another probable housemate carrying a case of ginger ale past them into the home, and feeling tender about it all.

A free shot of sake from a kind bartender at dinner part one.

El wearing a cologne of theirs I love and me feeling more grounded because of it.

Having a space to gather in for a bit after work and eat dinner in community. A dog who's happy to see us. Juniper and cedar notes in a fizzy beverage. Floor time. Lying back with my eyes closed and listening. Improvised music featuring a drum set, a bass, piano, flute, and trumpet as well as hand percussion and humming. Sometimes fumbling and not-working but working towards. Sometimes harmonious and fluid and "clicked" into place. A period of silence in the middle of the improvised sound. Candles. And a room to retreat to while others in the gathering space clamoured, and it felt like being younger and listening to the party in the next room while taking a sensory and stimulation break. The joy of building a grilled cheese at a DIY bar in the two-person kitchen and someone else cooking it for me, assembly line style. My friend present there letting me share their tomato soup because there was only one bowl left but they wanted to let me dunk my grilled cheese. All of us in the room promising to talk to our therapists and resolve emotional residues before committing to a major change in our hairstyle because we all kinda wanna buzzcut down to near-bald again. And texting, again with dearheart friend, about playlist brainstorming, which is playful and felt good. And breaking a glass in an improvised wreck room. And the casual presence of group chats.

And a hot shower.

And posting this that I've been working on since 9 am this morning, to see how the little things can add up, which has always been something I can do to get through and then get to it.

[mybeautifulchristianjourney]

A Way You Can Store Your Vegetables For Months

Have you ever wondered how our ancestors preserved a whole winter season worth of frost-intolerant produce? Canning is a useful method, though a large harvest can easily turn it into a seemingly impossible task. The solution many generations before us turned to was building a root cellar.

Although many cannot build their own old-world root cellars due to rentals, adequate space, or urban environments; a little common sense and wisdom of temperature and humidity guidelines will allow anybody to whip together an ideal means of prolonging produce-life through the winter.

A conventional root cellar, which essentially is a room buried in a hillside or underground, meets only a handful of criteria.

INSULATION: The earth is a wonderful insulator. A typical old-world root cellar was literally buried on all sides except the entrance, utilizing the natural insulating properties of the soil.

VENTILATION: It is important that your make-shift root cellar can breathe. Warm stale air needs to float out of the top of your chamber as fresh cooler air makes its way through the bottom. This is important to keep humidity levels under control in order to prevent the rot of moisture-sensitive vegetables such as squashes.

DARKNESS: Light accelerates the decomposition of fruits and veggies. An ideal means of storage incorporates complete darkness.

Consider what you may have on hand if you would like to construct a practical yet permanent root cellar: Burying an insulated plastic or metal trash can with a tight lid is a popular option. Others have gone to the trouble of recycling an entire broken refrigerator by submerging it in a hillside. Another option is to frame off a corner of your basement with a window or vent. A more conservative approach is to sink a large cooler into the ground. If one of these avenues are chosen, make sure you are ventilating with a hose or pipe.

A blast valve or similar device may be incorporated to prevent below freezing temperatures from entering your storage compartment.

My personal favorite involves little more than a pile of straw, hay, leaves, or moss and a minimal amount of elbow grease. It is most effective with potatoes (Read on).

As a rule of thumb make sure not to wash any produce prior to storing. This will greatly reduce its ability to keep. Instead provide enough drying time for exterior dirt to dehydrate, then brush off any large clumps.

Apples can be a dangerous food to store with other produce. The idiom one rotten apple spoils the barrel is spot on. As apples age they release ethylene gas which causes other produce to rot too. It’s a wise practice to isolate them in shallow containers with lids. They keep best in 80-90% relative humidity and prefer temperatures of 32-40 degrees Fahrenheit. Check on them often and remove any signs of rot.

Beets prefer the same 32–40-degree temperature range but can withstand a bit more humidity. Outdoor storage is an easy and effective method to practice. Before hard frosts begin simply hoe dirt over the protruding shoulders keeping the foliage exposed. As winter begins, mulch over the rows with up to a foot (more for colder climates, less for warmer) of leaves, straw, or hay.

This method may be applied to carrots, parsnips, turnips, celery, rutabagas, cabbages, leeks, kale, and spinach with some success as well. Regarding flavor, the longer you can keep cold tolerant produce in the ground, the better. Cool fall temperatures sweeten many vegetables such as beets by literally increasing the presence of sugar.

Brussels sprouts are somewhat frost hardy and can be left in the garden until late fall. They may be kept in a root cellar for some time however a lack of moisture will shorten their lifespan. Like beets they prefer a temperature range of 32-40 degrees and high relative humidity of 90-95%.

Cabbage can withstand light frost when it is young and moderately severe frost when mature. Some varieties are briefly tolerant to temperatures as low as 20 degrees. The method of mulching beets above can be employed here. Cabbage prefers cold temperatures of 32 to 40 degrees and high moisture of about 80-95% relative humidity making it a good root cellar candidate. Either cut off the head or pull out the entire plant (roots included). If the roots are left on it may last a bit longer in a cellar, however if the stump is left in the ground a smaller leafy cabbage will emerge the following season.

Carrots can be kept in the garden under mulch just like beets. Remember to cover the shoulders with dirt. They prefer temperatures of 32-40 degrees and relative humidity of 90-95% in a root cellar. If storing in a cellar, harvest before the soil freezes, cut the stems close to the carrot, and store in a bucket of leaves or sawdust with a loose lid.

Cauliflower and Celery prefer cold temperatures of 32-40 degrees Fahrenheit and very moist relative humidity of 90-95%.

Celeriac is one of the best keeping vegetables during the winter months. Trim off the longer roots making sure not to cut too close to the meat. Store it in damp sawdust, sand, or moss at an ideal temperature range of 32-40 degrees and a very moist relative humidity of 90-95%.

Dry Beans can be harvested after pods are nearly dried out while still attached to the vine. Spread the pods on newspaper for a week or two until completely dry. A productive trick to separate the beans from the pods is to fill a bag and beat it with a stick. When a hole is cut in the bottom corner the beans will fall out pod-free. Dry beans store well in temperatures between 32-50 degrees though they can withstand freezing temperatures. They are less moisture tolerant at an ideal range of 60-70% relative humidity. Store in dry containers with tight lids.

Garlic needs to be air dried in a warm arid area for 2-3 weeks. Remove the roots and store at an ideal 32-50 degrees with 60-70% relative humidity and good airflow.

Leeks come in frost hardy varieties which should be utilized if growing for storage. They can withstand a bit of snow and the mulching process may be used up until the ground freezes. Harvest with some roots still attached and stored at an ideal 32-40 degrees upright, preferably in wet sand. Though leeks prefer a high relative humidity of 90-95% take care not to wet the leaves during storage.

Onions require curing until the necks are quite tight before storing. To cure, spread them in a dry area with sufficient airflow or hang them upside down. Ideal storage temperatures range from 32-50 degrees with a relative humidity of 60-70%. Make sure they are stored in an breathable container such as crates or mesh bags.

Parsnips store well in uncovered ground until a solid freeze at which point they should be mulched. The frost improves their flavor for a succulent spring harvest. Store harvested parsnips in damp sawdust at an ideal 32-40 degrees and a high relative humidity of 90-95%.

Potatoes should be cured in a dark place for 1-2 weeks at 45-60 degrees. After this they prefer cold temperatures of 32-40 degrees and moist relative humidity of 80-90%. A great means of outdoor storage is piling an insulating material such as straw or hay on top of unused winter garden space with a few inches of dirt on top. Make sure to keep a ventilation hole, clear of dirt, on one side of the pile and a drainage ditch around the perimeter equipped with a small runoff canal.

Throughout the winter hungry gardeners can reach through the ventilation hole and fish out the produce. If you have a tarp on hand covering the top of the pile, but not the ventilation hole, will prevent your storage mound from eroding away. If many potatoes need storing and more than one pile is not an option layer the pile with 4-6 inches of insulating medium, followed by a single layer of potatoes, followed by 4 inches of soil. Repeat the layering process.

Pumpkins should be cured like squash (see below) with the stem left attached and stored around 50-55 degrees. Relative humidity should fall between 60-75%.

Sweet Potatoes can be preserved all the way until spring if properly cured and stored. To cure, let air-dry in a warm humid environment of 80-85 degrees and 90% relative humidity for 10-14 days. This will toughen the skin and improve the flavor. Sweet Potatoes store best in an unheated room of about 50-60 degrees with a moderate relative humidity of 60-70% taking great care not to let them drop below 50 degrees.

Turnips should be harvested before heavy frosts, tops removed, and stored as you would carrots in a moist insulator such as sawdust, moss, or sand.

Winter Squash should be harvested before a hard frost when the skin is tough enough to prevent penetration from a moderately pressed thumb nail. Flavor is best when the seeds are given a chance to fully develop. Make sure to leave the stem on the fruit and cure for about 10 days at 75-85 degrees, ideally. Store them in a moderately dry and warm spot where the temperature doesn’t drop below 50 and preferably stays below 60 degrees. The best relative humidity for storage falls between 60-70%. Great information by Farmacy.

Source: I Support Farmers Markets

[jsdisposal]

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[titleknown]

HELLOWEEN #9: GENTIFLACCIO

-GENTIFLACCIO is a Great Mesne-Lord of Hell, with 144 Buroughs and 1,285 individual dwellings to his name. He may create mansions and fotresses in a night, and may be called to extract unpaid debts and transmute the flesh of others into gold piece-meal.

He appears as an ugly giant with a mouth in his chest, a great castle sprouting from his back and siege engines jutting from his upper body. He requires blood for his summoning, freely given by its owner as payment for a debt, though this blood may be taken from the summoner and given to Gentiflaccio to pay their debt to him-

...The author of the Final Testament seemed to struggle to understand the appearance of Gentiflaccio, as rooted in modernity as his construction-equipment arms and horrible McDonalds-Mansion-meets-post-modern-skyscraper acme may attest. Though, at least they tried, which as an author who is also a book is an effort most appreciated.

One might make the joke that "Of course there are landlords in Hell," but that would perhaps undercut the true gargantuan nightmare of Hell's land-lords. There are depths of rent-seeking depravity that would chill you to the bone, innovations that break the very laws of life itself. I have seen a streamlined biomechanical demonic Human Centipede as a rooming arrangement. I have seen a potential tenant call it "a good deal, for this side of town"

In that respect, the horror of Gentiflaccio's operations might seem superficially tame. But the scale of his operations and the gaudiness of his actions was evident in our conversation. 

His office was gaudy in a way that went past charmingly tacky into grotesque, not helped by the majority of the architecture being the bodies of certain tenants transmuted into gold, twisted and screaming. This was apparently common enough that he had developed a process for warping them into the positions he desired as they coagulated "A great asset to any showcase" he said.

The place was at once gargantuan and lonely, containing only him and me and the ugliest furniture excessive quantities of money can buy. He was easy to speak to, as my superficial flattery convinced him this was a puff piece, but the casualness with which he spoke of atrocities was in itself revealing. 

He spoke of tenants forced to give up their limbs to afford increased rent, leaving them crawling like worms to offer their tongues in exchange, of homes flattened (Perfectly legally according to the laws of hell) with the tenants still inside in such a way that their flesh was perfectly preserved to sell or; of course, transmute, of the efficiency of the boxes he built where "nobody knows anybody, so they don't have anything to distract them," and spoke elegaicly at the violence over two individuals eating each other alive over a singular apartment that he was offering.

He in particular was proud of the innovative home system he had based upon his own crainium. At the lower-level (As is considered the acme of Hell) was a simple suburban pseudo-mansion, which he described in the most glowing of terms in a way that boiled down to it being bloated, tacky, soulless, and built for the semiotics of wealth without any purpose therein, then ascending to the apex of skyscrapers as designed by a worm-ridden mind, studio-apartments into cubicles into pods, in an inverted pyramid that both conveyed excess and blocked out competition.

In particular he was proud of the rental arrangement where, at random, one individual studio was given to the dweller in the pseudo-mansion to do with as they wished, tenants included, "It's like they get to be little landlords" he said after describing something done by one bottom renter that was so profoundly hideous that I do not dare share it here.

He spoke with pride at the violence at which accompanied his housing plans, oblivious to any veiled criticisms I spoke of, thanking me whenever I voiced them. I recall him saying "The thing you oughtta know, and I say this as a gift most people don't get this for free, is that business is violence! And If i can inspire one person to go into business, I know I've done my part."

As he spoke to me, he was shoveling money into his gullet. Just, eating money, right in front of me. His mouth was full as he spoke as well. At one point he broke a tooth eating a particularly large jewel. He ate both the tooth and the jewel.

Expected, but unpleasant.

-Xavier X. Xolomon , Monsterologist and Understudy to The Librarian Of Babel

----------------------------------------------

So, I had that brainworm of the castle-headed guy Wayne Barlowe previewed in his old Guide to Extraterrestrials, and I figured I might as well combine it with the horror that is McMansions for this guy.

I will say, I may re-write this later, or at least further revisit Xavier's meeting with this character, as I feel unsatisfied with it in terms of conveying what a big deal this guy is and how his operations hurt people, at least with it rushed on this deadline. Even if I did include a little dude next to him for scale.

The buildings I used for the skyscraper part were actually mainly from PD/royalty free pictures of Frank Gehry's work because... God I hope I don't come off as reactionary for this, but his buildings look like if skyscrapers had tumors and then those tumors were extracted to become their own buildings. 

They look like if Everywhere at the End of Time was a Dr Seuss book. They look like if Cool World underwent gentrification and Barry Jackson was always  offscreen weeping a single tear like in a political cartoon.

And for the record, yes the money-eating was inspired by a very specific ProZD sketch, and yes the use of a McMansion as a base was inspired by the great @mcmansionhell

As per usual the whole descriptions, designs, ectcetera from this project are free to use as you see fit under a CC-BY 4.0 license so long as I; Thomas F. Johnson, am credited as their creator!