#explain yourself mr. very important policeman!

[babyangelsky]

I still can’t get over the dad. He’s really out here making Papa Korn Theerapanyakul look like a caring father.

Tankhun never left the house after being kidnapped as a child and had a minimum of three bodyguards with him at all times following him around from room to room.

Q was also kidnapped as a child but unlike Tankhun, he left the house on a regular basis and was left to walk around ALONE. All the time! Always alone!

[kaitoujokerscans]

Showdown in the Dark Night! Joker vs Shadow CH6

<6> The Angels Come Down

"What? That hairpin isn't Komachi's Gilded Chrysanthemum!?" Oniyama's bellow drowned out the 12:30 bell toll.

Hayami gave a deep nod. "Yep, you got it. That hairpin's just tha key to th' real Komachi's Gilded Chrysanthemum. Th' Gilded Chrysanthemum that Joker and Shadow are chasin' can be found by solvin' the code engraved on the hairpin. Innit right, Joker?" Hayami turned around.

Behind him was a cage set in the middle of the open room, Joker trapped inside. Joker was seated on a plain wooden chair, hands cuffed behind him, even his ankles clapped in irons for good measure. It was set up so one touch would send an electric current through the giant cage. Oniyama had brought this special cage expressly for this situation. "......"

Joker was silent. Hayami began to slowly wheel himself around him. "When you and Shadow stole the Opal in Singapore, tha owner's notebook in the same room also disappeared. Th' notebook had the password ta the owner's online diary written in it. Tha diary was accessed twice after the incident. By you and Shadow."

"......"

"Tha owner was the very same as the master of these Cape Gardens who died one year back. His manor and gardens were here in Japan, but owin' ta that his job was in Singapore, he didn't have any outside contact when he was in Japan. Hence the online diary would tha only way ta know tha truth behind it."

"......" Joker silently listened to him speak.

"Ya both learned of Komachi's Gilded Chrysanthemum through tha online diary. But ta find where it was, ya had ta steal tha hairpin with tha code hidden on it. Hence ya tried to take it, lettin' the police think the hairpin was the Gilded Chrysanthemum."

"......"

"Then what is the real Gilded Chrysanthemum, Hayami-kun?" Oniyama asked out of curiosity.

Hayami spun his wheelchair around to face Oniyama. "Tha Gilded Chrysanthemum is a bona fide, literal plant. And it's growin' somewhere within these Gardens!"

"What!?" Oniyama yelped in surprise. Come to think of it, just because it was called a "Gilded Chrysanthemum" didn't necessarily mean it was a chrysanthemum made out of gold. It could be the name of an actual chrysanthemum. But the phantom thieves, chasing after a chrysanthemum plant...?

"Inspecter, ya seem to be wonderin' if the Gilded Chrysanthemum is really such a rare and valuable flower. Tha Gilded Chrysanthemum is an exceptionally rare strain that the master of this place spent all his life tryin' ta breed. Supposedly it blooms just for a moment on dark, moonless nights, and not only is it beautiful, the moment ya get a whiff of its fragrance, you'll be whisked off into a deep slumber..."

"A deep slumber... so it's like a sleeping pill?" While Oniyama seemed to take interest, Hayami was fixed on Joker.

"You were after that rare chrysanthemum, weren't ya?"

"......" Joker took a quick breath after he spoke. "I just can't fool you, can I."

Oniyama stepped toward Joker's cage and yelled. "You imp! You tried to pull one over us again!"

"Not really~♪ I didn't say anything about that hairpin being the Gilded Chrysanthemum." Joker whistled and faced to the side.

"Mmmrgh..." Oniyama glared at Joker angrily.

"Calm down, Inspecter. We have Joker under lock and key now. He won't be able ta find the real Gilded Chrysanthemum. Once we get the hairpin back, it'll be case closed."

"No!" Oniyama turned back to face Hayami. "Arresting Joker was definitely a relief, but it's another story entirely if he hasn't gotten the treasure yet!" An intense light rekindled itself in Oniyama's eyes. "This man isn't the sort to give up on treasure so easily. He'll keep coming up with trick after trick until he finally gets ahold of it. We have to assume that he has some ulterior motive to sitting here patiently!" Oniyama spoke firmly and with confidence. He had his many years of single-mindedly chasing after Joker to back him up.

"Wow, Inspector. You go~" Joker said, acting impressed.

"True, people act diff'rently when their jobs are at stake."

What Hayami said shocked Joker. "What!? Inspector Oniyama, you're going to quit the force?"

"Ha ha ha! I won't have to, if you've been caught! You're already in my grasp. I know everything you're thinking!"

"Then what do I plan to do now?"

"Simple. You're going to solve whatever that code is hidden in that ornament and try to get at the real Gilded Chrysanthemum, obviously!"

"Sure am, but the problem is that code~. I'm the only one who knows it, and the only one who knows where the hairpin it's written on is. Hey, I wouldn't mind telling you if you untie me, okay?"

"Hmph, that's no trade I'm willing to make!"

"Come on~ meanie~" Joker pouted, and just as he did, Hayami opened his mouth. He spoke deliberately, as if he were reciting from memory.

'There is a time when three onces follow each other. Between the first once and the next, the flower blooms.'

Once he finished, Hayami looked at Joker and smiled. "Well?"

"That's...!"

"Exactly, from tha gold hairpin -- tha phrase finely engraved on the backside of the chrysanthemum's petals. I took a gander at it before Shadow stole it."

"You what..." Joker bit his lip in frustration.

"When did you..." Then Oniyama remembered how Hayami had handled the hairpin right after he arrived. Hayami had been aware that it was the key the whole time, ever since then.

Hayami spoke quietly. "This is the code for the Gilded Chrysanthemum's whereabouts -- specifically, the place and time. The Gilded Chrysanthemum doesn't bloom for long, so spotting it is extremely difficult. Thus in order to find it, you have to be waiting for the flower to bloom at the right time and right place."

"So these words hide the secret to when the flower blooms. Mmmrgh..." Oniyama pondered. But soon enough, his eyes were gleaming, and he burst out. "Aha! I know!"

"Ha ha ha, with my years of honed police senses, this is no challenge whatsoever!"

"Really?" Hayami looked at Oniyama, intrigued.

"Oh, way to go, Inspector! Let's hear it!" Joker encouraged him from within the cage, eyes gleaming.

Oniyama puffed out his chest and explained proudly. "Ha ha ha! Oh, it's simple! Imagine a digital clock. 'When three ones follow each other' refers to when the time displays '111', three ones together. In other words, 1:11! That's when the Gilded Chrysanthemum blooms!" Oniyama declared, raising his index finder.

Oniyama's voice echoed in the room to no effect. "......" Joker and Hayami stared at Oniyama, almost stupefied.

Eventually, Hayami asked Oniyama. "W-Well, supposin' so... Then, Inspecter, what does tha 'first once and next' mean in the second line?"

"Huh? W-Well... I wonder...?" Oniyama stumbled. Following up, Joker joined in from the cage.

"And what about the place? He said it was both time and place, didn't he?"

"Uh... d-did he now?" Backed into a corner by their questions, Oniyama played dumb.

"Looks like tha Inspecter's deductions aren't fully-baked yet."

"Don't just spout off any old drivel~"

The two genius boys mercilessly antagonized the lone, normal adult.

"Ghh..." Just as Oniyama was at a loss to answer, his radio beeped. "W-What's happened!? This is Oniyama!" Saved by the call, Oniyama shouted back into the radio. Ginko's voice came from the other end.

"Inspector, intruders! It's Queen and her crew!"

"What!?" Oniyama roared back even louder than usual.

§§§

As the alarm rang ceaselessly, Queen, Ai, and Rose ran. Once they had let go of their Balloon Gum and landed, they ran breakneck through the gardens. As soon as they had passed through the donut-shaped hanging garden, Spade and Roko's voices came from a device set in their ear.

"Pursuers closing in at 12 o'clock."

"Queen, please be careful."

"Got it." Queen responded, at which point Ai made a cheerful aside to her.

"This is like something out of a movie."

"Fu fu, too bad you're stuck as Spade's assistant." Queen laughed ruefully.

Then Rose pointed in front and shouted. "There's a lot of them!"

A swarm of brawny police officers blocked the trio's path. The officers set upon Queen's group with drilled movement.

"Here we go!"

"Yes!"

"Okay!"

At Queen's signal, the three jumped a step back.

"ARREST ALL OF THEM!!"

"WOOOOOOO!"

The officers bellowed, and with their batons threatening her, Queen pulled her sword smoothly out of its scabbard and held it quietly at the ready. "Come at me!" She twirled around, the sword tracing a silent arc after her. The baton the first officer was swinging down clattered to the ground in pieces.

"Wha...!"

She quickly came in close to the faltering officer and spun behind him, aiming the hilt of her blade precisely at his nape. The officer fell with a thud. For the next approaching officer, she swung her sword from side to side, grazing his cap. The cap was cut clean in two, revealing a mild-looking face underneath.

"Oh, don't you look meek, Mr. Policeman♪" she commented as she struck him on the back of his skull, felling him. She evaded the attacks from the next wave easily, slipping between them and knocking out one after another.

Queen was like a swan dancing in the night. At intervals, the reflection of lights glinted off the point of her sword and momentarily illuminated her face. With a crisp smile on her lips, Queen's eyes were more sultry than any flame.

Nearby, Ai kept her distance and sidestepped the officers trying to surround her. The officers came closer, looking for the chance to grab her, but she would switch directions and circle past, flouting their efforts.

"Quit dodging!"

"Trap her from both sides!"

Yet Ai was a degree faster than the officers and would not be caught so easily. Running silently, Ai remembered what Spade had said. "It's important to keep some distance with my Ice Shot. If you fire it at short range, you can end up hurting yourself. The same goes for your offense. If you take the time to maintain your distance and then swiftly make your move, you can even bring down your enemy in one hit."

Ai repeated the words Spade said so often to herself. "...You're right, Spade-sama!" While she flitted about, the officers in front of Ai had fanned themselves out into a shallow curve. "Now!" Ai quickly pulled out a mic from her hip holster and held it towards the officers.

"Bubble Splash!"

She switched the mic on, and a froth of delicate bubbles blew out its head. The bubbles floated straight and true through the air, expanding as they flew. Soon enough the bubbles were the size of softballs, and once they hit one officer's arms, they burst with a pop and crystallized around it.

"W-What the!?" The officer tried to move his arm, but it wouldn't budge. The bubbles of Bubble Splash react with oxygen when they burst and become as hard as cement, fixing whatever they hit to the spot.

Keeping her stance, Ai swung her mic from side to side, dabbing the rest of the officers around her in one go. Not only their arms, but their torsos and legs were frozen stiff at random, preventing them from moving. Once all of the officers around her were stiffened all except for their heads, cries of "I can't move an inch!" and "You won't get away with this!" were raised at Ai.

Ai exhaled and took a look around at the officers. It reminded her of something. The associated feeling was completely different, but it was like being surrounded by fans on the idol stage. Even as she worked as Spade's assistant, Ai was also an active member of the idol group Shuffle Sisters: she, along with her sisters Rei and Kira, were idols and at the same time phantom thieves. Bubble Splash was their technique.

Ai switched into her idol voice and turned around to face the officers. "I'm sorry, everyone. Stay like that for a little longer♪" she told them in her best idol voice and gave a wink. The way almost all of them turned red and let out a low wail was definitely something she was familiar with.

In another corner, a bizarre scene was unfolding. Brawny officers were stopped in their tracks as if time itself had frozen, and at the center of them was Rose, standing isolated. The officers had no idea what had happened, their confusion only evident on their faces. When Rose gently lowered her raised right arm, the officers all dropped to the ground. She raised and twirled her left hand, then pointed at something. In that direction was the metal fence dividing the garden, slowly rising up as if something were tugging on it. The meters-long fence glided into the air and eventually stopped directly above the face-down officers. Rose twirled her left hand again, and the fence twisted its shape with a creak, bending into arches. Rose then silently brought her left hand down.

The metal arches plunged into the ground, caging each individual officer. Rose snapped with her left hand, and the arches wrapped themselves around the officers, binding them helplessly in solid metal loops.

"Phew..." Rose took a breath, and then finally able to speak, the officers groaned. They writhed to escape the coils, but the metal loops restrained them tightly as if they had always been that shape. Rose wiped the sweat off her forehead. Freezing human movement and changing an object's shape at the same time took a lit of stamina.

--Just then, a single officer silently approached Rose from behind. The officer crept up quickly and quietly. Just as he was about to seize Rose, she noticed and turned around. "...!" It was so sudden, Rose didn't have the time to scream.

But the officer's hand did not fall upon Rose. Something hit him from behind, the officer's face contorted in pain, and he crumpled down on the spot. Appearing from behind where the officer had been was... Shadow.

§§§

"Oniichan...!"

Shadow was pointing his Bloody Rain at the officer's back. He looked at Rose in surprise. "Rose..." Shadow said, stepping slowly towards her. Then suddenly, he pinched her cheek.

"Owwwwwch!" Rose shook his arm off. "That hurt! What did you do that for!" Then she bonked Shadow's head.

Rose's heavy strike made Shadow grimace. "Oww... S-Sorry... I thought Joker was disguised as you again."

"Come on, Joker's in custody!"

Shadow seemed to be taken aback by this. "How do you..."

"Because we're here to take Komachi's Gilded Chrysanthemum."

"What...!?" Shadow jumped back hastily. "...What do you mean, Rose?"

Then Queen and Ai came alongside Rose, brandishing their weapons at Shadow.

"Exactly what she said. Rose is helping us out right now."

"She..."

"Anyway, Shadow, why did you just step back so suddenly?"

"Ghh..."

"Is it possible that the Gilded Chrysanthemum... the gold hairpin, is in your possession?" Ai proposed quietly.

Shadow thought. It seemed that none of them knew about the real Gilded Chrysanthemum or the code. "......" Shadow glared at them, not answering.

Then Queen started talking in a self-convinced manner. "I get it. Joker handed the Gilded Chrysanthemum off to you before he was captured. You can't stand that, so you've come to force Joker to take it back, haven't you?"

"...Y-You're wrong!"

"What's wrong about it, Oniichan?" Rose took a step forward.

"Well..." Shadow didn't answer. Rather, he was gritting his teeth as if he didn't want to answer.

"Oniichan, we're going to take that Gilded Chrysanthemum off you even if it's by force."

"Wha... in the first place, the Gilded Chrysanthemum is for you, so... er, it's..." Shadow's tongue slipped, and he clammed up.

"For me?"

"No, never mind!"

"What do you mean? I didn't say that I wanted a hairpin, did I?"

"T-This is..." Shadow held his hand over the hairpin at his chest.

"...Fine. I'm not Shadow Joker's partner today anyway..."

"Huh...?"

Rose held her hand out and focused her energy. Right after, a shockwave whooshed out, and Shadow's body was bound. "Gah..." Unable to speak, Shadow kept his eyes focused on Rose.

Rose came close to Shadow, immobilized, and plucked the gold hairpin from his breast pocket. "...Oniichan, I'm sorry."

"......"

"But you aren't putting any trust in me, Oniichan. So I can't trust you back. So... there's no need for you to do anything for me."

"......"

Rose clutched the hairpin, then turned around and ran off into the hedges. Queen and Ai followed after her. Once the three had vanished from sight, Shadow's body was able to move again.

"Ghh..." Shadow swung his Bloody Rain and fired it off at a nearby stone statue. The statue burst apart into rubble with a bang. "......"

It didn't matter to him that the hairpin had been stolen. It wasn't the genuine article in the first place. But...

Rose's words echoed in Shadow's mind. "There's no need for you to do anything for me."

So everything I did was useless...? Shadow tightened his fist, and then-- He spotted a tiny shadow moving at the other end of the garden. The aqua silhouette was Hachi, from behind. Hachi was looking up at the hanging garden and rustling about as if he was looking for something. That's...

"I see..." Shadow hit upon something and crouched down behind a nearby hedge, watching Hachi. "Now I'm down to one goal..." Shadow's eyes regained an evil glint.

[tealovesmycar]

Genre: Angst

Characters: Daniel, reader, Hank Anderson, Connor

Warning: I’m not English, I’m Italian, so if I’m wrong at the grammatical level, do not kill me pls. ILY BYE!

Despite your sweaty graduation, the business world has never rewarded you with the right pledge. Fault of your young age? The fault of the economic crisis? The fault of capitalism? Or maybe the androids, who now held even the most daily tasks? You did not shed tears for this, the world evolved more and more and this situation was like a “second industrial revolution” projected into a futurist world.

Fortunately you have found a mediocre part-time job at the DPD. Of course, the idea of investigating the Detroit cases attracted you a lot, even if it was not your field. And do you think they would have given you such an important job at first glance? Obviously not! Are you kidding? With a lot of “kindness” they put you into a sort of “Bob the Adjutant”. In practice a sort of slave: what was broken you repaired, cleaned, brought coffee, donuts etc … At this point, will you ask? But the androids and other robots involved in these tasks? Well the police department did not have so much money to afford it, so you can safely say that all those years of study, tears and sacrifices have been thrown to the toilet.

In the first few months of work, you had a kind of friendship with Lieutenant Anderson and his android Connor. Probably that man saw you as a daughter, given the great difference in age that separated you. And Connor … well, he was an android dedicated to his work, but at the same time he seemed to try to mix with the rest of his collaborators. It was a day like many others at the DPD and you were commissioned by Lieutenant Anderson to buy a box of donuts and a sugared Espresso (with three sachets of sugar, as the old man rightly pointed out). When you came back to the police department, you did not find the man and his buddy at their desk, so you asked around where they were hunted and the two colleagues went to the archive. So by going down the stairs you found yourself in your destination and approaching the lieutenant, you said: ❝Lieutenant Anderson, his breakfast, I did not find you at your desk, so they told me to look for you in the archive❞ you explained while the man a little annoyed at your presence there, he took his breakfast. ❝Technically, in the archive, people not involved in detective work are not allowed, miss (y/n)❞ Connor said firmly. Initially you did not understand, but your gaze was caught by the wall in front of you. There were objects, tablets with information and … a carcass of an android. You do not know why but your heart froze for this scene.

The android was hanging on the wall, with only the bust, with a side, shoulder, cheek and temple wounded by a firearm. This meant that the bright blue biocomponents could flow on the carcass. Even his arms had been brutally uprooted from his body. Your stomach was twisting through the malaise and regret, what had happened to that android…? With a thousand questions for your head, follow your obedient followers out of that dark and sinister underground.

↪ ᴀ ғᴇᴡ ᴍᴏᴍᴇɴᴛs ʟᴀᴛᴇʀ

❝Connor can I ask you something?❞ you asked, approaching his desk. He looked up intently in the eyes, as if he were studying your soul … that he was studying you to collect data? ❝Sure Miss (y/n), I am at your disposal❞ he replied with a formal gesture. You bit your lip slightly uncomfortable. ❝I…That android in the archive…what happened to him?❞ you asked, scratching your temple with your index finger. Connor seemed to hesitate for a few moments, the bright circle on his temple turned red, then yellow and then blue again. Did you perhaps touch a few sore keys? ❝He was called Daniel, Model PL600. He worked for the Philips family❞ he began to tell ❝One day his family decided to replace him with a more efficient and advanced model … This caused Daniel to unleash a malfunction, making him a deviant and consequently a danger for those who could surround him❞ said the android clearing his voice suddenly becoming gloomy. His LED turned yellow ❝He took the daughter of the Philips, Emma, ​​made her become hostage and going with her on the balcony, after killing her father, he threatened to throw himself into the void with the child…❞ you took a chair to sit next to you to your colleague ❝I was immediately assigned to the thing, I am a prototype of Cyberlife involved in these tasks. I convinced Daniel to let the girl go, but I could not guarantee him the same salvation…❞ admitted the android looking in his eyes, as if his own had become ice. ❝So as soon as I had the opportunity, I signaled to the snipers to shoot him point blank instantly❞ to that statement you felt the earth almost disappear under your feet. Did Connor really be able to do such a subtle and cruel thing? With a lump in my throat, you stood up for a moment watching that icy and formal machine. ❝Thank you Connor … for your cooperation❞ you said and then left.

❝Miss (y/n)…❞ Connor called you making you turn ❝I know what you think…his heartbeat is the proof❞ he commented and then look you in the eye again ❝I am a machine, not a monster and that was my task❞ …Yeah, just a machine. Yet the actions that Daniel had committed were all but the result of a technological device. He was alive, but society suppressed him before he could take his first breath.

↪ ᴛʜᴀᴛ ɴɪɢʜᴛ…

You were in your apartment, immersed in your thoughts. Daniel, the story of the deviant, was a topic that has always been current in this last period in Detroit, but until now it seemed to have turned only around you and did not enter your head. You did not want this to happen again, you wanted Daniel to be happy, free, alive. And yes, you would have gone against everyone, your boss your colleagues, Anderson, Connor, the Cyberlife. Was it really worth it to get out of the pawns of society? Yes, it was worth it.

You took a day off, pretending you sick. Those shirkers would buy donuts and coffee alone. You ordered some spare parts compatible with the PL600 model, for you to remember the codes and the necessary arts was a breeze (thanks to a degree in mechanical engineering). Unfortunately you had to say goodbye to many of your savings, but this was also a real challenge to understand to what extent your skills could go. The courier arrived the same evening and leaving the necessary at home, you headed to the DPD with the intent of approaching the archive. As you expected, there were still some people inside. Without making you notice too much, you wore the clothes of the departmental cleaning company, you approached the archive and with a few moves succeeded in hacking the security system and infiltrating inside. Here he is, in front of you … you were still in time to renounce this plan so crazy, but now you were determined to end this madness. Carefully, you took the android’s bust and put it in a trash bag and quickly left the store, you said you had to go throwing out the trash.

Return home to lay the body on your bed covered with sheets of cellophane. Did you know that the biocomponents would have stained every corner of your house and in addition to your money thrown away, you could not even throw away your house. You worked all night, without stopping, and when the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains of your house, you looked at the now completely reassembled body. The worst was done, now the operating system had to be reactivated, but it was several times that you tried to revive it and you could not finish anything. Esausta tried again one last time and with eyes heavy now decided to move away from the body of Daniel, for a few minutes to drink a cup of coffee to awaken a bit. You were busy drinking a cup of coffee while watching over the lifeless android, when suddenly his torso rose and the expression on his face was on the verge of shock. ❝EMMA❞ he screamed and then took an asthmatic breath. It scared you so much, that the steaming cup fell to the ground and shattered on your parquet. ❝WHO ARE YOU? DO NOT CLOSE TO ME! WHERE I AM? WHERE IS EMMA?!❞ he said as he tried in every way to get up from the ground, falling very roughly, however, for the lack of balance.We tried to approach you avoiding in every way to scratch with the shards of the cup. near the bed, where Daniel stood and gently, almost fearfully, touched his shoulders.“Daniel…”

❝DO NOT TOUCH ME❞ screamed in terror, making you almost shiver ❝I…I do not want to be deactivated! I…I…I do not want to die…❞ he said with tears in his eyes.

❝Daniel, I am (y/n) and I work for the DPD…❞

❝Are you a policeman then?!❞ he asked in terror and on the defensive.

❝No…I’m just an assistant…I do not center anything with the cases on you deviant❞

❝So why are you here…?❞ he asked, looking at you, perplexed.

❝I … I saw you, dead in the archive, they told me what happened to you and …❞

❝Connor lied to me…❞ the android commented with disdain.

❝I know…I could not think that they had destroyed you in such a despicable way…of course, I know, you got overwhelmed by your emotions and…blinded by anger you killed people…❞

❝Mr. Philips lied to me! I thought they loved me but instead…I was just a toy❞ the blonde replied, bursting into tears.

❝You’re not a toy for me, Daniel❞ you said seriously, while he looked at you in amazement. Hesitant you approached some fingers in his golden hair, trying to put them back in their place ❝When I saw you…In the archive I heard something and when they told me what you did…something clicked, in my heart there was something that screamed at me to bring you back to life, because I knew that despite your mistakes you just wanted to live and be free❞

The android seemed to have calmed down and looking around it seemed as if it were scanning the place, but at the same time it was elaborating the current situation. ❝So now you’re the one in trouble❞ he commented, casting a fleeting glance at you. At that moment it seemed that all the consequences of your plan so immature and crazy, came to the surface like an anomalous wave overwhelming you in full. ❝…Probably❞ you said almost not wanting to admit it. Daniel got out of bed looking for some clothes to wear. ❝Prepare your stuff…❞ he ordered impassively leaving you puzzled enough ❝And I want a car, as soon as we can leave and cross the border…No bastard cop will find us❞ he said with a sure tone, giving you his back. ❝I trust you, (y/n)❞ the android murmured, looking in the mirror, noting that it reflected your figure still sitting on the ground ❝See not to destroy it or I will leave you in the middle of the road❞

[gugulin]

leather jackets and cars -seongwoo scenario-

A/N: soooooo this is my first scenario on this blog!! (wooohoooo) lol. I really, really hope you guys like it… I originally was going to make this a guanlin scenario, but I decided it was too suggestive to make him the main character, so I changed it to seongwoo. anyways, hope you enjoy!! :-)

–WARNING: suggestive material

“Oh Daddy, I don’t want to spend all day in this stupid office!”

“You won’t be spending all day here…you’ll be spending all summer here.”

You groaned. Your father thought that instead of letting you spend your summer on beaches, by pool sides, with your friends, you should be in the police station. You’ll be sorting out his paperwork, transferring calls to his office, and taking down notes/messages for him. You thought it was the dullest thing in the world. Just because your father was a police captain did not mean you should throw away your whole summer.

He led you through the crowded office room to a desk beside his door. “You’ll sit here and work,” he said, “Answering calls, taking down messages, and speaking with very important officials in town. This will be a very important lesson for you, Y/N.”

“An important lesson in what, Dad?” you asked, sitting behind the desk.

“An important lesson in what happens to people when they commit crimes,” he gestured to the multiple desks nearby. You saw officers sitting down with unsavory-looking people handcuffed to their chairs. You could spot people sitting in the holding cells nearest you, eying you in your boat-neck sweater tucked into your burgundy skirt. “If you keep keepin’ on with this behavior of yours, you’re gonna end up like one of those hoodlums.”

“Daddy, just because I was smoking under the bleachers doesn’t mean I’m going to live a life of crime,” you said. “You’re such a square!”

“I may be a square, but I am your father and I don’t want you to start throwing your life away just because you want to be cool,” He said. “First it’s your grades, then it’s staying out after your curfew, and now it’s cigarettes!”

“But you smoke too, Daddy.”

“That’s because I’m an adult,” he said. He moved to his office, “Start sorting out those files on your desk. I’ll come back to check on your at lunch time…and wipe that lipstick off! There’s no red-lips allowed in the office, I told you!”

You didn’t listen. As you began shifting through the various reports, you understood your father’s concern completely, though found it completely unnecessary. If he bothered listening, he’d know your grades did not drop. Only the math class did, because Mrs. Burbage is a heinous bitch who confuses people on purpose. You stayed out past curfew because traffic held you up. You also smoked cigarettes on occasion; not all the time like he did. You did not get why he could not trust you. It’s as if you living your own life scared him. His little girl was making her own decisions, and they were decisions he didn’t agree with.

So, instead of conforming and trying to understand, he simply punished you.

You sorted out a lot of the messy paperwork your father handed you, and filed them in the correct cabinets. You made coffee for him, you set up meetings with town officials, and were glanced at by officers and offenders alike. You were the new girl; they’d grow tired of you eventually. Your day remained in a dull state before they were wrestled in.

“Hey, hey, hey! Watch the hair!” a tall brunette boy in a leather jacket said.

“Hands off the jacket!” A pink-haired one said, struggling out of an officer’s grip.

Eleven boys wearing black leather jackets, jeans and sneakers walked into the precinct. You recognized the logos on the backs of their jackets: the letter “W” with the number “1” right after it. You’d seen certain buildings tagged with such a logo on them around the seedier parts of town. Wanna One. You’d heard they were quite a rowdy group; they caused trouble on occasion like the other motorcycle gangs in town. These boys were young though; still school age, you can’t think of them doing anything particularly wrong. They were lead to a holding cell closest to you.

“Oh sweetheart!” The first boy groaned, “You are beautiful!” You blushed, looking away from him. “You don’t have to be shy, baby”

“Get in ‘ere, ya punk!” the policeman holding him said as he shoved him into the small cell. “We’re gonna ring all ya folks first, and then start laying out charges. In the meantime, we’re gonna thumb ya and put ya all on the books!.”

“Thumb me? Dick, that’s a little inappropriate, don’t you think?” The handsome brunette smirked. “What kind of police station is this?”

“Aargh! Ya lucky we ain’t doin’ cavity searches!” he slammed his baton on the bars to make him jump back. The police officer walked over to you, his demeanor suddenly changing. “I hate to do this to ya on ya first day, hun,” he began, “But somebody’s gotta get these boys checked in. Wallace will help ya out so the boys don’t, uh, you know do anything inappropriate towards ya.”

“No problem, Richard,” You smiled.

“Thanks, sweetie.” He explained the booking system to you, which was basically taking down information about each boy to have on file, and then charges could be made by police. “Wally, start bringin’ 'em over 'ere one at a time!”

Wallace, another officer, brought over the pink-haired boy, Daniel, you learned, smiled and flirted through his whole interview. You’d be lying if you said he wasn’t charming. The blondie, seungwoon, came up next. Much haughtier than the others, he flexed for you slightly as he stood there in front of you and made a suggestive comment or two. The handsome brunette, minhyun, tried to be flirty, though only ended up getting whacked by Wallace when his eyes fell to your cleavage.

The last one was the one who called you ‘sweetheart’. He came up to you quite smoothly without a fuss. His broad shoulders, long legs, and tall hair made him stand out from the rest of his gang. You tried not staring at his face for too long in fear your attraction might be given away.

“Name?” you asked.

“How about you put down 'Man of Your Dreams’?” he grinned.

You laughed, but Wallace clotted him, “Watch who you’re talking to, kid. That’s the captain’s daughter.”

He beamed, “Psh, even more reason to be so nice and friendly. What’s your name, sweetheart?”

“Y/N,” you replied. You then moved down the page, “Date of Birth?”

“August 25th, 1995,” he said.

“Height?”

“You mean vertically or horizontally?” he winked, smirking down at you.

You blushed a deep red, but this comment only got him hit by Wallace again. You went through the whole interview with his flirtations and suggestions, which resulted in him being hit again. You swore he’d have brain damage before the end of it. When Wallace took him back to the cell, you were charged with taking the files back to Richard’s desk. You walked by their cell, getting the usual hoots and hollers from them.

Seongwoo, though, simply glanced at you. You felt his eyes follow you around the office, though whenever you turned to him, he was focused on something else. Perhaps it is your head playing games with you. Also, you knew your father would never approve of a boy like him. Though, when he winked at you from across the room, you couldn’t stop yourself from blushing.

“You’re cute when you blush like that,” he said, angling his head at edge of the cell which was a few feet from you. “Perhaps I should come around here more often and make you blush like that all the time.”

“Then I wouldn’t have to bother putting blush on in the morning.”

“But you should keep on those red lips of yours,” he smiled. “They look…really good on you.”

You giggled, “You think so? My dad thinks it makes me look like a floosy.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “They bring out the shape of your lips, and makes them look very tempting.”

“Tempting for what, exactly?” You asked.

“Kissing. Slowly. Softly,” he suggestively. “I wouldn’t mind having that smeared all over me if it meant I could kiss you.”

You blushed a deep red, “Oh my…”

“How about you and I go out tonight? There’s a movie playing at the drive in. We can go in my car,” he said. “If you want.”

You considered his offer. “I suppose I could,” you shrugged. “I don’t see why not.” You knew why not. Dad would kill you for talking to him, let alone riding around in a car with him at night. He’ll probably try to cop a feel or make out with you, but you felt he wouldn’t try too hard. Plus, it would be a relief to go out with somebody new.

“Perfect,” he smiled. “Sounds like a date.”

“Ong! Your folks are here!” An officer called as he unlocked the cell.

“See you tonight, gorgeous,” he smiled.

Your father certainly won’t be happy about this.

[mindfulwrath]

Silver, Part V

Let’s play the “how much worse can we make it” game! This one’s a little shorter, but in my defense, it covers a lot of ground.

Words: 3,239 Warnings: Alcohol (ab)use, implied suicide

Part I Part IV

Jekyll woke up when Poole set a tray on his nightstand. He could smell scones and Earl Gray. He had a blistering headache and felt like his tongue was wearing a sock. Everything was sore, like he'd been run over by a carriage. Judging by the fuzziness of his memories, he might actually have been run over by a carriage. That might explain why his hand was a red mass of pain wrapped in bandages.

"What time is it?" Jekyll managed, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

"Eight o'clock, sir," Poole said.

Jekyll yawned, sitting up, and stretched. Poole bustled off in the direction of the window.

"That's not so—"

Poole flung open the curtains, and brilliant daylight flooded the room. Jekyll stopped mid-stretch, his eyes snapping open, a lance striking down his spine and locking it ramrod-straight.

"I'm sorry, Poole," Jekyll said, his voice gone glassy. "Could you repeat that?"

"It's eight in the morning, sir," Poole said. "By my watch, you've slept a bit over sixteen hours."

"And nobody thought to wake me?" Jekyll said.

Poole must have caught the edge in his voice, because he stayed over by the window.

"Everyone else was sleeping, sir," he said. "And Dr. Lanyon recommended you be allowed to wake on your own."

"I'm sure he did," Jekyll said. He got up out of bed. He was sore all over, his head pounding, but at least he was dressed, even if it was in yesterday's wrinkled clothes. "If you'll excuse me, I've got to get to the Society."

"Oh, come now, Dr. Jekyll," Poole said. "And let all this breakfast go to waste?"

"Poole," Jekyll said, clinging to his composure by his fingernails. "In less than ten days, I have to present an exhibition so stunningly brilliant that it will make the idiot masses forget that a quarter of London was burned to the ground. The building in which the vast majority of the items to be exhibited were housed has, likewise, been burned to the ground. I am responsible for a large number of people who are now homeless and, additionally, are on the bad side of every policeman and citizen within a ten mile radius. It is my sole responsibility, solely mine, to fix all of this mess within the next ten days, or the option of ever fixing it will vanish into thin air, and every ounce of work I have put into this Society and all its members along with it! If you will excuse me, Mr. Poole, I really must be going!"

"Yes, sir," Poole said, plastering himself to the wall. "Very good, sir."

Jekyll slipped his shoes on, hurriedly fixed his hair, and grabbed a scone and the cup of tea off the tray Poole had brought in.

"And thank you for the wake-up call," he said to Poole. "Perhaps a touch earlier next time."

"Yes, sir," Poole said again.

Jekyll hurried out. He didn't even taste the scone, barely noticed the tea burning his tongue. He only paused to grab his coat and hat and drop off the empty teacup with the maid. He headed straight for the Society, the brisk morning air whipping up his circulation. Much as he would have liked to be back in bed, there was nothing for it. He could sleep again when the exhibition was over.

The coat still smelled like Jasper.

When he got to the Society about fifteen minutes later, he'd managed to get his mind back into something resembling its proper order. The main priority would be figuring out what assets they still had left, what hadn't been destroyed, what was intact and what could be salvaged. Keeping everyone's spirits up was paramount—if the lodgers gave up, everything else was pointless. Finding what had become of Dr. Frankenstein and the creature was next, because having them on board for the exhibition would be ideal—

Because Frankenstein was ill and needed help, she came to you, they came to you for help—

Jekyll shook himself. He was getting sidetracked. He stopped for a moment in front of the Society, rubbing his hands against the cold. Someone had hung a large panel of canvas over the hole in the front, which was flapping gently in the breeze. All the fires finally seemed to have gone out. He hurried inside, chewing over his internal To-Do list. It was looking a little scrambled, fallen out of the order he had so meticulously put it in, and he was already having trouble remembering the lower items on the list.

The foyer was, to his relief, bustling with activity. Several of the lodgers seemed to have taken it upon themselves to clean up the mess, and had made significant headway with it in the time he'd been gone. It was with even greater relief that he noted that Jasper was not among them. However, shortly after he entered, a different figure detached itself from the crowd and beelined for him.

"Ah, Rachel, good morning," Jekyll said. "I was wondering if you'd—"

She stormed right up to him and slapped him. Jekyll saw stars. His ears rang. Blinking and stunned, he worked his jaw, concerned it might be dislocated.

"I quit," Rachel hissed. "Consider that my notice of resignation, Dr. Jekyll."

"Rachel—"

She shoved him, hard. He stumbled back, still discombobulated from the blow to the head.

"I don't care," she snapped. "I don't care about your excuses, or your reasons, or your stupid apologies! Take your silver tongue and choke on it!"

She stormed off. Jekyll stood very still, shaking with tension. He could feel the palm print stinging on his face. It would doubtless be visible for quite some time. His fists clenched on empty air. How dare she do this to him in public, how dare she make a spectacle of him, he ought to—

Throttle her! Hyde snarled, frothing with Jekyll's own rage.

Jekyll took a slow, deep breath. He straightened up. He fixed his shirt and his hair, settled his composure back in place. The anger would not leave him, burning like a hot coal in his chest, quickening his blood and reddening his thoughts.

"Er, sooooooo. . . ."

Jekyll came back to himself. Mr. Archer had sidled up to him, eyes darting. Several other people were staring. Jekyll cranked out his best smile and a little eye-roll.

"Sorry about that," he said. "I believe Miss Pidgley is a tad upset with me. I'm sure it'll blow over, given a bit of time."

"Rrrrrright," said Archer. "What was all that about, then?"

"Personal matters," Jekyll said. Blood was seeping through the bandages on his hand, the stitches pulling. "It's hardly important at the moment, hah hah."

"Hah hah," Archer agreed nervously. His eyes flicked to Jekyll's hand. Jekyll slipped the offending appendage behind his back, under his coat, and rested it in the crook of his other elbow.

"Was there something you needed, Mr. Archer?" he inquired.

"Me? No, nothing at all," said Archer, raising his hands in surrender. "Here to help, that's all."

"Very kind of you," said Jekyll. "In that case, I'm off to attempt some sort of comprehensive inventory. If you could find someone capable of consoling Miss Pidgley, I'd appreciate it."

"Will do," said Archer, tossing him a casual salute.

"Thank you," said Jekyll. "And if you see Mr. Kaylock, would you please let him know I'd like to speak with him?"

"Uh," said Archer, "sure."

Jekyll nodded to him and started off in the nearest convenient direction. He could feel the lodgers staring at him as he went.

The rest of the day was filled with so much work that everything else faded to a background chatter. He forgot to eat, of course, which wouldn't have been a problem if he hadn't stood up too fast in Dr. Maijabi's (thankfully untouched) laboratory and blacked out for a moment, after which he was scolded into the kitchen and scowled at mightily until he had actually eaten something. Rankled, he promptly excused himself to go check on his own laboratory, although he knew very well that it was perfectly fine. The lingering gazes of the lodgers were making him itch.

Once the heavy doors had closed behind him, he breathed easily again. The exhaustion leapt upon his back like a tiger, as though it had been waiting for him to let his guard down. He leaned his head back against the doors, sighing, eyes closed.

Now this seems familiar, Hyde chuckled.

"Oh, do go away," Jekyll said, rolling his eyes. "Don't you ever get tired of spouting the same old drivel every single day?"

So fucking tired, Hyde said. Why don't you just give up, and spare us both the pain?

"Abandoning all subtlety, are we?" Jekyll asked. He pushed himself off the door and went to his desk. There was plenty of paperwork that needed his attention. He could take care of it while he waited for the lodgers' gossiping to die down.

Maybe you are, said Hyde. I resent the implication I've ever been subtle.

"All right, then," Jekyll said, lowering himself into his chair. "Allow me to be blunt: go away."

You're never going to get all this shit sorted out before the exhibition, Hyde sneered. Run yourself into the ground if you like, you're already screwed.

"I wonder whose fault that is," Jekyll said. Without really noticing, he plucked up the half-empty bottle of wine from his desk and poured out a glass of it.

Yours, Hyde said. It's always your fault, isn't it? Everything you touch winds up ruined, it's no wonder your life's a shambles. You brought it on yourself and you know it. But by all means, keep putting your grubby little hands all over everything. See how much you can take down with you.

Jekyll sipped his wine, eyes on his paperwork.

Worked its magic on Rachel, Hyde said, lounging in the cheval glass. She hit you so hard I felt it. Not that you didn't deserve it, because you did. I told you it'd happen. And now she's out of a job, too, isn't she. Nicely done, Mr. Jesus.

Jekyll had just opened his mouth to retort when there was a knock at the door. He looked up, scowling. Hyde went up in a puff of smoke and was gone.

"Yes?" he said.

The door opened and, once again, Jasper poked his head in. Jekyll's heart skipped a beat, his stomach turned a flip.

"Um," said Jasper. "Miss Flowers said you wanted to see me."

"Yes, yes, come in, close the door," said Jekyll, averting his eyes. Jasper did as instructed, but stayed near the door, fidgeting.

"What was it . . . about?" he asked. His voice squeaked, and he cleared his throat.

Jekyll sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He was tempted to finish his wine, but that might not have looked particularly good for him. Instead he gestured to the chair by the lab bench.

"Please sit, Jasper," he said.

Heel, boy, Hyde sniggered. Now speak!

"All right," Jasper said uncertainly.

Good boy! Have a biscuit.

He went to the chair and sat like he expected it to bite him. Jekyll spent just a moment too long collecting his thoughts.

"What happened to your hand?" Jasper asked.

"Nothing," Jekyll said. "Had a minor glassware accident, it's nothing to be concerned about."

"All right," Jasper said dubiously.

Jekyll sighed. He leaned his elbows on his desk and stared at his hands.

"I wanted to say . . . how sorry I am," he said. "About what happened. It was . . . immensely unprofessional, entirely inappropriate, and . . . incredibly unfair. And I am deeply, deeply sorry, Jasper. I don't know what came over me. All I can say is that it won't happen again. That, I promise."

"Oh," said Jasper, and Jekyll did not miss the twinge of disappointment in his voice. It made him want to eat his entire stupid apology, and possibly his hat. "It's only—I thought Mr. Hyde would be more upset than I ever was."

"Why should Hyde give one single damn what I—"

Jekyll broke off mid-snap, reigning himself in. He took a deep breath and counted backwards from ten.

"Mr. Hyde," he said stiffly, "has no bearing on the matter whatsoever."

"He doesn't?" Jasper said, baffled. "It's only—I thought—"

"You thought what everyone thinks, and nonetheless it is still wrong," Jekyll interrupted.

Jasper shrank, apologetic, and Jekyll clenched his injured hand. That pain was easier to bear.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I am sorry, Jasper. I've—it's only that I've heard that rumor one too many times. It does rather get under one's skin, hah hah. You may rest assured that this particular matter—and all of my personal affairs—do not concern him in the least."

"Oh," Jasper said again, sounding considerably more upbeat. "Then—sorry, then what's the problem?"

"The problem," Jekyll began, and had to stop. The words were too hard to say, too final, too foul. He glanced at Jasper, at the naïve and fragile hope in his face, and wished himself dead on the spot.

"Yeah?" Jasper prompted.

"The problem, Jasper, is that I am in a position of far too much power over you for anything—any unprofessional associations to ever be . . . sane," he said, although his voice shook. "I never, ever want to put you in a position where you would feel uncomfortable saying no to me. I refuse to even allow the possibility. Your safety is of paramount importance to me, and this—this isn't safe. This can never be safe, so long as you are a lodger at the Society and a rogue scientist under my provision. There's simply too much leverage on my side. I'm sorry, Jasper. I'm sorry this even had to be brought up."

"But—you'd never do anything like that," Jasper said. "Use the Society and all of your—everything to manipulate me. You'd never use any of that leverage, I know you wouldn't."

"Jasper—" Jekyll began, distraught. He put a hand over his face, shaking, ruinous. It had to be said, even if it killed him. Hyde could have done it. Hyde could have had it done with five minutes ago. "You have known me all of four days, Mr. Kaylock. I am not the saint you imagine me to be."

Jasper was very quiet. There was no air in the room. Jekyll's stomach was full of maggots. He braced himself, for anger, for betrayal, for the sting of a sharp and well-deserved rebuke.

"Oh," said Jasper, and it was worse than anything Jekyll could have imagined.

"I'm so sorry," he mumbled. "I'm so sorry, Jasper. It should never have come to this."

Jasper stood up.

"It's all right," he said, and he sounded nothing so much as disappointed. "Thanks for talking with me about it, anyway. It's good to know where things stand. It's good to have the air cleared out."

Jekyll could only nod. He had to keep his eyes closed. He couldn't look. He couldn't bear to look.

"I'll . . . see you round, Dr. Jekyll," Jasper said, and Jekyll's heart snapped in two.

"I suppose you will, Mr. Kaylock," he managed.

Jasper walked away. Jekyll clenched his fist until it bled and prayed the earth would swallow him whole.

Hyde at least gave him a few minutes before he started niggling.

Those are called "feelings," he said helpfully, while Jekyll nursed his second glass of wine. I know it's been an awfully long time since you've had any, so if you need any help with them—

"No," Jekyll said flatly.

Oh, fine, go on wrecking everything, then, Hyde said, smug. It's getting funny at this point.

Jekyll sipped his wine. The pain in his hand was starting to fade, and he wasn't sure he liked it.

"It was one mistake," he said, "and it's fixed now."

Fixed? Hah! You've fucked it up worse than ever! If you want it fixed, now, I can fix it.

"No you can't," he said.

There's no inconvenient power dynamic between me and the wolflet, Hyde purred. You can have it all~

"In four more days, you can state your case," Jekyll said, although he was aching. "Until then, it will do you no good."

Give it up, doctor, Hyde said. You've already lost, and you know it. You were always too weak to make it, and now you've got the proof to back it up. Isn't that what your ~science~ is all about? Well congratulations, dear doctor, we've empirically proved you're a failure!

Jekyll sat for a long moment, his jaw clenched, his hands shaking. He opened the carved wooden box on his desk and drew out a key. He felt Hyde go ice cold inside him.

What are you doing? he said.

Deliberately, Jekyll turned and unlocked the top drawer of his cabinet. Hyde swarmed across the glass, frenzied and turbulent.

Jekyll, what are you doing? he demanded.

Eyes down, he rifled through the contents until he found the right phial. He tapped out a measure of the white salt into his wine. His hands were steady. His face was stone. There was no heartbeat in his chest.

Stop, Hyde said, pressing his hands to the inside of the nearest cabinet's glass. Stop this right now. You stubborn, spiteful ass! What are you trying to accomplish? What could you possibly hope to gain?!

Like a clockwork soldier, Jekyll carried on. He stirred and stirred until the spoon stopped crunching at the bottom of the glass, until the salt was all dissolved. He raised the glass to his lips and took a single bitter sip.

Henry, for God's sake! Hyde screamed.

Finally, Jekyll paused. The wine tingled on his tongue. He met Hyde's eyes in the glass, took in his desperation, his abject terror—basked in it, reveled in it. He raised an eyebrow.

Please, said Hyde.

Jekyll spat the mouthful of poisoned wine back into the glass, then took the whole ensemble to the chemical waste bin and poured it out.

"Don't test me, Hyde," he said. His voice did not so much as quaver. "You will always, always lose."

You're a madman, Hyde spat. You're a lunatic!

"If I am, then so are you," Jekyll said, unconcerned. He rolled up his sleeves and washed his hands. His tongue was still tingling. He rinsed his mouth out cursorily. "But you don't care much about that, do you. You care very little about anything but yourself. Fortunately, I still have the power to take even that from you."

Much good it'll do you when you're dead.

"I shall be laughing in hell," Jekyll said.

Look at yourself, Jekyll, Hyde sneered. Is this what you wanted? Was this where your ~grand designs~ were meant to carry you? You are everything they accuse you of, everything you built your stupid Society to dismantle. Hypocrite. Liar.

"No," Jekyll said, as though instructing a child, "you are a hypocrite and a liar. I am a gentleman. And if you will stop annoying me, perhaps I will allow you a night out."

Hah, you're cracking, Hyde said, without venom, or indeed much feeling at all.

"Don't push your luck, Edward," Jekyll said sweetly.

Hyde did not say anything else.

[ceruleanvulpine]

asoue reread: les miserables (mills)

optometry! cross-dressing! hypnosis! me, in the background, speculating about the arc plot!

To Beatrice- My love flew like a butterfly Until death swooped down like a bat As the poet Emma Montana McElroy said: "That's the end of that."

The first time I reread this I looked up the source of that poem, and it turns out to be from a third-grader in an asoue-themed poetry contest. Ms. McElroy (presumably no relation) says that she “like[s] sad stories, because after reading them you can get happy again until you're ready to read one again”. Relatable, Emma. 

But this book begins with the sentence "The Baudelaire orphans looked out the grimy window of the train and gazed at the gloomy blackness of the Finite Forest, wondering if their lives would ever get any better," and you should be able to tell that the story that follows will be very different from the story of Gary or Emily or the family of cunning little chipmunks.

It doesn’t, Lemony, there are two full paragraphs before that sentence is said! 

And the only trophy they would win would be some sort of First Prize for Wretchedness.

Can someone draw the kids with a First Prize For Wretchedness Trophy, cool, thanks

I'm now the Vice President in Charge of Coins

¿¿¿??¿?

Mr. Poe took a piece of paper out of his pocket and squinted at it. "His name is Mr. Wuz- Mr. Qui- I can't pronounce it. It's very long and complicated."

"I have given Mr. Bek- Mr. Duy- I have given your new caretaker a complete description of Count Olaf," said Mr. Poe. "So if by some stretch of the imagination he shows up in Paltryville, Mr. Sho- Mr. Gek- will notify the authorities."

Lifehack: if you discover Sir’s true name, you can compel him to release you from your lumber compact. 

Alongside the sidewalk, where a row of trees might have been, were towering stacks of old newspapers instead.

(squints) Doesn’t the fact that VFD stores old newspapers in stacks on the Paltryville streets get mentioned in UA or somewhere? (Or was that a fanfic? >.>)

Other than a sign I saw once that said "Beware" in letters made of dead monkeys, the "Lucky Smells Lumbermill" sign was the most disgusting sign on earth

?????¿

It is much, much worse to receive bad news through the written word than by somebody simply telling you, and I'm sure you understand why. When somebody simply tells you bad news, you hear it once, and that's the end of it. But when bad news is written down, whether in a letter or a newspaper or on your arm in felt tip pen, each time you read it, you feel as if you are receiving the news again and again. For instance, I once loved a woman, who for various reasons could not marry me. If she had simply told me in person, I would have been very sad, of course, but eventually it might have passed. However, she chose instead to write a two-hundred-page book, explaining every single detail of the bad news at great length, and instead my sadness has been of impossible depth. When the book was first brought to me, by a flock of carrier pigeons, I stayed up all night reading it, and I read it still, over and over, and it is as if my darling Beatrice is bringing me bad news every day and every night of my life.

Lemony --

You know, I don’t think hearing it in person would have helped? 

Klaus frowned at the hand-drawn map that was attached to the note with another wad of gum, "This map looks pretty easy to read," he said. "The dormitory is straight ahead, between the storage shed and the lumbermill itself."

Violet looked straight ahead and saw a gray windowless building on the other side of the courtyard. "I don't want to live," she said, "between the storage shed and the lumbermill itself."

I love her...

I'm sure you have heard it said that appearance does not matter so much, and that it is what's on the inside that counts. This is, of course, utter nonsense, because if it were true then people who were good on the inside would never have to comb their hair or take a bath, and the whole world would smell even worse than it already does.

I’m not.. sure that follows.

"You must be Violet, Klaus, and Sunny Baudelaire," the somebody said, and the children turned to see a very tall man with very short hair. He was wearing a bright blue vest and holding a peach. He smiled and walked toward them, but then frowned as he drew closer. "Why, you're covered in pieces of bark," he said. "I hope you haven't been hanging around the lumbermill. That can be very dangerous for small children."

Chaaaaaarles! 

He’s just as useless as every other adult in the damn series, but I have a soft spot for him anyway. Maybe because he’s Gay And Useless. 

"That doesn't matter," Charles replied. "When Sir has made up his mind, he has made up his mind. I know he sometimes is a little bit mean, but you'll have to excuse him. He had a very terrible childhood. Do you understand?"

Violet looked at the painting of the seashore, and thought once again of that dreadful day at the beach. "Yes," she sighed. "I understand. I think I'm having a very terrible childhood myself."

This is still such a good line.

But although all the workers looked tired, and sad, and hungry, none of them looked evil, or greedy, or had such awful manners.

):

and at that moment one of the children had a trick played on him which I hope has never been played on you. This trick involves sticking your foot out in front of a person who is walking, so the person trips and falls on the ground. A policeman did it to me once, when I was carrying a crystal ball belonging to a Gypsy fortune-teller who never forgave me for tumbling to the ground and shattering her ball into hundreds of pieces. It is a mean trick, and it is easy to do, and I'm sorry to say that Foreman Flacutono did it to Klaus right at this moment.

1. Was that Madame Lulu? 

2. The similar incident in ATWQ 3 still makes this funnier to me.

When they arrived at the dormitory, Violet and Sunny looked out the window to watch for him, and they were so anxious that it took them several minutes to realize that the window was not a real one, but one drawn on the blank wall with a ballpoint pen.

either they’re VERY anxious or this is some shockingly good ballpoint trompe l’oeil

"Klaus, we were so worried about you," Violet said, hugging her brother as he reached them. "You were gone for so long. Whatever happened to you?"

"I don't know," Klaus said, so quietly that his sisters had to lean forward to hear him. "I can't remember."

"You'd better get to bed, Klaus," Violet said. "Follow me."

 At last, Klaus spoke. "Yes, sir," he said, quietly.

Okay. People differ in their opinions on when this series Gets Horrifying. Monty’s death is upsetting, certainly, and Olaf trying to marry Violet is scary, and when he pushes Josephine off the boat it’s chilling...

But IMO hypnotized!Klaus is a sudden uptick in fear level. (At least, it’s the thing I very clearly remembered even after I hadn’t read the books in years.) He doesn’t take his shoes off before going to bed! And Violet does and then in the morning he gets up and goes off to work without putting them back on! That’s Horrifying(tm)

My chauffeur once told me that I would feel better in the morning, but when I woke up the two of us were still on a tiny island surrounded by man-eating crocodiles, and, as I'm sure you can understand, I didn't feel any better about it.

YOU OKAY, LEMONY?? 

Violet and Sunny sat down beside him, confused and frightened, and put their arms around their brother as though they were afraid he was floating away. They sat there like that, a heap of Baudelaires, until Foreman Flacutono clanged his pots together to signal the end of the break.

;-; ;-; ;-;

Then everyone had to blow on the stamp so it dried quickly.

That doesn’t seem efficient, but I don’t know what I expected from Sir. 

And I simply cannot describe the grotesque and unnerving sight—the words "grotesque" and "unnerving" here mean "twisted, tangled, stained, and gory"—of poor Phil's leg. It made Violet's and Sunny's stomachs turn to gaze upon it, but Phil looked up and gave them a weak smile.

Yikes!

"No, no," Phil said. "It's fine. I've never liked my left leg so much, anyway." "Not your leg, you overgrown midget," Foreman Flacutono said impatiently.

me: children

bald man: midgets

me: adults? 

bald man: overgrown midgets

...and at this point in the story of the Baudelaire orphans, I would like to interrupt for a moment and answer a question I'm sure you are asking yourself. It is an important question, one which many, many people have asked many, many times, in many, many places all over the world. The Baudelaire orphans have asked it, of course. Mr. Poe has asked it. I have asked it. My beloved Beatrice, before her untimely death, asked it, although she asked it too late. The question is: Where is Count Olaf?

That does seem like a pretty straightforward implication that, yep, it was Olaf. The books are not as subtle about this as tumblr user Istoki insinuated to me. :P

Dr. Orwell was a tall woman with blond hair pulled back from her head and fashioned into a tight, tight bun. She had big black boots on her feet, and was holding a long black cane with a shiny red jewel on the top.

Book Orwell was blonde? I had forgotten this.

Also jeez no wonder people think she’s hot. Boots! Boots.

"Have you ever encountered," Dr. Orwell said, "in your reading, the expression 'You catch more flies with honey than with vinegar'?"

Aw man I was mad at the netflix show for giving her Esmé’s line but it was her line all along! I was incorrect. 

The buildup to the payoff of that line is so good. Georgina is so much more competent than Olaf. 

"That wig and that lipstick don't fool us any more than your palebrown dress and sensible beige shoes. You're Count Olaf."

The word “palebrown” appears twice in this page and I am very perplexed. I also love... book Shirley: sensible receptionist’s outfit! Netflix Shirley: red red red red red re

Count Olaf shook his head. "But if you do something impolite to me" he said, "then I might do something impolite to you, like for instance tearing your hair out with my bare hands."

Zero to sudden threats of violence in two pages after his appearance: the Count Olaf MO!!!

"Possibly," Shirley said, crossing her legs and revealing long white stockings imprinted with the pattern of an eye.

#nice

"Don't be ab—" Violet said, but she stopped herself before she could say "surd." 

[...]

"Ab?" said a voice behind her. "What in the world does the word 'ab' mean?" 

Violet and Sunny turned around and saw Dr. Orwell leading Klaus into the waiting room. He was wearing another new pair of glasses and was looking confused. 

"Klaus!" Violet cried. "We were so worried ab—" She stopped herself before she could say "out" when she saw her brother's expression.

[...]

"There you go again, with 'ab,'" Dr. Orwell said. "Whatever in the world does it mean?" 

"'Ab' isn't a word, of course," Shirley said. "Only a stupid person would say a word like 'ab.'" 

"They are stupid, aren't they?" Dr. Orwell agreed, as though they were talking about the weather instead of insulting young children. "They must have very low self-esteem."

 "I couldn't agree more, Dr. Orwell," Shirley said.

"Call me Georgina," the horrible optometrist replied, winking. 

STOP BEING SO MEAN TO THESE CHILDREN.. Also “”Call me Georgina,” the horrible optometrist replied, winking,” is such an incredible sentence? I’m glad they’re exes in the show.

Violet tried to smile at Phil, but her smiling muscles just stayed put. She knew—or she thought she knew, anyway, because she was actually wrong—that the only thing in disguise was Count Olaf.

... Wait, what else is in disguise? ... Orwell’s sword-cane? 

"Hypnosis! Count Olaf! Fiti! I've had enough of your excuses!" he yelled.

Sir is terrible, but this is the second or third time he’s just accepted Sunny’s baby talk as comprehensible speech, which amuses me. Also Klaus isn’t at this meeting because he’s hypnotized and VIOLET THOUGHT HE MIGHT MURDER SIR

"They are being treated like members of the family," Sir said. "Many of my cousins live there in the dormitory. I refuse to argue with you, Charles! You're my partner! Your job is to iron my shirts and cook my omelettes, not boss me around!"

"You're right, of course," Charles said softly. "I'm sorry."

Sorry Charles(tm). your inability to stand up to sir doesn’t excuse letting the children be neglected but i do still feel bad for you

Violet and Sunny sighed, and thought of their poor hypnotized brother. Klaus seemed so different from the brother they knew that it was almost as if Count Olaf had already succeeded with his dastardly scheme, and destroyed one of the Baudelaire orphans.

):

His eyes were usually all squinty from reading, and now they were wide as if he had been watching TV instead.

>:T

1. Introduction 1 2. Basic Ophthalmology 105 3. Nearsightedness and Farsightedness 279 4. Blindness 311 5. Itchy Eyelashes 398 6. Damaged Pupils 501 7. Blinking Problems 612 8. Winking Problems 650 9. Surgical Practices 783 10. Glasses, Monocles, and Contact Lenses 857 

11. Sunglasses 926 12. Hypnosis and Mind Control 927 13. Which Eye Color Is the Best One? 1,000

I’m still losing my mind about this table of contents from Dr. Orwell’s book. Which eye color *is* the best one, anyway? How big of a problem are itchy eyelashes? Why is there only one page on sunglasses? 

AND ARE THERE ANY BOOKS IN THIS UNIVERSE WITH A NUMBER OF CHAPTERS OTHER THAN THIRTEEN

"We just stopped by to make sure everything went well," Dr. Orwell said, gesturing to the saw with her black cane. "And I'm certainly glad we did. Lucky!" she shouted to Klaus. "Do not listen to your sisters!"

This moment in the book: p good. This moment in the show: made me fall in love with Dr. Orwell a little. She’s just so satisfied with her own cleverness! 

"Oh no you can't!" Klaus cried, and stepped forward to push Charles out of the way.

"Oh yes we can!" Foreman Flacutono said, and stuck his foot out again. You would think that such a trick would only work a maximum of two times, but in this case you would be wrong, and in this case Klaus fell to the floor again, his head clanging against the pile of debarkers and tiny green boxes.

YOU WOULD THINK THAT SUCH A TRICK WOULD ONLY WORK A MAXIMUM OF TWO TIMES

There are also, like, six lines of “Oh no you can’t!”/”Oh yes we can!” from various characters, including an “Oh toonoy!” from Sunny. Then Sunny bites Dr Orwell on the hand and Orwell yells “Gack!”, breaking the combo. 

Then..

But then she smiled and used an expression that was in French: "En garde!" "En garde!," as you may know, is an expression people use when they wish to announce the beginning of a sword-fight, and with a wicked smile, Dr. Orwell pressed the red jewel on top of her black cane, and a shiny blade emerged from the opposite end. In just one second, her cane had become a sword, which she then pointed at the youngest Baudelaire orphan. But Sunny, being only an infant, had no sword. She only had her four sharp teeth, and, looking Dr. Orwell right in the eye, she opened her mouth and pointed all four at this despicable person.

I understand why this wasn’t in the show... but I love it so much. It’s so fucking ridiculous. Lemony describes the dramatic clanging of blades ringing against each other except that SUNNY JUST HAS HER TEETH. Also: 

There is a loud clink! noise that a sword makes when it hits another sword—or, in this case, a tooth—and whenever I hear it I am reminded of a swordfight I was forced to have with a television repairman not long ago.

Macros I need: “Thanks Lemony,” “u ok Lemony” 

Klaus needed to invent something to stop the machine, and he needed to invent it right away.

God, I love that in this book Violet has to research hypnosis and Klaus has to invent a thing. I think I’m overall glad they didn’t include it, because Klaus’ stretched-gum-log-grabber is kind of silly ... but the skill-swapping is really cute and I hope we get to see it later on.

Hukkita —hukkita—hukkita! The machine began making the loudest and roughest sound Klaus had ever heard. Charles closed his eyes, and Klaus knew that the blade must have hit the bottom of his foot.

HEY THIS IS TERRIFYING JUST FYI

Gathering up all of his strength—and, after working at a lumbermill for a while, he actually had quite a bit of strength for a young boy—he grabbed his invention, and pulled. Klaus pulled on his debarker, and the debarker pulled on the gum, and the gum pulled on the log, and to the relief of all three Baudelaire orphans the log moved to one side.

THE GUM WOULD JUST STRETCH, HANIEL

(i know, i know, it’s not strictly realistic! but! aaaaaa) 

For just as Dr. Orwell was about to bring her sword down on little Sunny's throat, the door of the lumbermill opened and Sir walked into the room. "What in the world is going on?" he barked, and Dr. Orwell turned to him, absolutely surprised. When people are absolutely surprised, they sometimes take a step backward, and taking a step backward can sometimes lead to an accident. Such was the case at this moment, for when Dr. Orwell stepped backward, she stepped into the path of the whirring saw, and there was a very ghastly accident indeed.

I love, uh... 

This thing Lemony does where he goes from describing a specific situation to describing something in general terms that MIGHT happen or SOMETIMES happens, but which has ominous implications for the current situation, and then after this suspense-building, worrying delay gets back to the main story. See also: Violet reads the first, incredibly dense sentence of Dr. Orwell’s book, looks at the table of contents to see where to skip to, and then Lemony immediately launches into a definition of “stylistic consistency” and you know exactly where it’s headed. 

Anyway. Yes. Doctor Orwell. This works better when she’s .. about to stab.. Sunny on the ground, instead of carrying her as in the show. 

The Baudelaire orphans sat together on the floor of Sir's office and looked up at the adults discussing the situation, wondering how in the world they could talk about it so calmly. The word "dreadful," even when used three times in a row, did not seem like a dreadful enough word to describe everything that had happened. Violet was still trembling from how Klaus had looked while hypnotized. Klaus was still shivering from how Charles had almost been sliced up. Sunny was still shaking from how she had almost been killed in the swordfight with Dr. Orwell. And, of course, all three orphans were still shuddering from how Dr. Orwell had met her demise, a phrase which here means "stepped into the path of the sawing machine." The children felt as if they could barely speak at all, let alone participate in a conversation.

Aaaand getting sawed up is a lot less of a Disney Villain Death than stepping backwards and disappearing into a fire, huh? If I were a child of fourteen, twelve, or one, I would not like to see someone sawed up.

"If your left ankle does not have a tattoo of an eye on it," Mr. Poe said, "then you are most certainly not Count Olaf."

Shirley's eyes shone very, very bright, and she gave everyone in the room a big, toothy smile. "And what if it does?" she asked, and hitched up her skirt slightly. "What if it does have a tattoo of an eye on it?"

Stop!! smiling!!!

Count Olaf shrugged, sending his wig toppling to the floor, and smiled at the Baudelaires in a way they were sorry to recognize. It was a certain smile that Count Olaf had just when it looked like he was trapped. It was a smile that looked as if Count Olaf were telling a joke, and it was a smile accompanied by his eyes shining brightly and his evil brain working furiously.

We’re four for four on this phenomenon!

Even a boarding school sounded like it would be better than their days with Foreman Flacutono, Dr. Orwell, and the evil Shirley. I'm sorry to tell you that the orphans were wrong about boarding school being better, but at the moment they knew nothing of the troubles ahead of them, only of the troubles behind them, and the troubles that had escaped out the window.

I mean, at least they get to make some friends there.

(and boarding school isn’t INHERENTLY bad ok)

"Well, let me think," Phil said, and thought for a moment. In the background, the orphans could hear the dim sounds of Mr. Poe describing Count Olaf to somebody on the telephone. "You're alive," Phil said finally. "That's lucky. And I'm sure we can think of something else."

I like that the culmination of Phil’s useless optimism in the book is.. well, yeah, everything sucks, but the kids are genuinely a little cheered by thinking about how they could have died and didn’t. A bunch of the earlier books have about one page of hopefulness at the end. I don’t think it lasts. 

LEMONY SNICKET grew up near the sea and currently lives beneath it. To his horror and dismay he has no wife or children, only enemies, associates, and the occasional loyal manservant. His trial has been delayed, so he is free to continue researching and writing the tragic tales of the Baudelaire orphans for HarperCollins.

Let’s see, he was living in the city, he was going to be put on trial, now his trial’s been delayed and he’s (presumably) living on the Queequeg. At what point do we start getting the worrying asides about “the author’s execution has been cancelled”? :P 

[thirdpoliceman]

A Preface: On Qualifications

To preface, there is nothing objective I can tell you about The Third Policeman that you can’t find on its Wikipedia page, or its Lostpedia page, or its page on whatever other ‘pedias are out there. This blog doesn’t exist to discuss the history of the novel by Brian O’Nolan (a/k/a Flann O’Brien) or trivia surrounding its writing, publication, critical reception, or plot details. Rather, its aim is even lower: to provide the reader with my subjective opinions and other thoughts, had while reading the novel and shared in a series of posts relating to the novel’s various bits, arranged in sequential order from its beginning to its end.

About the novel generally, I will discuss the plot in my posts to come on the book. Other than that, suffice it to be said it was written in 1939-40, but was not published until 1967, a year after its author’s death. Whether Mr. O’Brien had to sign a deal with Satan to publish the novel in exchange for his life is uncertain, and I don’t intend to teach the controversy here. But for all those aspiring writers out there, note the lesson in this: You may have to literally die for your work to be published, so work hard, drink heavily, smoke, and don’t exercise because the sooner you die, the sooner you will be published.

Of course, by the time of his death, Mr. O’Nolan/Brien was a well-known author who had had several other of his widely varying works published and critically praised. So perhaps the lesson is actually: If you die as a successful author, they will publish all your leftover, unpublished shit and sing its praises lest they be accused of spitting on your grave. In that case, you should probably work hard, drink in moderation, don’t smoke, and try to get away from the keyboard an exercise because they won’t publish your really cool stuff unless you get successful while you’re alive and that takes time.

You’ll have to decide which lesson to choose. You should probably choose the latter lesson though, because if you choose the former and are wrong, then you are dead and have a very limited opus from which your posthumous publishers will get to choose. And really, why would they publish anything of yours? Moreover, you will have had very little if any chance to enjoy success during your life. On the plus side, you will get to party balls.

If you choose the latter option you will get to live a long, somewhat fulfilling life, and will produce a lot of writing. And even if the only people who read it are your wife, children, and three lonely guys on Tumblr, you will have achieved something. The bad part there is—and you should have seen this coming a mile away—it is boring and hard.

I can’t offer any guidance on which lesson to take from the posthumous publication of Mr. Nolan/O’Brien’s masterwork. I only explain the lessons.

But back to the book. The Third Policeman received some favorable reviews at the time of its publication, and various critics have revisited it since then, with the consensus seeming to be that is one of the finest and earliest examples of postmodern meta-fiction. However, outside of certain marijuana-favoring literary circles the book has largely done its labor of existing in obscurity, with the exception being a brief period around 2005.

It was then that a copy of the book appeared a couple of times in the background of the hit ABC television show, Lost. You see, by 2005, many people had DVRs, then widely known as “TiVOs.” Also, many people were obsessed by Lost and would pause the show during repeated watchings to look for clues in the sets to further understand the show’s multifaceted, stoner-bait plot and backstory.

When The Third Policeman was spotted in the show, rumors of its relevancy to Lost circulated on the show’s numerous internet forums. (I know its fora. And if you’re reading this, you’re probably the kind of person who is saying that to yourself right now.) In interviews, the show’s creators and writers confirmed that the book influenced the show in some important way. How it influenced the show was never made clear, however. What’s more, several writers admitted they hadn’t even read the book. Thus, it seems that The Third Policeman’s influence on Lost was just some random bullshit inserted in the show to drive audience mania for all things Lost and to “keep ‘em guessing.” This lame, cynical trick largely worked because it was said that The Third Policeman sold more copies in three weeks of 2005 than it had in the preceding six years.

I will freely admit that my interest in the book arose during its brief popular heyday during Lost mania. I never saw then and have never seen to this day a single episode of Lost. However, I had read about Lost and the mentions of The Third Policeman stoked my curiosity.

Sometime around 2009, I finally got around to reading it. I liked it mainly because it seemed like something cool to be able to tell people I had read, especially people into Lost. Also, it was short and I was working a lot at that time, so I could not get into a long book. Finally, it actually was good. It was weird and interesting and funny, and seemed to me like the kind of book I would write if I got around to writing a book, by which I mean it was discursive, meta, plainly written, clever, and totally absurd.

It was so absurd that I wondered about a man who could dedicate so many hours to writing a book so disconnected from anything obviously connected to reality, including any concepts or emotions that people would actually feel in their lives. But I liked that he had, and it gave me hope that I could too, though I haven’t yet.

Of course, a lot of critics seem to say the book does have a lot to say about religion, philosophy, the nature of good and evil, et cetera. And that may be true. But it takes too much knowledge to understand those references and they are probably just reflections of the critics’ own beliefs anyway. To O’Nolan/Brien, based on the limited quotes from him I have read, it seems more likely The Third Policeman was just a funny book with what he thought was an original plot mechanism and “any amount of scope for back-chat and funny cracks.”

With Lost off the air and twelve years having passed since the show gave The Third Policeman a brief entree into the mainstream, I think now is a good time to give to it what every piece of pop culture needs: a blog solely dedicated to it, written by someone with no particular qualifications. After all, how will the book be remembered in the paperless, Singularity-y future if one of the five hundred million Tumblr pages in the world doesn’t spend a few paragraphs offering my thoughts (a/k/a bullshitting) about each chapter?

Why would you would be interested in my thoughts? Am I even qualified to write this blog? I cannot say. I don’t pretend that my thoughts are insightful, informative, or interesting in any way. Perhaps if you are a high-schooler or undergraduate, you can use them in a book report or similar coursework and call them your own. After all, I am sure this blog will remain utterly unknown so that your plagiarism would go unnoticed. (Note - I do not endorse plagiarism or cheating in any way, but it’s your life, ed.) Whether doing so would raise or lower your grade is your call. I make no guarantees.

Somewhat earnestly, however, I can humbly say that I am qualified to write the blog. I have read The Third Policeman three (!) times. It is one of only a handful of books I have read more than once. Now, to put my expertise in perspective, The Third Policeman (2002 paperback edition from Dalkey Archive Press) is ranked 65,297 in book sales on Amazon.com. I don’t know what that translates to in raw numbers, but Novelrank.com provides some guidance. According to them, The Third Policeman sold 760 copies in 2016 on Amazon.com and less than ten each on the various country-specific Amazon sites listed. Let’s assume that’s typical for the past few years. Let’s further assume that in 2005-06, during the Lost craze, it sold 15,000 copies. Let’s add another 50% of the total each year for book sales from Barnes & Noble online, to be very generous. Then throw in a few dozen more for brick and mortar sales, that number increasing the further one goes back in time, especially before Amazon’s dominance, Borders going out of business, etc. Finally, let’s go back all the way to 1967 when it was published, including an initial burst of sales then. All together, pulling the roughest guess out of my ass, The Third Policeman has sold 75,000 copies in the 47 years since it’s been published.

Those copies have probably been passed around and some reside in libraries, but many others have been thrown away or otherwise lost or destroyed. So, perhaps 350,000 people have actually read The Third Policeman. But many of them have died since 1967. Let’s assume that 300,000 living persons have read The Third Policeman. Of them, perhaps 30,000 read a foreign translation and are not fluent in English. Of the remaining 270,000, I would rest assured that no more than 40,000 have read the book more than once. There are about 7,408,000,000 people in the world today. I am sure more than 1.5 billion of those are children under 18, but let’s assume 1.5 billion kids. That means I am one of 40,000 living English speakers among 5.908 billion adults to have read The Third Policeman more than once. Accordingly, I am more qualified than 99.99932295193% of the population of Earth to write about The Third Policeman.

Further, I have taken notes in the margins. I have written notes out elsewhere by chapter. I have a bachelor of arts degree and a law degree. I am a published author of several dozen humorous essays on three websites (that no longer exist) and have even been paid for my work on one occasion. I feel that adds to my qualifications.

On the other hand, many other English speakers who have read The Third Policeman are undoubtedly English majors, or Literature majors, or have more advanced degrees in those subjects, or are already professional critics or academics in the field of postmodern literature and criticism. I admit this may diminish my relative qualifications somewhat.

But finally, how many of those more qualified than me are or are planning to write criticisms of The Third Policeman? We simply don’t know. But if it comes to that, you are welcome to read the many fine critiques and examinations of The Third Policeman out there if you find this blog insufficiently academic for your uses.

In sum, I think I have the qualifications to write this blog. Nonetheless, if you have doubts about whether this blog will satisfy your longing for meta commentary about The Third Policeman, but are willing to keep an open mind, I urge you to read on. Comment if you wish. Join, if you will, the dwindling fraternal vocation of those that care enough about a largely obscure Irish postmodern novel to spend time out of their finite lives to write about it!

I cannot make any promises about how often I will update the blog, but I promise I will complete it before I die, provided I die of natural causes after the age of sixty-five.

Oh, I should mention that it did just occur to me that if you are reading this, you are almost certainly one of the 200,000 living readers of The Third Policeman. If we’re assuming that is the population we’re drawing from, then I am only in the 20% percentile of qualified bloggers on this subject. That is, admittedly, less impressive than me being in the top 99.99932295193%. So I will give you that if you were doubting my qualifications.

But assuming you have only read it once, then I am still more qualified than you to write this blog! Barely. (Assuming multiple readings equates to greater qualification, which is, admittedly, not certain.) If you have read more than once, though, it is impossible for me to know whether I am more qualified than you to write the blog. I don’t know your educational background or anything else about your qualifications.

And of course, this all assumes there is such a thing as “qualification.” Who decides such a matter? The white patriarchy? Perhaps so. But not many of them are reading this, and fuck us anyway! I mean them! Fuck them! Let’s disperse power. When that is done, the reader should decide whether I am qualified. In that case, if you, the reader, get something out of this and find it to deepen your understanding of The Third Policeman or to cause you to think about it in a new way, then consider me qualified. If not, then I am not qualified.

Maybe. That is, a qualified person could certainly write an unhelpful or unenlightening critique or examination of a book. Less likely, an unqualified person could still come out of nowhere and write a universally acclaimed treatise on something or other. In that case, then doesn’t the whole concept of qualification become worthless? And if so, then shouldn’t every Tumblr blog on a subject be judged on its own merits rather than on the societally-imposed “merits” of its author? Yes. It should. And if not, remember the most important qualification is that I am writing it. As Tenacious D said:

     Kyle Gass: Anybody could have wrote it. Anybody could have done it.

     Jack Black: Yeah, but guess who did write it. Me!

Returning to the subject, with my qualifications established, it is one of my favorite books, but not for its main subject and plot, though I think that is wryly funny in a self-aware way. In the main, The Third Policeman explores many fascinating physical, metaphysical, and even paranormal subjects that now seem, along with its style, to have been ahead of its time considering it was written before World War II. Despite its esotericism, the book also has some timeless insights on human nature.

Rather, my favorite aspect of the book is when it leaves its plot and discusses a totally different, even stranger world than that inhabited by the protagonist. I thoroughly enjoy that O’Brien/Nolan is not afraid of going off on truly absurd and irrelevant tangents, focused on the narrator’s in-novel fascination with the unconventional scientist/philosopher/madman known as De Selby.

In these asides about De Selby, The Third Policeman dives into a meta-universe that is so absurd that it is almost admitted to be fictional even to the book’s narrator, who seems to doubt the reality of half of what he’s conveying about De Selby and his works. And on top of that, there are lengthy discussions of the political machinations among De Selby’s critics and in-depth references to their works. All of this seems to take place in a hazy alternate European timeline that seems to exist in some indeterminate time between 1890 and 1930. (While all this does seem ahead of its time, none of it would seem strange to Laurence Sterne, whose The Life and Opinions of Tristram Shandy, Gentleman, © 1759-67, seems to serve as an inspiration for O’B.’s meta-meanderings.)

At times the narrator seems to go so far as to concede to the audience that these staggeringly irrelevant digressions (usually contained in lengthy footnotes), while comically abstruse, are a complete waste of his and the reader’s time, despite appearing throughout the book. (And if they are a waste of the narrator’s and the reader’s time, think what a waste of time it was for the author.) These wandering pathways off the novel’s story (which are connected to the main plot by only the thinnest, most arbitrary of threads early on) then seem to be nothing but a showcase for the author to engage in whimsical thoughts and worlds that may be amusing only to him, and that alone made it worth his time to write. This, really, is my attraction to the book. Because when I write, I too enjoy absurdism, and hopefully-comic digressions into only tangentially related subjects or meta-subjects, as my mind may dictate.

I always thought this type of writing bordered on insulting the reader, an egotistical exercise in look-at-how-clever I am. But reading The Third Policeman allowed me to see how O’Brien handles his digressions into De Selbyiana, and how, despite being totally irrelevant to the main book, the digressions are immersive and entertaining. This gave me inspiration and some assurance that I, as a writer, don’t need to be constrained by linear storytelling and rules of prose, especially when writing for humor, which is all I really want to do. I can create world’s within world’s in a story or essay. I can follow absurd thoughts to absurd conclusions. I can take asides and write in a conversational way, and pause and go backwards, and pick up where I left off. And I can let my inner absurdist out to play. And if the reader doesn’t like it, then that’s all well.

So for that, I can thank Brian O’Nolan, Flann O’Brien, the protagonist of The Third Policeman, and his soul, Joe, De Selby, Henderson, Hatchjaw, Bassett, Du Garbandier, Kraus, et al. They all gave me the inspiration not only to tackle this blog, but to keep writing how and when I want, whatever my qualifications. I hope anyone who stumbles across this enjoys it and maybe learns something about The Third Policeman and reads it again. And if no one does, I enjoyed writing it. I think that might be how O’Nolan felt when he saw The Third Policeman manuscript for the last time in a drawer in his study before he died, even if he knew that because of his deal with Satan, it would be published two years later.