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lilyrachelcassidy · 4 years ago

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Summer Nights (1)

A/N: Welcome to the first chapter of my new and long time awaited series - Summer Nights. Please read every necessary information in the INDEX of the story (warnings, summary). Do not forget that the fic is quite mature and might contain some obscene stuff (i.a. alcohol and sexual items). I’ll try to post each chapter regularly (like one per week?) however as it sometimes turns out - I can be unreliable in that matter ( ;

Words: 2.6k

Warnings: coarseness, poverty problems, swearing, alcohol and sexual items (or rather mentions of them?), reference to arranged marriage

Tags: @okaydraco @idkatee @paradigmax @winnsmills @war-sword

You turned your gaze away from a computer screen and looked yearningly out of the window on the chaotic streets of Paris.

At that time of day, the city seemed to teem with life, especially in the summer season when many tourists came over to visit the town. You could notice a variety of cultures among crowds of people. They gathered and filled in restaurants, eating and laughing, and chatting with each other.

So how, for God’s sake, did you deserve to be at work today?

The thought of scrumptious spaghetti and a glass of red wine made you feel frustrated. And cloudless, wonderful weather waiting for you outside did not make it any better. You imagined yourself laying in a bikini on the sandy beach with ‘Vogue’ magazine on your laps and Pina Colada in your hands. Or bathing in warm ocean water with sun rays smoothly tanning your skin.

These visions caused a dreamy smile to appear on your face.

However, as soon as you scooted over in a fantasy world, the poke in your shoulder brought you back to reality. You turned your head to the side to see your co-worker and best friend, Chloe. She was crouching next to your chair with her piercing gaze studying your face attentively.

Chloe was a gorgeous woman, and you could easily say that she could break more than one heart. She had big, blue eyes and long, blonde curls falling on her slim shoulders. She had full, pink lips with a Greek-type nose and prominent cheekbones that highlighted her beauty. Her figure was feminine and slender with ample bosom, flat belly, and long legs.

There had been many situations when groups of passing-by boys stopped her in the middle of the pavement, scanning her body up and down with boisterous whistles and comments of a sexual nature. Although you had always tried to stand up in her defense, she never really cared to bother much, just shrugging it off.

“Are you alright?” She narrowed her eyes doubtfully. “You look like a walking dead.”

“Thanks,” you chuckled amused, bitting your cheek. “No, I’m actually fine. Just a little bit dizzy, but don’t worry about it. ”

“For sure? You know, if you take a nap at work, I might be the first person to know about it.” both of you chortled slightly, and you rested your elbows on the armrest. Chloe’s phone started to buzz in her purse. She took it out, muted it down, and eyed you again.

“Anyways. Why are you leaving so early? It’s just four o’clock, and I thought you were ending your shift at eight.” You peeked at the watch on your hand and arched your eyebrow suspiciously at her. Now it was your turn to interrogate her.

“Well, I took a day off,” she informed you. “I’m having a date with Louis today. We meet at six, and he takes me to some fancy restaurant. Of course, he didn’t want to tell me the exact location, mentioning something about ruining the surprise. You know him..” She rolled her eyeballs playfully with a meaningful sigh and an unambiguous smile plastered on her face.

Louis was Chloe’s boyfriend, but also one of your closest friends. You couldn’t say he was the easy-going type of person, and when you first met him, you had presumed his behavior to be a little bit too ‘self-centered’. However, after many years of acquaintance, you had learned that he was rather desperate to drag attention on himself and impress others, with you and Chloe included.

“Lucky. I’m stuck in here for a night shift,” you complained, leaning on the chair's backrest and letting a small groan out of your mouth. It was the third time this week you had to stay at your job for night time. And that wore you out.

“Again?” She frowned.

“Unfortunately...” You grimaced, glancing at your friend with a corner of your eye. “My father hasn’t paid the bills again. I’ve to earn some extra money…"

"Can I-"

"I know you want to help, but please, let's not think about it," you cut the conversation out. Your face started to get warmer, so you lowered your head as not to show your embarrassment. You trusted your friend with all of your soul but still more than felt awkward when it came up with family topics.

Chloe remained silent and smiled supportively, tightly gripping your palm. You appreciated her ability to understand people’s emotions and her tact of how to respond to them.

“I really have to go, Y/N. Call me if you needed any help.” Chloe stood up and went to the backroom of the reception. She put on her coat, wrapping her green bandana around her neck, and then slightly pecked your cheek. She walked over to the exit and, for the last time, turned towards you, waved in the bye, and left the hotel.

You gaped at the place where Chloe had just disappeared, slowly letting out your breath. After a while, you switched the laptop back on and decided to occupy yourself with reading. Clicking on the ‘iBooks’ application, you selected a book - ‘Bridget Jones’s Diary’. Maybe, at least that could help you take your mind off things and spend some of your time while visitors weren’t around. You opened the first chapter of the novel, but soon after, you heard someone entering the room again.

Lifting your head, you beheld an elegant woman with a younger boy by her side. You assumed them to be a family, considering their striking similarity in appearance. Also, they distinguish themselves from their surroundings with their peculiarly sophisticated garments and unnaturally pale skin.

The woman smiled at you kindly and approached the reception desk. You got up from the chair and reciprocated the gesture.

“Bonjour madame. Comment puis-je vous aider?” you asked and saw a confused expression painting on the woman’s face. She furrowed her eyebrows for a short moment and cleared her throat.

“Mm… Hello. Do you speak English?” she asked hesitantly with a language accent that informed you instantly of her origin. Many guests of the hotel usually arrived from different parts of the world, which had let you acquire the skill of guessing their probable nationalities.

“You’re British I see,” you noted, grinning. “Of course I do. Welcome to Paris! How can I help you?”

“We have a reservation under the name Malfoys.”

Nodding in understanding, your fingers swiftly started to tap the keyboard of the computer. You entered in the search engine of hotel’s guests with surname ‘MALFOYS’ and found a booking for two people.

“Could I check your ID cards first, ma’am?” you asked and saw her rummaging in the bag. Meanwhile, you started to prepare every necessary paper for her to fill out.

“Here it is,” she finally stated, and you reached over for the documents. You noticed the woman’s foot nervously tapping on the floor but decided to ignore it.

“Thank you,” you said while surveying everything. “Okay, so - Narcissa Malfoy, apartment number 354 - Presidential Suite. It’s on the fourth floor.” You laid the keys with ID cards on a counter top. “And Dra- Dra…”

“Draco. It’s Draco Malfoy,” the boy spoke up for the first time, and - by the tone of his voice - you could already judge that he wasn’t the friendliest type of a person, to say at least. You moved your gaze on his figure, and your eyes met with his stern glare, which sent unpleasant shivers down your spine. He was sitting on one of the lounge chairs located in the room, twisting a carved stick in his fingers. Quickly realizing that you stared at the object, he hid it in his pocket.

You giggled nervously and shook your head.

“Yes. Draco Malfoy. I’m sorry for my oversight.” You blushed profusely and tried your best to pretend that your pre-momentary blunder did not affect you anyhow. You took a second key from a shelf and placed it next to the first one. “Room number 355 - Royal Apartment. Although, it on the fifth floor, which means not located nearby your mom's one, sir."

“No problem for me.” Huffing, he got up from the armchair and walked over, grabbing the keys. His expression still evinced the arrogance, but now you had a chance to examine his appearance more closely and perceive his unparalleled attractiveness. His platinum hair suitably contrasted with grey irises, and the sharp jawline with his muscular body made your knees weak.

Just great...

“If there is anything you needed, please let me know,” you proffered and forced a smile, wishing it didn’t look so fake as it felt. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”

“Thank you,” said Narcissa, sauntering away with her son following shortly after. You took a last peek at Draco and saw him sending you an unpleasant look before leaving the lobby.

* * *

Narcissa with Draco entered her spacious hotel room. She began to look around the space, smacking her lips in delight. After that, she sat gingerly on her bed and discretely ran her fingers through the bedding set so as to verify its fabric. Draco knew and was accustomed to his mother’s atypical habit of checking the quality of things before using them.

She patted a place next to her, encouraging him to take a seat. He just pressed his lips into a straight line and only shook his head.

“Draco, let’s talk,” she started, grunting.“I think you should - at least - consider being tolerant of those muggles. I know it is a tough period of our lives, after the war...” Narcissa shuddered at the reference of that event and her eyes filmed over a little. “But it is time to move on. Wizarding World is not going to be this same for many years. That’s why for this vacation, I wanted us to come to the place that could let you dispose of redundant memories and experien-”

“Dispose of memories?” Draco cut her off and huffed, leaning flippantly against the wall. His voice was very tight and harsh.“How do you think I could possibly get rid of them? Maybe Dark Mark on my forearm would help me solve that issue? Or Obliviate spell would be a solution?”

At once, the blood was boiling in his veins. He didn’t blame his mother for decisions of the past, but he could not stop himself from snapping. A recollection of tortures he had had to perform on others, of tortures he had had to bear himself, of incurred deaths he had seen… and committed. That wasn’t a fleeting thing to forget.

Narcissa took a deep breath and ignored her son’s snarky comment. She decided not to give up with the plan of their conversation for this evening. So and so, he had to finally hear the truth, right?

“I and your father with Greengrass family established that by the end of this year, you are going to propose to one of their daughters.” She gazed at him, partly expecting the next outburst of emotions. Although Draco’s ears began dangerously reddening, she assumed the silence was a non-verbal acquiescence for her to continue. “You do not have to worry about arrangements for the nuptials, nor about other wedding cases. Everything is going to be organized. And I deeply believe that marring one of those beautiful girls might bring a state of contentment in your life.”

Draco gulped down his saliva and fixed his eyes on the floor, his face expressing wrath.

“I’m sorry mother, but I’ve no idea how marrying a person who I’ve hardly ever talked to could make me any happier.”

“Dear, me and Lucius did not fall in love at first sight either. Nevertheless, we accepted the unusual plight that we were put in, and then we got accustomed to leading our new, joint lifestyle,” she explained, carefully choosing her words. “And I am aware that it must be hard for you. So and it was for me. But now, I could not imagine it to be any different.”

“Well then, if you felt this same way as I do right now, please tell me why are you expecting this same from me by imposing the marriage? Why can’t I choose someone to fall in love with?”

Good point.

Narcissa seemed to be momentarily speechless by his question because there was an awkward, uncomfortable pause for a long moment. Draco sniggered loudly and turned away to leave, but before doing so, his mom’s voice echoed in the room again.

“Love is only a matte-“ she took her last try to argue, her tone rather desperate.

“I don’t care!” he yawped, turning the knob and slamming the door behind him with a violent bang.

Draco headed over to search for a bar where he could abreact the minute-ago conversation. The tension of his body was unbearably upsetting, and his heart was pounding aggressively in his rib cage. His fists clutched tightly, knuckles becoming white and teeth clenched.

Fuck his parents.

Fuck them with their shitty ideas.

When would be a time for him to be able to determine his own opinions about matters in his life? Or rather, the doubt is - would there ever be that time?

Before he knew it, he found himself in this same lobby where he had been an hour ago. As he walked over to the recently encountered receptionist, he spotted her writing something vigorously on an odd, square box. As to not arise any suspicion, he decided to act casually and hide his enticing interest in this particular... object.

Soon enough, you noticed the blond-haired boy and realized it was the man from earlier. A bump formed in your throat, and you fought a sudden urge to run away. Instead, you just set your phone aside and lifted yourself up, all your muscles refusing to do this same activity for the thousandth time this day (‘Is this some kind of aerobic or what?!’).

“Is there something I could help with, sir?” you asked with a smile, trying to remain calm, which was an exceptionally intractable task in this boy’s presence. Maybe as an effect of tiredness, it was hard for you to compose, but you did not like it a bit.

“Yes, actually.” At least he took his best effort to be polite. Although a horrible exasperation, as if something pained him, still convulsed his features. “I wondered if there was a place where I could have some Firewhisky or so?”

‘Firewhisky?’ you thought. ‘Is it some kind of British dainty?’

“Well, for sure I haven’t heard of heating up Whisky before,” you joked, attempting to lighten things up. However, his glare gave you a hint he was definitely not put in a mood for such things.“But there is a pub where you could have a drink, sir. It’s on the opposite street, so all you need to do is to cross over a road.”

Draco nodded. "Oh, and one more thing." He reached over to the inner pocket of his sable jacket and took out an ornamental envelope with an old-fashioned red seal on the top of it. "If the woman who I was with before starts looking after me, hand her over this letter, could you?"

You didn't know where an uninvited rush of interest hailed from, but the mystery-insatiate part of your brain screamed out at you to play along with his cards to winkle out more information. "What if she asks me questions? Shoul-"

"Bend the truth. I only ask you to do one thing for me. Don't reveal to her where or when I went. I gave you the envelope and disappeared out of your sight. Understood, muggle?"

You didn't grasp the last part of his sentence; the one concerning --mugel? meagul? megull? -- but you could bet it meant to be an insult. Swallowing your suspicious hunch, you put on a sympathetic smile. "Sure can do, sir. Hope you have a good night out."

"Thanks. Later." And without any other word, he strode away.

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bemusedlybespectacled · 5 months ago

Note

That is exclusively for immigration law: no one is going to interrogate two US citizens marrying solely for tax purposes. It's impossible for the immigration benefits to not be a factor when deciding to get married, but the interview is to make sure that, essentially, they're not getting married solely for immigration purposes, and are actually total strangers to each other or something.

HOWEVER, EVEN IN IMMIGRATION LAW, the test isn't "do you have sex" or even "is your marriage a healthy/happy one" but "is your relationship real." There's a really interesting case I read in Immigration Law that was basically a guy marrying his housekeeper. It was sort of a mutual caretaking situation: he needed someone to take care of him/his house/etc. in his old age (he was much older than she was), and she needed to be able to stay in the US. They never had sex and definitely weren't in romantic love, but they were both clearly fond of each other: it wasn't purely mercenary for either of them.

The determination was that they were still in a real relationship, because they were still companions even if they weren't in love. You could be in the most toxic or doomed-to-fail marriage and it can still be a real relationship. So long as you're clearly in some kind of relationship other than "US citizen with the ability to sponsor a green card" and "immigrant who needs a green card," that's okay.

Okay, I saw your post about marriage legality and why the ability to get married is important. I 100% agree and fully support the idea that marriage is first and foremost is a legal decision and appreciate you spreading awareness.

I was thinking that one such instance of where getting married may be important was in a Queer-Platonic Relationship (QPR). If I were in one, I’d almost certainly want the legal benefits of marriage.

Is it true that you have to “consummate” a marriage? I feel like I’ve heard that brought up before, and if that’s the case a marriage doesn’t protect someone in the case of a divorce if they’ve never had sex with their partner, right? They could just get an annulment? QPRs are very common among aroace people, so they may not want that. Are their other options for a circumstance like that?

Consummation is not necessary in any state in the US, as far as I am aware. There are some states where you can have your marriage annulled on the grounds of physical inability to consummate, but that's extremely archaic and very rare. You do not need to be in romantic love or have sex in order to be legally married.

Marriage is a legal decision with specific benefits and drawbacks. It is not about how much you love or care for or have sex with the other person. The ONLY thing that you should be thinking about when considering marriage, IMHO, is whether you want those benefits and drawbacks (or would rather the benefits and drawbacks of NOT being married - those also exist!).

Honestly, I think that the decision to get married should be approached as if you were in a QPR, even if you're not ace or aro. Like, if you ignore all of the cultural expectations of marriage – as a demonstration of exclusivity or commitment or love – do the benefits still outweigh the drawbacks? If yes, then you should consider getting married.

tl;dr: You can absolutely get married if you're in a QPR. (And frankly I'm a bit pissed at that one person who replied to my original post and made it seem like marriage is antithetical to QPRs, because that was kind of the exact opposite of what I was getting at)

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westfalloutboy · 5 years ago

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Scared Potter?

Ferrets and Cowardly Lions Part 2

I did not edit this at allllll lol

Harry climbed on top of his boyfriend and straddled his hips, he took Draco’s hands and pinned them over his head. “You’re going.”

“I have work to do,” Draco said, glaring up at Harry.

“Liar,” Harry stated, leaning down and nipped at Draco’s bottom lip.

“How does that make me a liar?” Draco demanded, a scowl forming on his face. Today was Easter and the Weasley’s had extended their invitation to not only Harry but, Harry’s boyfriend. For some stupid reason, Draco refused to actually go see the Weasley family. They knew that Harry was dating the potions master, but Draco vehemently refused to go to the Burrow for any reason.

“Draco, I know for a fact that you do not have any work to do, you finished it last night after yelling at me for not grading those stupid defense papers,” Harry said, flicking Draco’s nose. “And we aren’t going to your parents’ house until later this evening for dinner. Which means we are having lunch at the Weasley’s. Together.”

“The Weasleys do not like me, and I do not like them. There is no reason for me to go to that, that weasel burrow!” Draco sputtered, pushing Harry off of him.

“Draco Lucius Malfoy,” Harry said, giving the man a sad look.

“Don’t you do that,” Draco accused, poking Harry in the chest. “Don’t do that full name shite. Now, I’m going to stay here and relax before we have dinner with Mother and Father.”

“I’ll let you pick out my clothes,” Harry said slyly, poking the blond man in the side.

“Now, that’s an interesting offer,” Draco said, sitting up. He carded his fingers through Harry’s hair and smiled at him. “You’ll wear whatever I pick out?”

Harry grimaced. He knew right away this was a mistake but, if he could get Draco to actually come and meet his family, well that was an opportunity he just refused to pass up.

“Whatever you pick out--within reason, Draco Malfoy, I will not let you put me in a dress or some stupid outfit that makes me look like a ponce. Got it?” He asked and Draco grinned before he pinned the man on the bed.

“I would never, never, make you look like a ponce; you do that well enough on your own, Love,” Draco said with a smirk.

“You, Malfoy, are a liar, a fantastical, insane, liar,” Harry said between kisses. “But, I agree. Dress me up and you come with me to the Weasleys’ house for Easter lunch.”

…

“I look like an idiot,” Harry mumbled, tugging at the grey trousers that now hug his legs ridiculously tight.

“You said Easter lunch with the Weasleys,” Draco seethed, staring at the Burrow in front of them. Wizards flew around the house in a wild game of quidditch while a group of people sat in the garden watching them.

“Oh, did I not mention that the Weasleys play quidditch first? And invite all of our friends as well?” Harry asked innocently. “Payback is a bitch, isn’t it?” He asked, grasping Draco’s hand.

“I just dressed you nicely! Harry, that suit looks amazing on you!” Draco complained.

“I look like an idiot,” Harry chided, going to pull his hair out of the bun that Draco had pulled it in.

“If you let that unruly mess of hair out of that bun I will slip a potion in your food that will have slugs coming out of both ends, do you understand me?” Draco hissed and Harry let out a slight whimper.

“Not again,” he mumbled. Harry rubbed his stomach slightly as memories of the last time Draco slugged him came rushing back. He was never going to try and scare Draco again. Not after have slugs come out of him like that. “I’m not sitting next to you for lunch. I don’t trust you to not poison me.”

“Shut up, you’re sitting next to me, Potter,” he snarled.

“Harry!” Hermione shouted, grinning when she saw the two walk into the garden. “Oh, you brought Malfoy?” She asked, look at Draco curiously.

Draco was notorious for not showing up with Harry when it came to being around Harry’s friends. It wasn’t that he didn’t like them, per say, it was more that they were Harry’s friends, not his. And not only that, but he didn’t feel comfortable around them with all the history. He was dreading even being close to George, knowing that his twin had died in the war that Draco was on the wrong side of. Not only that, but Malfoys and Weasleys never got along and Draco wasn’t entirely sure how the Weasleys felt with him being in a relationship with their precious Potter. Harry kept assuring him that the Weasleys were completely okay with it, but considering every time Draco was dragged along to see Hermione and Ron, Draco wasn’t so sure. It was as if they were polite. But only because it mattered to Harry.

“Yeah, we made a deal,” Harry said. “Weasleys for Malfoys.”

“I see he made you dress nice as well?” She said, making it sound more like a question.

“Mother prefers more formal wear for Easter dinner. Since we won’t have time to stop back at my flat or Hogwarts, before we head to the Manor, Harry gets to be dressed up all day,” Draco said politely, squeezing Harry’s hand.

“Well, you both look wonderful,” she said, smiling, Draco, would you like to come sit with Ginny, Luna, and me?”

Harry glanced at Draco curiously. Draco ground his teeth before he flashed Hermione a smile.

“I would love to, Gr-Hermione,” he said, letting go of Harry’s hand. Harry gave him a grateful smile and leaned forward and kissed the corner of Draco’s mouth.

“I’ll be back in a moment, Ron and Charlie are wanting to catch up for a moment,” he told Draco. Draco narrowed his eyes.

“Make sure Charles keeps his hands to himself,” Draco warned.

Harry let out a soft laugh. “I’ll make sure to remind him that,” he said and kissed Draco again. “Love you.”

“Go away from me,” Draco said, pushing him away.

Harry grinned before he headed into the Burrow and Draco followed Hermione to a patio table she was at with Luna and Ginny.

“So, does this mean that I’m stuck at the girlfriend table?” Draco drawled, taking a seat next to Ginny.

“Well, I’m married, and they’re dating each other,” Hermione said. “So-”

“Yes, Draco, you’re at the girlfriend table, it’s rather lovely,” Luna said with a smile. “Although Ginny is about to play quidditch I do believe,” she said.

“Oh? The two of you are together?” Draco asked. “I totally knew you were a lesbian, Ginevra.”

“You’re the only one,” she said, rolling her eyes. “So, how is it with Harry? Does he do that weird thing where he tries to scare you constantly?”

“He did, until I slugged him,” he said and let out a soft chuckle.

“You hit him?” Hermione asked, looking horrified.

Draco raised his eyebrows confused before it hit him. “Oh, no! I slipped a potion in his pumpkin juice that had slugs coming out of both ends. You only try to scare a potions master once.”

“Oh?” Hermione said, raising her eyebrows. “Do you possibly have any more of that potion? Ronald is driving me up the wall.”

Draco smirked and pulled a vial out of his pocket. “Here you go. This was my emergency vial for today in case Harry angers me.”

“You have him very whipped,” Ginny remarked, taking a sip of her tea.

“It’s very cute,” Luna said, smiling.

“I don’t think I have him whipped,” Draco said, smiling across the garden where Harry was talking to the Weasley brothers. “I think he just loves me. And, he knows that I’ll kick his ass if he makes me too angry.”

“You’ve been dating for a year and a half now, any plans to go further than dating?” Hermione questioned, giving Draco a curious look.

“I bought a ring, just haven’t decided when is the best time, and Harry and I haven’t really spoken about marriage. I just know he desperately wants a family one day.”

“Are you planning on adopting one day, then?” Ginny questioned.

“Is this just interrogate Malfoy time?” Draco asked, suddenly feeling slightly cornered.

“Well, this is the first time Harry has ever convinced you to come to a family function and none of us know very much about you, or your and Harry’s relationship for that matter,” Hermione stated. “You can’t blame us.”

Draco sighed and poured himself a glass of tea. “We talked about that, and while my parents do approve of my relationship with Harry, that did request that I continue on the Malfoy and Black line considering both families have dwindled.”

“Oh Draco!” Luna exclaimed. “Are you going to make a potion so that you get pregnant? You know the Quibbler has been working on a story about male pregnancy.”

Draco gave her a terrified look. “Merlin no!” He exclaimed. “We are planning on doing surrogacy. Harry and I have talked about it, and I may or may not have been working on a potion that would mix our DNA so that the child was a Malfoy and a Potter. I just haven’t told Harry about it yet.”

Hermione perked up in her seat. “Malfoy, I want to know everything,” she said, giving Draco a look.

Ginny coughed. “Well, I think I’m going to go play some quidditch, you all have fun,” she said and kissed Luna’s cheek before she fled.

….

“So, you bought the ring?” Ron asked.

Harry swallowed and pulled out the small velvet box. “Narcissa told me it’s a Black family heirloom, apparently it was supposed to be given to Sirius for when he was meant to marry. Obviously he never got it but, I took it to a jeweler and made it a little less feminine and I’m going to ask him.”

“You know when?” Charlie asked, taking a drink of his firewhiskey.

“Nope. Not a clue,” he said as Ron opened the box.

“Is Malfoy’s finger really this dainty?” He asked, observing the emerald green jewel on the silver band.

“Yes, he has long skinny spider fingers, I make fun of them,” Harry shrugged. Ron tore his eyes from the ring and looked at his best friend.

“You are very strange, I hope you know that,” he said, giving the box back to Harry. “When are you asking him?”

“No idea, I don’t even know for sure if he wants to get married.”

“I mean, he obviously loves you,” Charlie said. “He let you drag him to the Burrow and not only that but he’s willingly sitting with Hermione, Ginny, and Luna. I highly doubt he’s doing that for his own entertainment.”

Harry smiled over at Draco who was in fact, sitting back in his chair and was just casually talking to the three women. “Yeah, he does love me, in his own weird, twisted way. I still haven’t decided when or how I’m asking him, though. I’ll figure it out eventually.”

“Maybe do it in a flamboyant way, Malfoy’s obnoxious that way,” Ron said and Harry shook his head.

“No, he’s really not. If I did it in the middle of everyone he would probably murder me,” Harry said, glancing over at Draco who was now in a very animated conversation with Hermione. “I think we just lost out partners, Ron.”

“Oh no,” he said, looking at the two horrified.

“Hermione just realized that Draco is a potions master, I reckon,” Harry said cracking a smile. “And now she’s grilling him because he’s an academic and she is too.”

“We’ve lost them haven’t we?” Ron murmured and Harry nodded before he pocketed the ring and headed over to his boyfriend and kissed the side of Draco’s head.

“Enjoying yourself, Love?” He asked, running his fingers through Draco’s short hair.

“Surprisingly, yes, we’re talking about slug potions,” he said and Harry’s stomach turned.

“Please don’t talk about the slugs,” he complained.

“You’re a baby, what kind of Saviour of the Wizarding World are you?” Draco sneered as Harry sat on his lap. The potions master looked down at Harry’s trousers and let out a sigh. “Did you wipe something on your pants?”

“No?” Harry said and kissed Draco softly. “I love you?”

“Cute,” he muttered, patting his thigh.

“What’s the slug potion?” Ron asked, taking a seat between Hermione and Luna.

Draco gave him a devilish grin and Harry buried his face in Draco’s shoulder. “You see, Harry has thing where he likes to try to and scare me because I’m jumpy apparently. So, after he scared me for the hundredth time, I slipped one of my experiments into his drink.”

“You promised not to try out experimental potions on me after the hair incident!” Harry exclaimed.

“Let me finish, Potter,” Draco said patiently. “It’s a potion where if you drink it, slugs come out of both ends. It was actually inspired by that little botched slug spell you attempted to cast our second year of Hogwarts, Weasley.”

“Merlin, I’ll never forget that,” Ron said, sounding haunted.

“Try having slugs come out of both ends,” Harry told him. “And your evil boyfriend won’t give you the potion that makes it stop because he’s trying to “teach you a lesson”.”

“I will say, Granger, I am sorry for what I said to you during that argument, I truly am,” Draco said sincerely to the Minister.

Hermione gave him a sweet smile. “Thank you, Malfoy, really, it means a lot,” she said and took a sip of tea.

“You know, Mother told me if I wanted to invite anyone to the Manor for dinner tonight I could if you and Weasley would like to come,” Draco offered kindly.

“Fuck no!” Ron shouted. “No! Mione, that’s not happening, no.”

Draco looked at Harry and the two grinned at one another. “Ron, he’s kidding,” Harry said with a chuckle. “You wouldn’t be able to handle ‘Cissa even if you tried.”

“Cissa?” Ron choked.

“Yes, she is going to be my future mother in law, one day, I should be close to her,” Harry said. “Narcissa absolutely adores me.”

“Future mother in law?” Draco asked, giving Harry a small smile.

“Of course, although, she’s probably going to be insanely pissed when you go from Draco Malfoy to Draco Potter,” Harry said smugly.

Draco looked at him for a moment before he shook his head and let out a soft laugh. “No, Darling, you’ll be a Malfoy.”

“I’m the only Potter left,” he whined.

“Then we’ll hyphenate.”

“Did the two of you just decide to get married?” Ron asked, looking in between the two of them.

“No,” Draco said with a shrug. “But, one of these days we will be and it’s easier to decide now what our last names will be rather than later.”

“True,” Harry mused and kissed Draco softly. “If you try to poison me, I’ll kill you,” he whispered.

“Shut up, Prat,” Draco said softly.

….

“So, have the two of you talked about marriage,” Lucius asked and Harry gulped. While he did have an amazing relationship and friendship with Narcissa, Lucius still terrified him. Maybe it was because of all the times Lucius tried to kill him during his childhood, or the fact that he was the right hand man to the man whose entire mission was to destroy Harry and take over the Wizarding World. Now, though, he was merely Draco’s terrifying, crippled father who was stuck in house arrest at the Manor for the rest of his life.

“Vaguely,” Draco murmured, stirring his spoon around in his soup. “We’ve decided to hyphenate our names.”

“Mr. Potter, you do not wish to be a Malfoy?” Narcissa asked.

“Have you not realized he is ashamed of us?” Lucius asked.

Harry gave Lucius a look before he glanced at Narcissa. “It’s not that, ‘Cissa. I feel as if my last name is one of the last connections to my parents. I don’t want to completely lose it. And the Malfoy name is important to Draco, so we’re going to have both last names,” he said, giving her a small smile.

“That’s very lovely, Harry,” she said, smiling at the man.

“I didn’t realize that was why you wanted to keep your last name,” Draco said softly, giving Harry a sad look. Harry didn’t look at him and just squeezed his boyfriend’s hand lightly.

“Aside from that, we haven’t had a real conversation about marriage, but, I’ll be honest. Draco could ask me at any time and I would say yes. I would love to be married to Draco for the rest of my life and I think right now we’re just comfortable with one another and that’s all that matters.”

“Yes it is,” Draco murmured. “Mother, Father, Harry and I are going on a walk.”

With that Draco stood up and Harry gave him a curious look but followed suit. Draco took his hand and pulled him out of the Manor quickly and pressed a kiss to Harry’s lips.

“I love you-”

“Will you marry me?” Harry blurted.

“I was going to ask you!” Draco shouted, smacking Harry’s arm.

A smile stretched across Harry’s face. “You were?”

“Yes you idiot! I even had the ring ready!” Draco shouted, pulling the velvet box out of his pocket. “Do you even have a ring, Potter?”

Harry glared. “Accio ring!” He shouted. Soon a ring flew into his hand and Harry gave Draco a look.

“I was going to ask you tomorrow when we had our own little Easter dinner and then your parents kept asking us about marriage and-fuck Draco, I just want to marry you and if we’re married we can share quarters at Hogwarts and I can hold you all night and Draco, I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” Harry said, taking Draco’s hands in his.

“So, we’re doing this?” Draco asked, giving Harry a tentative smile.

“We’re doing this,” Harry said. He leaned forward and softly pressed his lips to Draco’s. “Love you, Ferret.”

“Love you too, Cowardly Lion,” Draco whispered, kissing Harry again as his parents come out into the gardens.

“So, he’s officially going to be a Malfoy?” Lucius asked dryly.

“Oh it would seem so,” Narcissa said, clasping her hands together. “Darling, this means you and Harry will need to spend some time bonding together!”

Harry abruptly pulled away from his fiance. “What?” He demanded.

“You need to get to know your father in law,” Draco said, giving him a small smile. “You’ll survive.”

Harry gave Draco a nervous smile. “If you say so,” he murmured. “Now, let’s go back to dinner and when we get back home, you’re all mine.”

“Let’s go, you pig,” Draco said with a sigh. “After you put this ring on me.”

“Only if you put mine on me,” Harry retorted.

Draco smiled and slipped the engagement ring onto Harry’s finger and kissed the back of his hand softly. Harry carded his fingers through Draco’s hair before he pulled him close and kissed him.

….

8 months later.

Draco was the absolute biggest bridezilla. The wedding planning made Harry want to kill himself. Draco was a drama queen. Of course, Harry knew this before he decided to even start a relationship with the man. Bt he really was ready to just murder Draco at this point.

“Where’s Potter!?” Draco shouted from his rooms. “The wedding starts in ten minutes and I haven’t seen him!”

“You can’t see me before the wedding love,” Harry called from his own room.

“I swear, Harry James Potter, if you look like an idiot I will kill you,” Draco snarled and Hermione stared at Harry frightened.��

“Harry, I think he’s going to kill you today,” she whispered, taking Harry’s hands. “Are you sure you want to marry him?”

Harry grinned. “He’s absolutely infuriating. More than anything, I love that moody git. Even when he scares me more than Voldemort ever did.”

“Seriously?” Ron demanded. “He’s threatening to kill you?”

“Yeah, he tried to strangle me yesterday,” Harry said with a shrug and let go of Hermione’s hands. He looked at himself in the mirror and smiled at the reflection facing him. Ron was still insisting that Harry was just crazy and didn’t actually want to marry Draco and had somehow dragged the Mirror of Erised to his rooms in Hogwarts. “You know what I see when I look into this mirror, Ron?”

“Your parents?” He asked, crinkling his nose. Harry shook his head.

“I see my family. My parents are there, but so are you and Hermione. And Molly and Arthur and so many other people. But you know who’s holding my hand? It’s Draco. As crazy as it is, it’s always been Draco, from the very first time that I met him in Diagon Alley, it’s been Draco.”

“Alright,” Ron said with a sigh. “Let’s do this, let’s make you a married man.”

Harry gave his two friends a grateful smile. “Have Draco come in here real quick,” he said. Hermione frowned.

“You shouldn’t see him before the wedding.”

“Please?” He asked.

She pursed her lips before she went and grabbed the man.

“Harry, if you messed something up, I am going to kill you,” Draco snarled, marching into the room. He stopped short when he saw his fiance and stared at him wide eyed. “You look amazing.”

Harry smiled and took Draco’s hands in his. “Thank you, I know you like when I have my hair pulled back and Ron told me he heard you threaten to chop my hair off if I came down the aisle with it down.”

Draco cupped his face. “I would never. Now, what do you need?” He asked, leaning forward and kissed Harry gently.

“Look in the mirror and tell me what you see,” Harry coaxed.

Draco glanced over at the mirror and shrugged. “I see us. But we’re older,” he said softly. “Harry, what is this?”

“It shows our deepest desires,” Harry said softly. “I know you’ve sort of gone insane during all of this wedding crap, but Draco all we want is to spend our lives together. Does anything else really matter?”

Draco smiled and gave him a quick kiss. “You’re right, let’s get married.”

“Are you ready for this?” Harry asked, giving him a nervous look.

“What? Are you scared, Potter?”

Harry stole one more kiss. “Never.”

#Drarry #Draco Malfoy #Harry Potter #one shot #Ferrets and Cowardly Lions

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kurtty-drabbles · 4 years ago

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House of M- redone (part 9)

N/A: This story is close to being wrapped and as always I will not make a sequel. I hope the ending is ok.

@tieflingteeth

@dannybagpipesarecalling @muninandhugin

The breakthrough about Lady Mastermind participating in the lastest attempts is all thanks to Mystique and a good connection with Logan- the rich playboy is living a good life but his ears still work- warrant a meeting with the Witch Queen and every single Red guard present, leastwise, all the important ones.

And sure, Kitty Pryde is present in the meeting. Once, Kitty confessed to Jubilee she would love to be in a Red guard meeting if this could mean she can be close to the famous Witch Queen. Yes, Kitty knew it was just a fan-fantasy and it wouldn´t be real.

"Why is she here?" Mystique asked solicited leering at Kitty. Her golden eyes fixed on her two children. Rogue crosses her arms and looks away, Kurt is nonchalant about the whole ordeal, while Kitty, in all her wisdom, is staring at Mystique.

Wanda is too used by the Darkholme clan to mind their shenanigans- Pietro rolls his eyes and Lorna is always amused- and one clear of her throat is enough to stop whatever was stirring in the Darkholme clan and all eyes are focused on Wanda.

(Lorna is holding the little Billy and Tommy as Wanda doesn´t trust to let them alone lately nor Lorna wants to be left out of the debate)

(Billy and Tommy are too little to know how dangerous the situation truly is. All they know is that they are here)

"Now we´re all here to discuss what to do about Lady Mastermind" her voice demands respect and all eyes are present for the famous witch queen.

Scarlet eyes stare back. Wanda is anything but powerless.

"What does she wants with Genosha?" Kitty asked too bravely and inwardly cringing as all eyes are present and facing the small figure- Kurt holds her hand unobtrusively and Kitty can feel his ungloved hand nicely- gulping loudly she carries on. "No one wakes up and decides to cause chaos and I know Magneto and Mastermind used to work together"

Kitty notices the apprehensive from the royal family and adds swiftly. "I say this thanks to the textbooks and many videos about them"

Pietro snaps at such revelation. "Wait, I thought those videos were banned"

Lorna regards Kitty cooly. The woman tries to remember how the royal children have a tumultuous past with Magneto. A young mutant may say Magneto is right, but, his kids can also say how he´s a terrible father.

It's a real tragedy for the man who is immortalized as an activist for mutants is now forever and ever denied any semblance of love by his only family.

"Not all the videos, some are still available, his fight in New York, for example, is still show by everyone in the globe. In that fight, everyone can see Mastermind and Magneto fighting with their enemies and each other" Kitty concludes her case.

Wanda studies her. Such red eyes and the woman is not above pretending her crimson eyes aren´t intimidating.

"Mastermind had a desire for Genosha, one my father never fulfill. You think his daughter carries such insult as it was direct to her?" Wanda asked and no one is sure if this is a rhetorical question or not.

Mystique is the one to interject. "It wouldn´t be the first. Many people in the past often believe to have a claim to Genosha...but, if its not about the land... then could be about " her golden eyes travel to Billy and Tommy. "your family...is very interesting to some people"

Pietro inhales starkly. "That too wouldn´t be the first time...and we´ll face them and win, again"

Lorna pipes in. "Pietro is right, it wouldn´t be the first time someone..." her green eyes land on the two little boys who are playing on their phones now. "tried to harm us...plus, Wanda is really powerful...only a fool would try to fight her"

Wanda sighs weakly. "I´m not all-powerful. I´m still human and I can still die like everyone else...That´s why I need a plan, I need to know Genosha and my family will be safe"

Kitty never saw Wanda in such a position before. Sure, when they broadcast the Witch Queen the media shows this woman who is God in a red dress. No one ever imagined or wanted to imagine she is just as human as the rest.

Rogue takes the reign of the conversation. "Kitty mentioned that fight in New York, well, I saw that fight too, and apparently Mastermind had some allies. Some died, some are still alive and this gave me a lead" Rogue has that winning smirk.

Mystique is exasparated. Are all of her children enjoying secret investigations?

"Turns out, the man had 4 marriages and had 4 daughters, one of them is in Genosha right now" Rogue is revealing as this is a story and it´s getting closer to the climax.

Kitty stares at Kurt who is too used to the level of the flare of his dear older sister.

"Her name is Pixie or how she was once called Megan Gwynn" Rogue reveals triumphantly. "A teleport and magic-user that is enrolled at Emma´s school"

Silence reigns as Rogue were expecting. "So, I took the deliberately to ask Megan to come to one of the stations and have a nice chat with Kwannon"

"Wait, if she´s a magic-user can´t she magic her way up with Kwannon?" Kurt asked in pure concern. After all, magic users are wild cards. Thankfully, Wanda doesn´t take offense in that.

Kitty can picture the scene of this young girl in the station having to deal with Kwannon. One of the best telepaths after Jean Grey. "Where is her mother? Was she in Genosha all alone?"

Is ethical to interrogate a young girl without her parents even in this situation? I think not.

"Oh, she was with relatives in Genosha, an aunt but that was fake" Rogue answers.

Wanda and Pietro don´t like where this is going.

Kitty is the one to pinder about Pixie´s safety.

After all, she could have been one of her students...

#house of M redone au #wanda maximoff #witch queen #pietro maximoff #I see Lorna as the youngester #and is cute how she thinks Wanda is that OP and can´t be defeated #kitty pryde #kurt wagner #Rogue is dramatic #kurtty yet

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cinebration · 4 years ago

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By My Rules (Quentin Beck x Reader) [Part 12]

Plans change.

Warnings: language

Gif Source: jynsandors

Despite your best efforts, you couldn’t shake Quentin until he was forced to leave the house for an appointment. His psychiatric work with news anchor Jonas Theroux still needed strong cultivation. All part of the plan, so long as Quentin didn’t push too hard, as he was wont to do. As much as that spiked your anxiety, having him hover about you in the house, touching you randomly and pressing kisses to your neck at inopportune moments, was distracting for two reasons. One, they were distracting physically, preventing you from focusing. Two, you were convinced each one was strategic. He was playing a game with you, you were sure, trying to stack the cards against you.

The thought lingered through the day. After Quentin left, letting you breathe for the first time since the night before, you retreated to the study and pulled out your laptop. Mousing over to the video-monitoring program, you opened the application and clicked on the last-registered camera on the list.

The feed opened on a low angle of a closed, heavy door. Just off to the left, a desk filled a sixth of the frame. The view afforded little else.

Nick Fury’s office lay just beyond the closed door.

You sighed quietly and dug into the work, pulling up the recorded surveillance of the office from the past twenty-four hours. As you slowly went through the footage, listening to the medium-quality audio and watching the screen, you struggled to maintain focus. Your thoughts kept drifting to the night before, replaying the events in your mind. Had it been real? Or had it merely been the stress and years’ worth of pent-up desperation getting the better of you?

Something flickered on the screen as your thoughts spiraled.

Frowning, you stopped the play-through and rewound back to the spot, focusing your attention on the screen. Fury’s door had been left open a sliver, giving you a narrow glimpse into the office. The inch-wide view revealed the corner of his desk and the windows beyond.

Fury’s leather trenchcoat swished into view. Your eyes raked up to his skull.

Not Fury’s skull.

Smashing the pause button, you gaped at the frozen image. Green skin scored with contouring lines and peppered with purple color. The pointed curve of one ear. Extra-wide irises nearly eclipsing the whites of his eyes.

Rewinding the clip again, you boosted the sound. It crackled through your headphones, fuzzy and indistinct in your ears. Pressing the headphones harder to your ears, you leaned forward and focused.

“…I don’t…be fooled again.” A man’s voice, presumably the Fury alien.

“…died. How…alive?”

“It’s far-fetched…has to be…”

“What now?”

“Surv…and…ahold of Fury.”

Gritting your teeth, you rewound the section again and tweaked with the audio settings, trying to filter out some of the noise.

Hit play.

“I don’t…be fooled again.”

“He died. How…alive?”

“It’s far-fetched, yes. It has to be…”

“What now?”

“Surveillance. And get ahold of Fury.”

The recording went silent. Slumping back in your seat, you checked the time-stamp of the footage: 2:55AM. Just before Quentin had returned home the night before.

Right after his interrogation.

A heavy weight settled in your guts.

Quentin strode into the house calling your name, but you were already seated in the front room, waiting for him. The pinched look on your face immediately brought him down from his high, much to his annoyance.

“What?” he practically barked.

“Fury has most definitely been replaced by an alien.”

Quentin blinked. A slow smile broke over his face. “Then we’re golden!”

“No. It looks like Fury was the alien during your little debacle in London.”

Quentin’s smile faltered.

“It seems he’s taken it personally that you fooled him. A shapeshifter being duped by an illusionist? Bad form.”

“So? You expected it to be Fury. You planned for his paranoia. How is this any different?”

“Different guy, different variables.” Raking a hand over your face, you stood. “He’s ordered surveillance on you. And he’s trying to get Fury.”

“You have a plan for this.”

You nodded heavily. “Yes, I do.”

It was only then Quentin noticed the bags packed by the front door. His face went white, panic momentarily flashing in his eyes. “Where are you going?”

“I’ve expunged all records of our marriage. At this point, I have to operate independent of you to avoid being burned.”

“Wait—”

Striding over to him, you lifted up his hand and dropped your wedding band into it. Without another word, you opened the door and picked up your bags.

“You can’t do this,” Quentin shouted. “What happened to being committed to the con?”

“There are other ways of achieving it,” you said, pausing on the porch. “So stay put and follow the schedule and don’t do anything stupid.”

Famous last words, you thought as you hurried away.

“You’re my wife!”

“Not anymore.”

His voice trailed after you. “You fucking bitch! I don’t fucking need you!”

Yes, you do.

#Quentin Beck x Reader #Quentin Beck #Quentin Beck imagine #Mysterio x Reader #Mysterio #Mysterio imagine #Jake Gyllenhaal #Jake Gyllenhaal imagine #Spider Man Far from Home #Spider-Man: Far From Home #FFH

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theyearoftheking · 4 years ago

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Book Sixty-Three: 11/22/63

I’m going to pull back the curtain a bit here... I am losing my steam. Not my enthusiasm for Steve, just my steam for cranking out these blog posts and reading nothing but Steve. Not sure if my seasonal depression arrived, if I’m just busy doing all the things... I don’t know. But I’ve had 11/22/63 and all the notes sitting on my desk for 2 weeks now, and haven’t done anything with them. My apologies.

My reluctance is in no way correlated to my feelings about this book. This is THE book. What do I mean by that? This is THE book you recommend to people who turn their nose up at Steve. This is THE book Constant Readers love because of the entire section dedicated to Derry. This is THE book that has you thinking about it long after it’s done. It’s a great selection for reading groups, because the conversations could be endless. What would the world look like if Kennedy had never been assassinated? What about other world leaders? If you found a wormhole to the past, would you use it for good or evil? Would you use it at all? So. Many. Questions.

This was my second time reading 11/22/63, and I enjoyed it even more because of the references I missed the first time. There’s a whole section dedicated to Bev and Richie learning a dance for a talent show, which I know I didn’t make that connection the first time I read it... Derry and all it’s characters are still fresh in my old-lady brain. Wonder what Derry was like between It’s killing sprees? “I realized that the canal I’d seen must run directly beneath this peculiar sunken downtown, and I was standing on top of it. I could feel hidden water in my feet, thrumming the sidewalk. It was a vaguely unpleasant feeling, as if this little piece of the world had gone soft.”

Sounds like a great place to raise a family, right? Here’s a complete list of all the Steve universe references:

Not one, but two chambray work shirt mentions

The Takuro Spirit

Castle Rock

Derry (murders in the Barrens, Georgie being found dead, Richie and Beverly’s dance lessons)

Haven

The Turtle

Juniper Hill

Jake Epping is a high school English teacher in Lisbon Falls, Maine (originally from Milwaukee, thanks Steve!); and he learns about a time-traveling portal in the back of his friend Al’s diner. Al has been using the portal to travel back in time and get deals on the meat he uses for his burgers (come to find out, the prices at the diner are so low because of the cheap meat Al buys... NOT cats, like so many whisper). Al has been using the portal to buy cheap meat, and to spy on Lee Harvey Oswald. Al is convinced the current world would be a different and better place if someone was able to stop Oswald from assassinating JFK. But here’s the rub: due to all the time traveling, Al is sick and dying from cancer, so he convinces Jake to take one for the team.

Armed with some cash, sports betting books (a man’s got to make cash somehow!), and Al’s notes on Oswald, Jake goes into the past. His first stop is Derry, Maine, where he feels compelled to right a wrong. One of Jake’s GED students, Harry Dunning, the high school janitor, wrote an essay about his father killing his mother, and his siblings on Halloween night. Jake sees the potential in Harry, and wonders how his life could have been different had he not witnessed the brutal murders. So, Jake kills Harry’s dad (twice, actually); and heads to Texas to start tracking Oswald.

He first moves to Jodie, Texas, where he takes a job teaching English and directing plays for the drama department under the pseudonym George Amberson. He’s introduced to the new school librarian, Sadie Dunhill; and they fall in love. Sadie is tall, clumsy, and dealing with the fall-out from her brief but loveless marriage. All of this is dangerous for a time traveler, and a guy determined to kill Oswald. But, George makes it work. He and Sadie quickly become the darlings of Jodie; and their dancing becomes the stuff of Jodie legend.

But, Jake/George has secrets. He rents an apartment in Dallas, and starts following Oswald and his Russian wife, Marina. Then, Sadie is brutally attacked by her ex-husband, and her face is left deformed. Jake/George learns it’s really hard to commit yourself to committing a crime, while at the same time being a teacher, boyfriend, friend and citizen of Jodie. He’s got a lot going on. Ultimately, he tells Sadie what’s up, and she agrees to help him stop the assassination.

Ultimately, Jake/George is successful in stopping Oswald, but Sadie is killed in the process. Jackie Kennedy calls him to thank him for his service, the CIA interrogates him, but ultimately lets him go, and Jake/George returns to modern times.

Or, Armageddon.

He returns, and finds the world in a nightmarish state. Come to find out, stopping Kennedy’s assassination wasn’t the best decision. So, Jake goes back in time with the intention of going back to Jodie and living happily ever after with Sadie. He’s stopped by the Yellow Card Man, who is kind of like the keeper of the portal, and he explains to Jake that he needs to go back where he belongs. Jake being in Jodie would forever cause unsettling ripples in the universe. Jake knows he’s right. So, he goes back through the portal for the last time.

The book ends with Jake going to Jodie to celebrate Sadie being named the Citizen of the Century. And they dance. It’s a charming end to a dense, thought-provoking book. If you’re not interested in reading this chonk of a book, I recommend watching the series on Hulu. It’s an excellent adaptation, and stays pretty true to the book.

Total Wisconsin Mentions: 42

Total Dark Tower References: 61

Book Grade: A+

Rebecca’s Definitive Ranking of Stephen King Books

The Talisman: A+

Wizard and Glass: A+

11/22/63: A+

Under the Dome: A+

Needful Things: A+

On Writing: A+

The Green Mile: A+

Hearts in Atlantis: A+

Full Dark, No Stars: A+

Rose Madder: A+

Misery: A+

Different Seasons: A+

It: A+

Four Past Midnight: A+

Stephen King Goes to the Movies: A+

The Shining: A-

The Stand: A-

Bag of Bones: A-

Duma Key: A-

Black House: A-

The Wastelands: A-

The Drawing of the Three: A-

The Dark Tower: A-

Dolores Claiborne: A-

Nightmares in the Sky: B+

The Dark Half: B+

Skeleton Crew: B+

The Dead Zone: B+

Nightmares & Dreamscapes: B+

Wolves of the Calla: B+

‘Salem’s Lot: B+

Song of Susannah: B+

Carrie: B+

Creepshow: B+

From a Buick 8: B

The Girl Who Loved Tom Gordon: B

The Colorado Kid: B-

Storm of the Century: B-

Everything’s Eventual: B-

Cycle of the Werewolf: B-

Danse Macabre: B-

The Running Man: C+

Cell: C+

Thinner: C+

Dark Visions: C+

The Eyes of the Dragon: C+

The Long Walk: C+

The Gunslinger: C+

Pet Sematary: C+

Firestarter: C+

Rage: C

Desperation: C-

Insomnia: C-

Cujo: C-

Nightshift: C-

Faithful: D

Gerald’s Game: D

Roadwork: D

Lisey’s Story: D

Christine: D

Dreamcatcher: D

The Regulators: D

The Tommyknockers: D

Next up is The Wind Through the Keyhole, which is short, but I’m in the front seat of the struggle bus. I gave this book rave reviews when I first read it, and now I’m just bored. I think I was starved for Dark Tower content the first time around, and now I’m just kind of counting down until this project is over.

Until next time, Long Days and Pleasant Nights,

Rebecca

#11/22/63 #constant readers #stephen king #the dark tower #derry #it #pennywise #kennedy assassination #lee harvey oswald #time travel

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timelordthirteen · 5 years ago

Text

Killing Time 18/?

Detective Weaver/Belle French, Explicit

Summary: A Woven Beauty Law & Order-ish AU. Written for Writer’s Month 2019.

Chapter Summary: A little time apart, brings clarity.

Notes: Warning in this chapter for more talk of the miscarriage. I'm surprised at the low levels of hate I got on that last chapter. I thought there might be a bit more venom, but I had also hoped it was obvious that Weaver wouldn't be leaving for long. I hope this soothes all the wounds as we set up our pair for the homestretch and some surprising revelations.

Warnings: Miscarriage reference and discussion. Please see AO3 for complete warnings and tags.

[AO3] Previous: [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14] [15] [16] [17]

By the time the elevator reached the ground floor, Weaver knew he had fucked up.

By the time he stepped out into the cool fall air and lightly falling rain, he also knew he deserved every one of Belle’s cutting remarks. In the moment it had been hard to stop the same old things from happening, to keep from pushing and pushing until they both said things they’d regret. Of course he’d stormed out of his own apartment like a jackass, and even though he wanted to go back up immediately, he needed to clear his head and figure out what to say before he did.

He flipped up the collar of his jacket and shoved his hands in the pockets, heading north towards the convenience store that was two blocks away. It was a walk he made often. When his mind couldn’t let go of a case, he would make his way down to the store, a short list of grocery items in his hand; milk, bread, or the chocolate chip cookies he’d become a little too partial to. The distance there and back was long enough to unwind his brain and either let him see the connections he was missing, or helped him to relax and let it go until tomorrow.

Sighing, he waited at the corner, watching the traffic pass, the tires squelching against the wet asphalt. He hoped Belle was all right. That was truly his greatest worry, that his leaving wouldn’t just upset her, but that it might send her into some kind of fit, like what she’d had when they returned to her apartment. He didn’t know what went on in her nightmares or in the moments where she would stare off into space, only to startled herself back to reality.

She didn’t think he noticed as much as he did, so he chose not to interrogate her, the same as he’d done after the miscarriage. He realized now, entirely too late, that method had probably made things worse. What had happened recently wasn’t healthy for either of them and was likely making it all worse. She didn’t love him. He’d resigned himself to that fact, in spite of the attraction that still simmered between them.

A sign glowed up ahead, MINI MART in large red letters cutting into the darkness, and the rain started falling faster. Weaver pushed inside the store, and headed for the counter.

“Evening, Detective.”

The man behind the counter smiled at him, and Weaver gave him a short nod. “Pack of Parliaments, please, Sam.”

Sam’s eyebrows lifted as he reached up to retrieve a pack from the slots above him. He set it down and then slid it forward across the counter before stepping to the side to ring up the purchase.

Weaver tossed a cheap Bic lighter on the counter as well, and then pulled out his wallet. The math had been familiar once upon a time, the cost of a pack of cigarettes and a lighter at your average convenience store or gas station.

“8.50,” Sam said, waiting as a ten dollar bill was laid down. He dropped the change in Weaver’s hand, and frowned as he walked out the door.

Outside, the rain was more insistent. Weaver peeled the plastic off the outside of the pack and dropped it in the trash can on the corner. He stared at the rows of cigarettes in the slim, white box, and exhaled. It had been over ten years since he’d quit smoking, replacing the periodic smoke break with scotch at the end of the day, but old habits were too easy to fall back into lately.

He pulled one out, stuffing the rest of the pack deep in his pocket, and set it between his lips. The lighters were even cheaper and more finicky than he remembered, and that combined with the fat, steady drops hitting him, made it take several flicks before the flame sprang up. He could feel the heat of it on his thumb, almost searing with how close it was. The wind made it wobble, and then abruptly snuffed it out, and he sighed. Perhaps it was a sign.

“Hey, buddy, you got one of those for a man who served his country and then got the shaft?”

Weaver turned, frowning, and saw a man in a long green coat, military style, sitting on a bench. The jacket was not unlike the one he’d picked up at the surplus store ages ago. The man looked mildly disheveled and dirty, like he’d slept in his clothes one too many nights, and Weaver assumed he probably had, likely on that very bench or in one of the many alleyways. His face was thin, and his beard and hair ragged. The city had done a lot recently to try to help the homeless population, but it was clearly not enough.

“Sure,” Weaver said, giving the man a crooked smile. “Take the whole fucking pack, mate.”

He tossed the cigarettes at the man, who caught it one handed, followed swiftly by the lighter.

“You for real?” The man looked at his hands and then up at Weaver.

Weaver shrugged. “Yeah. I quit too long ago to start up again.”

The man nodded and lit up, sending a curling stream of smoke into the wet air. “I hear ya, but a man’s gotta have something to get him through his troubles, right? Good brew, good smoke, or a good woman.”

Weaver looked away, and then reach inside his coat to pull out one of his contact cards. “Hey, you know the diner over on 15th? Granny’s?”

The man eyed the card as he held it out. “Yeah?”

“Take this and give it to the waitress with the red streak in her hair. She’ll make sure you get a good meal.”

The man took his card carefully, holding it up as he took another puff of the cigarette. “Detective Weaver.” He looked up and shoved the card in his breast pocket. “I appreciate that, but as you can see I am a bit down on my luck at the moment. Left my wallet on the bus.”

Weaver let out a short laugh. “I know that feeling.” He pulled out his wallet again and took out his last bill, handing it to the man. “The meal’s on the house with my card, but there’s a place just down from the diner, across Lake Street. It’s not great, but this’ll get you a room for a few hours, get you out of the rain. Take care of yourself.”

He turned to leave as the man blinked at him, calling out, “Thanks, Detective.”

Weaver raise his hand, waving the man off as he stalked back down the street. He was starting to feel damp, and there was a tightness in his chest again. Fucking good deeds. He’d never done much of that before Belle. He wouldn’t have chased the man off, but he wouldn’t have given him the time of day either.

The walk back to his building was faster than the walk to the mini mart, but not just because of the increasing rain. He hadn’t really decided anything except that he wanted to be home, with Belle, whatever that was for now. He’d have to apologize, but she wasn’t wrong. His father’s influence plagued him even now, decades after leaving Glasgow and a grave behind. He wiped a rough hand over his face, and shook his head. She was right. As soon as things had become difficult, he looked for the corner to cut. It was how he’d come close to nearly drowning a man in a warehouse, and how he’d walked away from the best thing in his life.

The miscarriage hadn’t been the start of anything, only the culmination of the pile of fuck ups that his life had always been. The worst was that Belle was still carrying it with her, even almost three years later. The circumstances of it hadn’t helped, and overall it had clearly been more traumatic that he’d ever understood. It triggered the end of their marriage, and he was sure that had only contributed to her dwelling on the event.

All because they’d both been too afraid to talk about what they were thinking and feeling.

Shaking his head again, he punched in the code for the outside door and yanked it open as it buzzed.

Bell’s tears dried on her cheeks as she lay curled up on the sofa.

Eventually, she made herself get up and go to the bathroom where she stripped off her clothes and stood in the hot spray of the shower. The steam curled up around her as she drew her finger down the glass, clearing it momentarily and watching as it fogged over again. She could still see the line, the smudge of her skin left behind on the glass, just as she could still see Jack’s blood in her kitchen when she closed her eyes.

Turning, she tipped her face up into the water, letting it run over her head and soothe the steady ache in her temples. Surprisingly, she wasn’t worried about where Ian had gone. He often went for walks when a case was bothering him. Sometimes she’d go along, the two of them strolling quietly arm in arm for a few blocks, listening to the city around them, before turning and heading back home.

This was still his apartment, and it was unlikely that he’d stay away all night. After he returned, she needed to apologize, and it didn’t matter how late that was. She doubted she’d sleep much without him around anyway. Bringing up his father had been a low blow, something she’d never ever done before, not even during their worst fights. Everything she’d heard of the man was despicable, and to throw that in Weaver’s face, especially when she suspected he was just as vulnerable as she, was unfair.

She scrubbed her face and washed her hair before turning around to let the water beat on her neck and back. Her head was still pounding, but that always happened after she was upset, and it was nothing that a little aspirin wouldn’t cure.

Her mind drifted back to the moment in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago. Ian had said he loved her, and she’d been so ready to say it back, as soon as she caught her breath, when Rogers called. Since then she’d been holding it in, thinking that somehow it would be better if he went on thinking she didn’t feel the same, that it would make it easier to go back to their separate lives when all this was over.

She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea for them to be together again. Despite their best intentions, things between them only ever seemed to get worse. If they tried again only to fall apart once more, she wasn’t sure she could come back from that, not after - everything.

More and more she had been thinking it might be a good idea to talk to someone about what had happened to her, both the attack and the miscarriage. She didn’t have perspective on any of it, and how could she when they were things that happened to her? The logical part of her brain said to stop dwelling on it, to let it go, but that was obviously easier said than done. She’d tried, so many times, and at one point she was convinced she’d finally moved beyond it, only to have the stupidest thing bring it back.

Maybe it was the fact that she blamed the miscarriage for ruining her marriage, and as a by product, herself. Again, logic insisted that was silly. Yet here she was, standing in the water as it slowly turned cold.

She shivered and reached for the faucet.

Belle was back on the sofa, a movie she’d seen at least ten times playing on the TV, in her soft flannel pajama pants and a tank top, when Weaver came home. She heard the click of the lock before the door slid open, and twisted in her seat.

Weaver seemed almost surprised to see her, but he gave her a flat smile and a shrug.

She pushed herself up, goosebumps rising up on her bare arms. “I'm sorry.” She waited until he turned back to her, having draped his leather jacket over one of the bar stools. “I - I didn't mean it,” she continued. “I swear, Ian, I - I didn’t.”

He shook his head and took a step forward. “No, you did. And you were right.”

“No,” she insisted. “I'm not.” He frowned slightly, and she noticed his hair looked slightly damp from the rain. “Where did you go?”

“Down the block to the corner store,” he said, running a hand through his hair. “I bought a pack of Parliaments, stepped outside, realized I hadn't smoked in a fucking decade, and I really didn't want to start up again.” She seemed startled by that, and he sighed. “So I gave the pack, one of my cards, and my last twenty to a homeless Vet, and sent him to Granny’s.”

Belle’s head tilted. “Ruby still work there?”

“Yeah,” he said, taking another cautious step forward. She hadn’t moved from her spot by the sofa, though she had obviously showered and changed. Perhaps she hadn’t felt as bad about his leaving as he’d feared, which only solidified her lack of feeling for him in his mind.

“I told him to give my card to the woman with a red streak in her hair and she'd make sure he ate well.” He gave her a half smile and shrugged.

“See?” She smiled back at him even as tears sprang to her eyes. “You are better than your father. You're a good man, Ian.”

He looked down at his boots. “Sometimes.”

“No.” Her strong voice, made him look up. “All the time. You're not - “

He shook his head again. “No, I am. A lot more than I ever wanted to admit. Shit gets hard and I...”

He sighed and swallowed.

“Ian...”

“You pushed me away,” he managed, somehow finding his voice even though his throat felt dry and tight. “After...”

She nodded, her lips pressed tight as her arms folded around her torso. “I know.”

“I didn't know what to do.” He let his right arm rise and fall, palm slapping against his thigh. “Or what you wanted me to do.”

“Why?” Belle sniffed loudly and wiped at her eyes. Her lip wobbled and she touched her fingertips to it, fighting to hold back the anguished noise on the back of her tongue. “Why did you let me? Why didn't you fight for us?”

He exhaled heavily, his eyes closing for a moment. “I know how to fight for what I want when it's work,” he admitted, the realization like a lead weight in his gut. “When it's a case, or a warrant, or a theory. But not - not when what I want is you.”

She came closer, drawn in by the raw emotion in his voice, until only the width of the sofa separated them. Her throat bobbed as she swallowed. “I didn't know what to do either. I knew something was wrong. I knew and I should have...”

Her body swayed, and Weaver moved quickly, catching her by her arms so she wouldn’t fall to the floor. Her hands came up, but she didn’t fight him, just pressed her hands to his chest, her eyes fixed on the sliver of exposed skin where his shirt opened at the neck.

“I should have...” She cut off her own words with a ragged sob and curled her hands into fists.

“Belle, no,” he said, trying to pull her to him. “No, please, sweetheart. Come on, let's sit. Let's just calm down.”

She reeled and pushed hard against him, trying to shove him away, but there wasn't enough strength left in her arms.

“I don't want to calm down!” One hand pulled back and came down on his chest in a feeble thump. “I want to be angry! I want to scream!”

Her body shook again and her eyes squeezed shut as she let out the most tortured noise he’d ever heard. His heart nearly broke at the sound of it, and he let her fall against him, his arms coming up around her to hold her tight as she buried her face and yelled into his shirt.

“You be angry then,” he said, squeezing her gently. Her breath was hot through the fabric, and he could feel the faint wetness of her tears, almost the same as the rain outside. “Be whatever you need to be.”

Belle’s face turned to the side and one hand opened against him, her palm pressed over his heart where it was pounding in his chest. “You weren't there...”

“I know.” He took a shaky breath and closed his eyes, resting his cheek on top of her head. He wasn't there when she needed him, and it would be his greatest regret. “I'm so sorry, Belle. You're right, I should have been there.”

After a minute, he guided her towards the sofa, and they sat down, side by side. His arm stayed around her shoulders, and she twisted sideways to curl against him. She seemed so small and fragile to him, so diminished from her usual fiery self.

"We were so happy," she said. "And then - then everything fell apart, and I couldn't stop it. It was like you put a wall up between us. I thought maybe you hated me."

Weaver pulled back as she sniffled into his shirt. "What? No. Why?"

She glanced up briefly. "Because of the miscarriage?"

His eyes went wide. "No! No, never, Belle, never. I could never ever be mad at you for that, okay?"

She breathed out and in, relief flooding her as she let his words sink in. "I didn't know that then. I didn't know what else had changed other than that."

He sighed and pulled her close, rubbing his hand up and down her back in what he hoped was a soothing motion. It felt good to be letting out the insecurities and uncertainties he'd been mulling over in his head for years.

"I thought you wanted space. I thought you'd tell me what you needed, what you wanted me to do. I didn't know how to handle any of it. It was like - like I'd lost some part of you too."

Her head moved, shaking no against him. "I didn't want space. But I didn't understand how it might feel for you."

She closed her eyes and relaxed into the steady stroke of his palm. It had never dawned on her that he felt the loss of their baby as keenly as she did. It wasn't fair to assume he could have just moved on as well.

"I felt like it just happened to me. I didn't think..."

"We both didn't." He pressed a kiss to the top of her head, and breathed in the light scent of her shampoo. "It was easier to focus on work, on things I could control. I thought it would all pass and then we'd be fine."

"Like it never happened?"

"No, not like that." His hand moved around to her side and hitched her closer, until she was practically sitting across his lap. She came willingly, her face pushing into the warm crease of his neck.

"I didn't want to forget that it happened. I just...I didn't want to see you hurting anymore," he said. "I thought maybe me being around was making it worse. We kept fighting over stupid shit."

She looked up at him with puffy, red rimmed eyes. "That was mostly my fault."

"Stop. Okay?" His gaze and voice were soft. "Just...nothing is anyone's fault anymore."

"It was," she insisted. "And I didn't realize that it would make you think I didn't want you around. I needed you and I pushed you away..."

"I should have asked why you left, but I just..." He exhaled and tried not to think of his father. "I gave up. I don't believe you can make anyone stay in a relationship, I learned that the hard way with Milah."

"Yeah."

The mention of his ex-wife stung. His shit of a father and his awful ex; how many more terrible memories could she dredge up and throw in his face?

"I wanted you to be happy. I thought if being rid of me did that, then okay, I would give you that, and I wouldn't fight it."

She shifted, freeing her arms enough to wrap one around him and lay the other over his shoulder. She needed to hold him as much as she needed to be held. She needed him to know that it was okay, that she didn't blame him either.

"God, I fucked everything up."

His lips twitched. "I think I contributed a solid sixty percent."

She pulled back just enough to give him a look. "So this is a group project now?"

"Explains why everyone is miserable."

Unable to help herself, she let out a snort into his chest, and bit her lip as she smiled up at him. "It's not all bad."

"No?" His look was almost incredulous. "We have six dead bodies, two serial murderers, and zero actionable leads."

"I meant with us," she clarified. Her lips quirked slightly at him. "But thanks for the depressing recap, Detective Maudlin."

He rolled his eyes and muttered a sorry, grateful for the break in the tension. “Do you feel any better?"

"Yeah," she admitted, sliding off of his lap and pushing to her feet. "Sorry, I guess I had kinda saved all that up."

Both of his eyebrows lifted as he stood. "Apparently..."

She gave him a look and shook her head, more at herself than anything. "I'm sorry I hit you. Before."

"Don't worry about it." He smiled crookedly and rubbed at the middle of his chest. "I'm tougher than I look." Belle smiled and looked away, and he reached for her, resting his hand on her shoulder. “Do you...want to talk about anything else?”

Belle sighed and raised her hand, pulling his hand off her shoulder as she turned. “No. I just - really want to go to bed.”

Her hand slipped into his, and he rubbed his thumb over her knuckles as he exhaled. Another night sharing a bed with Belle probably wouldn’t kill him. “Okay.”

“And, um...” She took a breath and squeezed his hand. “I love you.” Weaver blinked at her, and she shrugged, giving him a soft, half smile. “I never stopped, Ian. I’m sorry I didn’t say it sooner.”

He felt the air rush out of him as her hand moved up his chest. She looked tired and worn out, but her red tinged eyes were still the most beautiful he’d ever seen. He felt all the tension draining out of him, all the shit from the last two years and the last few months fading to the back of his mind.

“I love you too,” he managed as she pushed up on her toes to kiss him.

It was soft, almost startlingly so given how rough and passionate their most recent encounters had been. She caught his bottom lip, briefly, and when she made to pull away his hand came up to cradle the back of her head and draw her back to him. Her mouth opened, her tongue brushing lightly over his. It was teasing or wanton, but more familiar and quiet, like the kisses they'd often shared in the late hours before they both fell asleep.

She swayed a bit as she broke the kiss, but he held her firmly, the corner of his mouth curved.

“I don't...I don't know where we go from here,” she said, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. Her mind felt dizzy and sleepy, her body almost languid now that she'd let out so much of what she'd been holding inside.

He sighed and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her into a hug. “Me either, to be honest.” She yawned against him, and he dropped a kiss to the top of her head. “How about we start with sleep, breakfast at Granny's, and take it from there?”

Belle tilted her head up and smiled. "That sounds like the best idea you've ever had."

It was a matter of minutes for Weaver to strip off his clothes, leaving himself in just his boxers. The rain had tapered off, but the lingering chill sneaking in through the drafty corners made Belle shiver. She drew back the covers and climbed into bed, settling herself on her usual side, waiting. A moment later, he slipped in next to her, sighing as she turned over and pressed against his side.

There was something achingly familiar about what they were doing, but instead of a sinking feeling of dread and a slight pain in his chest, there was a calming peace and a pair of cold feet on his leg. Her hair tickled his chin, and he smiled, closing his eyes.

#rumbelle #rumbelle fic #woven beauty #woven beauty fic #my woven beauty fic #fic #killing time #cw miscarriage #omfg this chapter is so long

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thedcdunce · 6 years ago

Text

The Question

“For certain questions, sometimes the best answer is no answer at all.” - The Question

Real Name: Charles “Charlie” Victor Szasz

Aliases:

Vic Sage

Gender: Male

Height: 6′ 2″

Weight: 185 lbs (84 kg)

Eyes: Blue

Hair: Strawberry Blonde

Abilities:

Acrobatics

Disguise

Genius Level Intellect

Hand-to-Hand Combat (Advanced)

Indomitable Will

Interrogation

Intimidation

Investigation

Journalism

Dragon Style Kung Fu

Philosophy

Shamanism

Weaknesses:

Lung Cancer

Equipment:

Pseudoderm Mask

Universe: New Earth

Base of Operations:

Hub City

Chicago

Gotham City

Metropolis

Citizenship: American

Parents:

John Grayson; father

Mary Grayson; mother

Marital Status: Single

Occupation: Television Investigative Journalist

First Appearance: Blue Beetle Vol 6 #4 (September, 1986)

Appearance of Death: 52 #38 (March, 2007)

Abilities

Acrobatics: He has shown to be a proficient acrobat, and has used this skill to survive a fatal fall by rebounding off building sides and somersaulting to create more drag. He can get around by jumping from rooftop to rooftop.

Disguise: The Question has and can assume many aliases and has, as he describes, "many different faces".

Genius Level Intellect: The Question possesses genius intelligence and has an extremely unpredictable way of thinking. He can make a weapon out of common objects and often uses his mind to win fights.

Hand-to-Hand Combat (Advanced): Easily capable of incapacitating large groups of criminals and has knocked out trained policemen and soldiers with minimal effort. Vic has shown enough skill to take down two vicious attack-dogs and their highly-trained owner spontaneously, one after the other.

Indomitable Will: His training and lifestyle demanded much determination, and he was rarely known to give up or surrender especially in physical confrontations.

Interrogation: His opponents often fear him due to the rumors of his insanity and ruthless tactics.

Intimidation: He has on many occasions frightened criminals into giving him information he wants, and sometimes resorts to methods that many heroes shy from, like threatening a killer with a chainsaw.

Investigation: He has a superior inquisitive mind and has years of experience as an investigative reporter as well as his life as The Question.

Journalism: Victor was a TV investigative journalist. He had his own show and appeared on local news which sought out conspiracy theories, local crime rings and other violent or mysterious news. His Journalistic techniques were what drove him to become the Question.

Dragon Style Kung Fu: He was trained in Kung-Fu and had exceptional martial arts skills.

Philosophy: A self-proclaimed philosopher, Vic Sage has spent years surviving and understanding in the modern to postmodern world of big city life. He understands the functions of the people within the city and even the city itself on a deeper level.

Shamanism: The Question sought out to learn shamanistic techniques which applied to his city. He used these skills and techniques to "feel" the city and better understand it.

Weaknesses

Lung Cancer: Due to his smoking habit, Vic Sage developed terminal lung cancer, of which he eventually died.

Equipment

Pseudoderm Mask

Origin

When Vic Sage, a television investigative journalist, encountered stories he couldn't investigate by normal, legal means, he donned a special mask that made it appear that he had no face. As the Question, Sage investigated corruption in the face of all danger, leaving a blank "calling card," which, when touched, emitted a smoky question mark.

Childhood and Early Career

Victor Sage was born Charles Victor Szasz, and grew up an orphan who had a reputation as a troublemaker. Szasz prided himself in defiantly enduring the physical abuse of the Catholic orphanage where he was housed. Though he managed to get into college, higher learning did not mellow his violent tendencies. Some time during college, he brutally beat a drug dealer for giving him LSD, which had caused Sage to doubt his own senses under its influence.

After graduating from college, Sage made his mark as a highly outspoken and aggressive reporter with a reputation for obnoxiousness in Hub City. He then moved to television journalism, which eventually led him to investigate Dr. Arby Twain. This particular story would alter the course of Sage's life permanently.

Birth of the Question

Sage was approached by his former professor, a scientist named Aristotle Rodor, who told Sage about an artificial skin called Pseudoderm, which Rodor had co-developed with Dr. Twain based on the notes of Gotham criminal Bart Magan and research into Gingold, the chemical responsible for the Elongated Man's powers.

Pseudoderm was intended to work as an applied skin-like bandage with the help of a bonding gas, but had an unforeseen toxicity which was fatal when applied to open wounds. Though Rodor and Twain agreed to abandon the project and parted ways, Professor Rodor later discovered that Dr. Twain planned to proceed with an illegal sale of the invention to Third World nations, despite the risk to human health.

Sage resolved to stop him but had no way of going after Dr. Twain without exposing himself. Rodor suggested that Sage use a mask made of Pseudoderm to cover his famous features. Disguised by the Pseudoderm mask and armed with information, Sage eventually caught up with Dr. Twain, stopped the transaction, and extracted a confession from him. He then left Twain bound in Pseudoderm in an ironic twist. On television, Vic Sage reported on Dr. Twain's illegal activities.

With his first venture a success, Sage decided that this new identity would be useful for future investigations. He continued to work with Professor Rodor, who supplied the Pseudoderm and eventually modified the bonding gas, giving it the ability to alter the color of Sage's hair and clothing, as well. Vic became good friends with "Tot," who became a mentor to him in both of his identities.

Shortly after debuting in Hub City, Vic Sage relocated to Chicago, IL in order to join the staff of WWB-TV as a crusading journalist. He would continue to operate as The Question there, and would make an ally of Chicago's other resident hero, the Blue Beetle. He would also travel to other cities in the course of his investigations, and eventually teamed up with Batman and briefly participated in the Crisis.

The Question's early crime fighting career was somewhat successful, but his black-and-white moral viewpoint and lack of commitment would soon lead to a turning point for both Sage and his alter ego.

Near-Death Experience and Further Training

After his time in Chicago, Vic Sage returned to Hub City and KBEL television, where he worked alongside news anchor and occasional love-interest Myra Connelly. During a mission as The Question, he was badly beaten in personal combat by the mercenary and martial artist, Lady Shiva, and then nearly fatally beaten by her employer's thugs and shot in the head with a pellet gun. Though he was thrown in a river to drown, Shiva rescued him for reasons of her own and gave him directions to meet Richard Dragon as soon as he was recovered enough to get out of bed.

Following a vision of Batman while in his sickbed, Sage sought out the master martial artist, who retained all of his skill even while confined to a wheelchair. Sage spent a year learning martial arts and Eastern philosophy from Dragon. The training changed and deepened The Question's moral perspective, and the crimefighter became more understanding of the moral ambiguity of his chosen work.

Vic Sage returned to Hub City and resumed his career as The Question with a new, broader worldview, and a belief that crime had to be fought at more than one level.

The New Question

Though The Question had originally established himself as a crime fighter by stopping street crime, his post-Dragon career found him attacking the systematic corruption of Hub City at its highest levels. Hub City was noted as being "synonymous with venality, corruption, and violence," and perhaps even outranked Gotham City as the most dismal city in the the United States.

The Question's work in defending the city extended beyond street crime and into the realm of politics and social justice. He re-enlisted as an ally his former girlfriend, Myra, who had married the corrupt, alcoholic mayor of Hub City, Wesley Fermin, in his absence. He also met Batman again and have the first of what would be many encounters with the Green Arrow.

After spending months running Hub City while her husband descended into mental illness, Myra Fermin announced her intention to run for mayor herself, and received Sage/The Question's full support. Though Myra's marriage to the mayor was loveless, she resisted the temptation to reunite with Sage, but she eventually gave into her temptation and had affairs with both Sage and The Question, whom she did not realize were the same man. When Myra lost the election by one vote, she was elected to the position anyway, as her challenger had died as a result of what was called "the worst tornado in history." However, during her victory speech, her husband, Wesley Fermin, shot her in the stomach for supporting what he called "Communist beliefs." Wesley was subsequently killed during a police stand-off, but Myra entered a coma, and Hub City was plunged further into chaos. For some time, the Question, became the city's only guarantor of justice, though Myra eventually awoke from her coma and assumed her role as mayor.

The gang warfare in the weeks following the election led Sage to a reunion with Lady Shiva, who at first resumed her adversarial relationship with The Question and then became an ally to him. Through Shiva, The Question was able to meet with the gang-leaders who were creating chaos in the city.

Although he had the support of Myra and his mentor, Tot Rodor, Sage/The Question often felt troubled about his role as the city's protector and as a fighter of crime. Reconciling his original, stark, mindset with the enlightenment he had received from Richard Dragon continued to be a source of conflict for The Question, who struggled to determine how far he should go in his pursuit of justice. With the help of his allies, The Question realized that a perverse part of him wanted to know what it felt like to take another person's life, and he managed to successfully defeat his temptation to kill.

Leaving Hub City

Though The Question did his best to contain the chaos around Hub City, he felt himself growing increasingly dark as time wore on. A hallucinogenic trip caused his subconscious, in the form of his mother, to tell him that he would never be able to lead a happy life unless he left Hub City. Richard Dragon echoed this viewpoint during a visit to Vic Sage, when he sensed that Sage was on the verge of a major turning point in his life. Lady Shiva soon after arrived by helicopter to spirit The Question, Rodor, and Myra Fermin away from the city, though she herself decided to embrace the Hub's chaos and remain there. Sage nearly convinced Myra to leave the city with him, but her sense of duty convinced her to remain. Before Sage left, Myra gave to him her only daughter, Jackie, and wandered back to the city alone to meet her duties as Mayor and do her best to stand for what she believed in.

Sage took Jackie with him to South America, hoping to rid himself of his "No Face" alter ego and find a land free of the clutter and corruption that filled Hub City. However, this sense of serenity did not last long. Sage was quickly drawn into a drug war which ultimately forced him to kill a man in order to save Jackie's life. The Question's philosophy from that point changed once again, as he realized that he had no guilt over the killing and would do it again if necessary. He would kill again.

Unfortunately, Jackie would die anyway, en route to her mother in Hub City.

Career after Hub City

After leaving Hub City, Victor Sage held a series of journalistic positions in various cities, while reviving his Question persona when necessary. Previous experiences teaming up with such heroes as Green Arrow and Batman had established the Question in the superheroic community, and he would participate in major events such as the Alien Invasion and Brainiac's attack on Metropolis. Following his abandonment of Hub City, The Question helped protect an Indian reservation alongside Green Arrow and John Butcher. He traveled the United States and would meet Steel and Azrael. He even very briefly became a member of a team, when he joined the L.A.W. alongside his old comrade Blue Beetle and Nightshade, Sarge Steel, Captain Atom, and Judomaster during a disappearance of the Justice League of America, in order to stop Judomaster's former sidekick, Tiger, from conquering the world. On that mission, the Question would also first learn of the mysterious land of Nanda Parbat. He would also return to Hub City several times, and eventually got a bittersweet shock when he learned that Myra had finally moved on.

Following the near-destruction of Gotham City after a major earthquake, the Question relocated to Gotham and teamed with the Huntress, with whom he had a short-lived affair.

After years of dabbling with hallucinogens, meditation, and his mask-activating gas, The Question developed a shamanic awareness, in which he was able to interpret coincidences and thus "talk to the city". In this state, he was also able to sense chi, or life force. He became able to "walk in two worlds" for an increased awareness of his surroundings and of any disturbances in a city's natural order. This ability came in handy when Sage relocated to Metropolis and teamed up with Superman against Lex Luthor and the Psychopomp.

Infinite Crisis

During the events of the Infinite Crisis the Secret Society of Super-Villains coordinate a planet wide breakout of super-villains from every major prison. With the JLA otherwise occupied Oracle with the help of the telepathy of the Martian Manhunter is able to organize a group of second string vigilantes to oppose the escapees at each prison. The Question joins up with these heroes and when they make their way to Metropolis he is transported with the other heroes to fight in what would become the Battle of Metropolis.

Following the events of the Infinite Crisis and Batman's disappearance, The Question returned to Gotham City to assume the role of its protector.

His first act was removing the bat symbol sticker from the Bat-Signal and spray-painting a giant question mark in its place. This was not strictly an act of ego, however- he shone the light on Renee Montoya's apartment building in order to get her attention. Three days later, he entered Montoya's apartment and left her an address: 520 Kane Street. When Montoya visited the location, he hired her to watch an abandoned building located there for "two hundred dollars a day, plus expenses," and implied that it would be used by a third party. This mysterious behavior would lead to a partnership that would last nearly a year.

Two weeks and one night later, the two teamed up against a strange creature who entered that building. The course of their investigations then led them to Kahndaq, where they investigated Intergang dealings and prevented a suicide bombing during Black Adam and Isis's wedding, an action that earned The Question the Order of the Crescent.

After returning to Gotham City, the Question learned that he was suffering from lung cancer. Though Montoya immediately had Sage hospitalized and later took it upon herself to transport him to the Himalayan city of Nanda Parbat in the hope of using its mystical properties to save him, she was too late. After suffering through great discomfort and hardship, Victor Sage, The Question, passed away.

Blackest Night

During the Blackest Night crossover, Vic Sage is reanimated as a Black Lantern. He goes after Renee, Tot and Lady Shiva, who manage to elude him by suppressing their emotions, making them invisible to him.

The Question's legacy lives on, however: Renee Montoya has been seen wearing the mask and garb of the Question in Gotham City, and, on an alternate version of Earth, a version of Vic Sage lives on.

#the question #question #charles charlie victor szasz #charles victor szasz #charlie victor szasz #charlie szasz #charles szasz #vic sage #l.a.w.#law #l.a.w #jla #justice league of america #Black Lantern Corps #dc #DC comics #thedcdunce #Living Assault Weapons

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inevitably-johnlocked · 6 years ago

Note

hey steph! I was wondering if I knew any fic that involved either drinking games or card games or table games or anything like that?

Hi Nonny!

Ah, I don’t have very many at all, so I’m just gonna post any of my fics I have that are Game-related (including Olympics, LOL). Most are from my Pre-Admitting-I-Shipped-Johnlock Days on FFNet, so there’s a lot of those, LOL.

If any of my Lovelies have their own fics to rec, please do! I enjoy a good board game fic!

GAMES

Usefulness of Having Friends by ObservationofTrifles (K, 1,052 w. || Friendship) – Sherlock is sick and John is bringing him to the doctor’s. On the way there in the tram, John decides to play a deduction game to cheer Sherlock up.

Never Have I Ever by Hannelore-Grace (T, 2,073 w. || Humour, Friendship, Drinking Games) – In which the Yarders, Sherlock, and John play the time-honored drinking game.

Bored Games by patster223 (K+, 2,769 w. || Cluedo / Board Games, Friendship, Humour) – Sherlock is bored and John decides that they should play Cluedo. In retrospect, it was a truly awful decision.

Right Foot Red by Irrevocably_Sherlocked (E, 3,089 w. || First Time, Board Games, Frottage, Masturbation, Frottage, PWP) – …ok, it’s juvenile, but at least it’s a game where touching is allowed. And if something more were to happen, well, John can’t say he’d be too upset about that. “What are the rules of this game?” Sherlock asks, the disdain evident on the word ‘game’. “I spin, you do as I say.” John thinks he sees a slight widening of those pale grey eyes at that, just for a fraction of a second, before it is shut down. Oh, this is interesting, he thinks.

Bored Games by SparksMayFly (K, 3,492 w. || Humour, Friendship, Cluedo / Board Games, Big Brother Mycroft) – Sherlock asks if he can take Reverend Green in for interrogation. John explains that’s not how the game works.

Carrying the Torch by chappysmom (K+, 4,254 w. || Friendship, “Hero” / Olympian John, Olympic Games, Sherlock’s in Awe Over John) – Just in time for the 2012 London Olympics, Sherlock discovers John’s hidden passion for the Games—but it turns out, there’s so much more to it than just sports.

Closeted by sussexbound (T, 6,115 w. || Love Confession, First Kiss, Truth or Dare, Trapped in a Closet) – Sherlock and John get trapped in a closet while on a case. Some revelations are made while they play a game to pass the time. Part 1 of Intimacy

The Name Game by ItsClydeBitches221B (K, 8,958 w. || Humour, Family, Platonics / Friendship, Sort-of Parentlock, John/Mary, Mary is Nice, Five and Ones, Baby Watson, Mycroft Loves Baby Watson) – The names that baby girl Watson comes up with for her extended family. Or: how everyone—Watsons, Holmes, and others alike— just learned to give up and embrace their weirdness.

The Hand You’re Dealt by MapleleafCameo (M, 10,624 w. || Humour, Friendship, Card Games, Alternate First Meeting, No Slash / Platonic Relationship) – John wouldn’t have minded so much if only Sherlock would stop introducing him as ‘John Watson. I won him in a poker game.’

Never Have I Ever by hudders-and-hiddles (E, 10,655 w. || Pining Sherlock, First Kiss / Time, Drinking Games, Love Confessions, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers) – John and Sherlock tag along for the Met’s weekly night out, where the evening’s chosen drinking game is Never Have I Ever. Sherlock is reluctant to join in until he realizes he can learn all kinds of new things about John, but he forgets that John might learn a thing or two about him as well.

The Newlywed Game: Johnlock Edition by patternofdefiance (E, 9,020 w. || Fake Relationship, Fake Marriage, Friends to Lovers, Humour, Romance, Smut, Case Fic, Self-Esteem Issues) – John and Sherlock pretend to be married in order to be contestants in a Newlywed Game. Of course it’s for a case. Of course it doesn’t stay that way. Part 8 of I Blame Tumblr

Leveling Up by philalethia (M, 36,961 w. || Video Gamer AU || Different First Meeting, Epistolary, Gaming, Internalized Homophobia, Sexuality Crisis, Past Drug Use) – John plays video games, Sherlock writes a guide on GameFAQs, and they get on quite well together… eventually.Told entirely through emails, text messages, and voice chats. (I haven’t read this one yet – it’s on my MFL list – so read at your own discretion)

Uphill by scullyseviltwin (E, 84,945 w. || Olympics AU || Sherlock POV, Skier!Sherlock / Medic!John, Rivalry, 2014 Olympics, Happy Ending) – Sherlock Holmes is striving for gold in this, his fourth and final Olympics as a downhill Alpine racer.

#steph replies #johnlock fic recs #johnlock games #my fic recs #Anonymous

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hudsonmckenzie · 2 years ago

Text

Why there is so much demand of experienced law firms in London?

There are huge numbers of individuals who dream of legally residing and working in the United States. Turning this dream into a reality is a big job for many of them, but only if they are able to successfully shift to the United States’ complex and difficult immigration laws. On the basis of the great importance placed on being granted permanent resident status (green card) or U.S. citizenship, it is surprising how many people endeavor to achieve their immigration objective without the help of experienced immigration lawyers in London who specialize in immigration law. It is also correct that some do not get successful, but many others fail. And this failure may lead to their much-anticipated nightmare – being deported.

A person that is presently living in the United States must file their request for immigration advantages with the United States Citizenship and Immigration Service (USCIS). However, it doesn’t reflect that the process just requires the completion of a simple form. First, the forms are not always simple to comprehend. Many of the forms feature complex questions that require a person to comprehend terms and language which have an exact meaning unique to immigration law. This meaning may vary from what many people think it to be. Thus, a person may deprive themselves of lawfully living in the United States simply because they did not understand the question they were being asked.

More important than the forms though is that the applicant should smartly check their suitability for the asked benefit before filing any application to the USCIS. This assessment needs an inspection of several things, including dates of entries and exits from the U.S., type of visa (if any) held at entry to the U.S., the immigration level and history of the applicant and their family members, etc. The inability to make this evaluation before submitting the application may lead to something much shoddier than a renunciation – it may lead to being deported, maybe within a couple of hours.

Once eligibility is decided, the applicant must submit a well-documented request for an immigration benefit. The submission of sufficient documentary evidence, ranging from a birth or marriage certificate to complex medical records, is vital since it is the applicant who has the burden of proving that they are eligible for the requested benefit.

The USCIS interviews can be challenging, nerve-wracking involvements, but the wishful immigrant needs to try everything possible to ensure their personal interview is successful. That is not always easy though. It may be the applicant’s first time attending a personal interview for an immigration benefit with the USCIS, and they are likely to be interrogated by an experienced USCIS officer who has conducted many of these types of interviews. In such cases, experienced immigration law firms in London play a critical role in helping their clients in clearing this interview positively.

Understanding the importance of these immigration attorneys, it is important to choose one of the experienced and reliable law firms in London that can understand your case and provide much-needed help in turning a dream into truth.

#immigration lawyers in London

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pen-whipped · 5 years ago

Text

∞ Wold in an Inch ∞

~for Carlton & Erica~

∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫

∞ Prologue ∞

Never give ‘em the last inch was scratched on the wall of the jail cell next to several pairs of initials with hearts drawn around them. A 12’ X 10’ holding tank decorated with similar slogans and signatures where people seem to have thought about only two things while they were here: holding on to one final piece of anything to control and … Love. The walls, ceiling, and floor were coated with thick grey paint where the scriptures were etched; and a metallic bench, toilet, and sink matched all the blandness. Here I realized that one of the greatest motivators of the world is Love. I thought of The Trojan War. Boudicca’s Rebellion against Rome for her daughters. Rama and Sita. Fairytales and over-stretched history, of course. I also thought about ... Nationalism—the disgusting love of country. Racism—the even more disgusting love at the expense of its hatred for others. Capitalism—the love of material goods beyond need and necessity, at the expense of others. Religion—the love for some version of god or gods and the ideals and values that uphold that version. Movements and Rebellions in the name of Love. And so of course I thought about Ernesto “Che” Guevara and how when asked by a reporter, “What inspires a revolutionist,” he responded after a pause and a grin. “Amor” (Love), he said.

I realized then that the other motivator of the world is this power structure that harnesses the actions of those motivated by Love or some extension of Love such as jealousy, desire, passion, rage. Of the two locals I was locked up with, in this small shithole Texas bo-dunk town, one hospitalized a man who slept with his wife and the other had a physical fight with his own wife. A third man loved a woman so much that he joined the carnival she was part of so as to not ever be without her, and thereby revoked his probation. And me … I was headed to a wedding from Colorado to Austin, TX, where my best friend had claimed the love of his life.

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∞ Rite of Passage ∞

You forget these people exist. Even having been raised around them, with them, and by them, you just forget. I was born and raised in Texas, in their jungle like Tarzan with gorillas. And that’s actually the perfect analogy because right when the state trooper says to me, “With a Black in the White House, Queers havin’ a Christian’s marriage, and dope bein’ legalized all over God’s good country, you just cain’t be too careful these days,” what comes to mind is the evolution chart where a drawing of a man standing upright is preceded by different hunchbacked ape-like creatures. Here, barely across the border into the Texas panhandle, knuckles still drag on the ground. You spend over a decade in the land where people walk upright and you forget the knuckle draggers exist.

Karl Marx tells us that killers first make an enemy of their victims before killing them. This is how the crime is justifiable. Such sociopaths have the same characteristics of a nation that makes an enemy of another nation before destroying it. America and its fictitious WMD ploy that led to the Hussein regime’s demise. A nation ran by a Texan. “Now that’s when the country had its head on straight,” he says peeking through his rearview mirror at me behind the glass that separates the front seat from the back.

Red neck adages—they’re like poetry without everything poetic.

“A good Christian was pullin’ the reigns then,” he continues.

I wonder why they speak in parables—southern draw riddles filled with similes and metaphors. His “Christians,” sound more like “Chrust-yens.” I get it. The same way Jesus’ parables made all the rest of the world understandable for the knuckle draggers in his time, so do the redneck adages for our time. And they loves them some Jesus too. He’s everywhere.

I could take his last adage a million different directions other than the one these handcuffs connected to the yellow rope ran through them and around my waist and back up through my thighs insists that I do. He’s fucking hogtied me. I look at the cuffs and yellow rope and think how man is the cruelest of all animals, for a dog would only bite another dog, but we … we shackle and belittle, demoralize and strip identities, rape and enslave, indebt and un-educate one another to the point that we ourselves forget that others are living, breathing human-fucking-beings. But, even with this in mind, I say with a hint of delight, “And we was all better off when it was,” leaning forward to the hole in the glass divider, referring to when a good Southern Chrust-yen led the nation. Never mind that it was war, poverty, and a greater divide between the classes that he led us to.

To reverse Marx’s notion of the killer, if the victim can make the killer identify him or her as one of the killer’s own, or at the very least as a human being, then the victimization is more likely to cease or at minimum the inflictions lose harshness.

There’s a Bible in the front seat, and I’ve heard numerous Chrust-yen references and seen two crucifixes since I was pulled over: one around the narcotics officer’s neck and one dangling from this trooper’s mirror. So I continue, “Yes, sir. My uncle’s lil’ chapel in Amarillo donated all they could to support both Bushes, Junior and his daddy.” (There’s no chapel. No donations. The point is that I too am a Christian, and even greater so, I too am a Texan—though I was born in Texas, I am neither a Christian nor a Texan; he, however, should believe that I am both).

His eye brows perk up. He glances twice in the mirror before saying, “You from Texas?”

“Yes, sir. Born ‘n raised,” I pronounce with a draw that would win me an Academy nomination. “Up north they still make fun’a my accent.” He tells me he didn’t even notice the accent till now. “I hide it so much, ya know. So’s to not get made fun of up ‘er in Colorado.” … and so the game goes until I’m a human being, and then eventually I’m one of his own and he’s telling me about his family, his farm, his career, and finally I get him to admit why he stopped me. This is only an inch, but it’s something.

I’d like to thank The Academy, first; then my rhetoric teacher; followed by my redneck uncles for the southern draw and simplified grammar.

He’d been claiming I was driving over the speed limit, even though that’s anything but true. Since I don’t have a driver’s license, I kept to the limits the entire drive and planned on it all the way to my destination. Never once drove 5mph more than the limit. And so each time I’d asked how much over the limit he clocked me at, he’d just say not to worry since he’s droppin’ that charge.

“Reason I’m takin’ you in is cuz drivin’ without a DL is breakin’ the law here in Texas.”

But the reason he pulled me over … the reason two K9 Units parked on both sides of my rental car only minutes after I was pulled over … the reason the narcotics officers gave me the 3rd degree interrogation about drug trafficking … is, as he says from under his ten gallon hat, Colorado just passed a law legalizing marijuana, and well, “With a Black in the White House, Queers havin’ a Christian’s marriage … dope legalized in God’s country … you just can’t be too careful these days.”

“Now listen,” he goes on to say, “I realize I’m ‘bout as tight as bark on a tree when it comes to the law. Some may’a just gave ya a ticket and sent ya on yer way, but I believe it’s just as likely fer you to sneak back ‘cross the state line and never return to pay for yer crime. You’d just be whistlin’ Dixie up ‘er like you’d never did nothin’ wrong down here. This a’way,” he says, “You have to wait and see the judge in the mornin’. Pay yer dues and what not.”

I’m shackled like a killer who’d forgot to make an enemy of his victim first. Hogtied like a baby pig that’d escaped the pen. A one-time freed slave who’d left the North and returned South only to be caught without his emancipation papers. I’m thinking in redneck adages. I was driving without a fucking driver’s license for crying out loud!

More laws lead to more crimes lead to more criminals lead to more jobs to catch, house, and process the criminals, which lead to more revenue leading ultimately to more money circulating within the system. Criminals are filters for the process in this way, lab rats exploited for the greater good, space monkeys for the ruling knuckle draggers. Karl Marx claims that in capitalistic societies, the people are concerned more about money and commodities than they are other human beings.

Dogs, on the other hand, well … they just bite one another.

∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫

∞ Crossing the Threshold ∞

It’s hard to believe Nietzsche’s claim that we should celebrate the rebel for reminding us of our enslavement to the system when I’m told to strip all my clothes off and lift my dick and nuts up to show that nothing’s stashed away in some secret compartment.

The first steps to make a slave of an individual are to separate them from their own kind and then strip them of their identity. Separate the rebel from his support group and give him the title criminal, thereby giving a less lustrous title and making the act of any rebellion lose any glory to others contemplating similar actions.

Ranchers hang dead wolves on fence posts for similar reasons. Other wolves are deterred from entering land when they see the carcass of what was one of their own that dared to “trespass.”

Romans left messiahs hanging on crosses to discourage other messianic aspirations.

A simple change in titles shows the power of words.

They take my cell phone and my wallet with all its contents including cash and ID card. No contact. No identity. They take my clothes, which could in many ways show identity. And as I hold my dick and nuts in my hand and he gazes long and hard at my taint, I think, I just didn’t have my mother fucking driver’s license, though I dare not utter a word.

To fight monsters is to become one, Nietzsche says.

I’m handed a green jump suit and a pair of flip-flops, and with that, a new identity. I am no longer the rebel who dared to drive to his best friend’s wedding without a driver’s license; I am now a criminal in the Republic of Texas. I’m a fucking dead wolf on a fence post. Jesus hanging next to others who did not abide by the law.

I am one step closer to the beast’s belly as they seat me next the woman who’s only job is to tag the slaves and send them to their quarters.

“98% of Colah’rahdins that we pull over have marijuana on ‘em. That’s statistically,” she says popping her gum and not taking her eyes off the computer screen for one moment.

I’m not human to her. I’m a product with a barcode that she runs across the scanner. I’m an enemy, soon to be a victim. A rebel turned criminal. I am not one of her kind.

“They come in here cryin’, talkin’ ‘bout how it’s legal up in Colah' rahda. Well it ain’t down here. Those types is ‘bout as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party.”

She’s as poetic as the trooper. Stoic.Short, round, and full of attitude. Dedicated to a system that is more unjust to those who are of no concern to it than it is unjust to those who are offensive to it. Another Nietzsche claim.

As a new challenge arises within me, I notice something in myself that I begin to notice in all human nature. I want to break this preset image she has prescribed me with, partially as a challenge of wits, but also because I want to get as much as I can from her, however little it may be. Even if … it’s just an inch. With the trooper gone and the officer who checked my taint nowhere to be found, this lady has current reign over me like a slave master.

I start the game with the presupposed idea she has of me. I can’t speak in a dialect that makes me sound ignorant and fitting to the image she has of all who come through here; and I can’t speak from the education level I have that is far above her own. I have to speak plainly. To her. Not above, nor below. All we have in common at this point is our current relationship. And that’s enough to work with.

The strategy behind me telling her, “I bet you see the worst of the worst,” is to separate myself from those who are in fact the worst of the worst. And she responds to this.

“You have no idea.”

Now, to connect more with her, I say, “Well, my cousin’s a prison guard at the federal penitentiary in Colorado; and he tells me that every four years a prison guard works, what it does psychologically to him or her is equal to what one year does to a prisoner. You’re still behind bars and surrounded by criminals in here. Man, I feel for ya’.” Now, I’ve further separated myself from the criminals she’s used to and have shown that I am more on her side of the law, even if just through a relative. I’ve also dabbled in some sort of empathy of her situation, shown understanding as to why she wears that frown and never looks a processee in the eyes.

“This job has made me never trust men again; I’ll tell ya’ that much,” she says. “Don’t get me wrong,” and for the first time she turns her head and looks me in the eyes, “I ain’t no fuckin’ carpet muncher though.”

I’m in. Ten minutes later and she’s laughing with me and barely asking the questions the computer screen tells her to: do I have this ailment or that ailment, am I suicidal or have I ever been suicidal, am I addicted to drugs or have I ever been…and so on.

“Listen,” I say during one of the most intense moments of laughter shared between us, “Can I ask a favor of you?”

Her posture shoots straight up and her frown returns. She doesn’t look me in the eyes anymore and she certainly does not laugh. She says, “I don’t know ‘bout that.”

“Calm down,” I tell her with a smile, “All I want to know is if you can prolong this processing. I ain’t gonna lie, an extra moment spent out here laughing with you is greater than any moment spent in the holding tank.”

An extra moment is an inch.

I see her body ease from its defenses. “You mean you ain’t ready to paint your butt white and go runnin’ with the antelope just yet, huh?” And she smiles.

“No, ma’am, I ain’t.”

All I’d done with the trooper was try to get anything I could from him, even if it was just the admission to why he pulled me over. With her I want as much time out of the holding tank as possible, or at the very least, same as with him, I want her to see me as a human being.

I think about life outside of here, how all we do in life is try to get a little more than we have from those who are in control of us or in control of the things we want. A nickel raise from our boss. A better position in the workforce. A higher grade from a teacher. Equity on homes. More square footage in our lofts. Return on investments. Sex from a lover. Devotion from a lover. Love, period. All we want is to get a little more of the control that controls us. And then Nietzsche comes to mind:

This world is a will to power, he says, and nothing besides.

A new rebel comes in and this lady has me stand in a corner while she processes him. She does this twice more before I realize she’s stalling for me. Rather than process me and have them wait their turns, she goes through them first; thus allowing my processing to be prolonged. I am now a human being.

After the third rebel passes through and into his new criminal identity, she finishes my questions, finger prints, and mug shots; and then says, “That was the best I can do. It’s time.”

I thank her. Tell her it’s more than enough.

“Now, walk down that hall to the laundry room," she motions the direction with her hand, "And then we’ll get ya’ in that tank”

She follows me. Doors buzz open as we arrive at them. In the laundry room she tells me to grab a mat, a sheet, and a blanket, all of which are stacked neatly on different shelves next to industrial size washers and dryers. “If you want two blankets, I can do that for you too; but you’re gonna have to deal with the others bein’ jealous.”

“Gladly,” I say.

“Then unroll ‘em and roll ‘em back up together so it looks like a mistake was made.”

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∞Belly of the Beast∞

“It’s gonna be about 12 hours before the judge is in,” she says as the door shuts behind me. The three rebels from earlier are sprawled out on the floor. Same jump suit as me. Same blankets. Same matts. Same flip-flops next to the matts. We are one and the same.

The messiah on his cross did not stand out from the murderer or the thief on theirs.

One lifts his head up and slides his pallet over to make room for me. “Don’t shit unless you absolutely have to,” he says looking at the silver toilet fully exposed in the corner. As he rolls over and back to sleep, he continues, “Even dogs don’t shit where they lay.” The others never move. I make my bed, careful not to reveal that I have two blankets.

I lie in utter silence.

I think first about Martin Luther King, JR and his Letter from Birmingham Jail, where he too was arrested for being, as his jailers claimed, an unwelcomed outsider in their state. Though I dare not think my circumstances are remotely comparable to his and his time in the Alabama jail, I am reminded of him saying in his letter, Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.

And though I was not racially profiled, I was indeed profiled. With a Black in the White House, Queers getting married, and dope legalized all over, a change is slowly coming—a change that threatens the way of life where these types of comments are made. To a far smaller degree, my green and white Colorado license plates are Martin’s black skin. And, with everything stripped from me, I lie here experiencing what Martin called, nobodyness.

This cold, horizontal floor is the belly in the beast of order. All laws, all virtues, all values—all of which are based on perspective, are the means to make order from the seemingly chaotic. And this is the bottom of that order. The exploited who arrive here, or any floor like this one anywhere, are merely, as Nietzsche claims of all exploitations, consequences of the will to power, which is after all the will to life.

I’ve become the consequence of a way of life fighting to sustain itself. I represent the other life that strives to grow, spread, seize, and become predominant - not from any morality or immorality but because it is living and because life simply is… again and again I claim with Nietzsche and experience it now more than ever … a will to power.

I'm sorry that I can't praise the police department. It is true that they have been disciplined in their public handlings, but for what purpose? To preserve an evil system. I try to make it clear that it is wrong to use immoral means to attain moral ends. But now I must affirm that it is just as wrong, or even more, to use moral means to preserve immoral ends. So said Martin Luther King JR in that letter he wrote from jail.

I imagine the letter I’ll write, and think that it has to be dedicated to my best friend and his new bride. Like the little drummer kid in the manger banging bongos next to bay Jesus’ crib, this letter is all I have to give. And in it I’ll mention how I thought mostly of Marx, Nietzsche, King JR, Lacan, and Campbell. It will only be a matter of time, I think, and I’ll be out of here and writing my own Letter from a Texas Jail.

That very matter of time stretches beyond all previously known flexibilities for time. No prior concept of it exists in here. I clear my thoughts of King JR when one of my fellow mates awakens and asks a passing guard for Tylenol. And when the guard returns with a bottle of pills and a sign-off sheet, he asks the guard what the time is. I’d been to Birmingham and visited the King in his cell after I watched him protest with non-violent means he’d learned from Gandhi, saw him arrested by bigots with faces as stoic and prescribed with presupposed ideals of particular people as that of the lady who’d processed each of us in this cell, I sat next to King JR while each pen stroke gave birth to one of the most widely anthologized letters of our time, and when the guard looks at his watch and says, “a quarter to midnight,” I am in utter disbelief.

You can fit days inside the minutes of a jail cell, so I learn. Centuries in its hours.

The other two wake and ask for Tylenol too, admitting quietly amongst ourselves that they don’t need it. “You might as well take what you can get around here,” one says. And it’s at this moment that we all introduce ourselves for the first time and then tell our tales of capture. After this the conversation goes directly to, and never leaves the topic of, pussy. The variations of pussy from looks to feel, from hair lengths to shaved, from menstruating bloody to (what each of them agrees is the best of all pussies:) pregnant pussy. “I wouldn’t know, honestly, never have had that kind,” I say.

But what I really want to say is …

I want to tell the guy who beat his wife’s lover to a pulp about how Jacques Lacan took one of Sigmund Freud’s studies a layer deeper than Freud himself did. Freud demonstrates that at times children will not want to play with a toy, nor will they care at all about a particular toy, until another child wants to play with it. Lacan studied infant twins who could neither speak nor barely move more than their arms and heads, but would easily and obviously be overcome with a fit of jealous rage when the other sibling would suckle from the mother’s breast. I imagine this guy probably not wanting much to do with his wife until someone else did. He threw a fit like an infinite. Something intrinsic in us seems to want to control everything, even if it is only the desire of the other. A child would rather destroy a toy it cared nothing about than to see another child enjoy that very same toy. It’s about control, holding on to every inch within reach.

I want to ask the other cell mate why he beat his wife. He never tells why they fought, but I'm certain it can be connected to Freud’s idea of the Ego being projected from within us and into our outwardly real world surroundings, creating all things we fear and hate, as well as all things we desire and love. This means all things externally felt and imagined are more than directly related to our inner selves; they are, more particularly, our inner selves externalized. Buddhists have a similar belief that all enemies are only such because we have made them so. No one is our enemy whom we have not made be; and furthermore who our enemy is says more about us than them. These ideas combined mean that all things are manifestations of the Ego. We set all challenges and obstacles in our own way. And so I wonder about this other cell mate of mine; what could he have projected from within himself onto the woman that birthed his children; what fear or hatred brewed inside himself so much that he beat the shit out of her as if she was the embodiment of that abstraction from within himself. I wonder…

I want to discuss the carnival love. This guy loved a woman and didn’t want to be without her, but he’s been cycled and recycled in the system since he was a teenager, and so he had to rebel against an order to be with her. He committed a crime as a child and has been paying for it since through a series of revocations and so on. He’s one of the oldest in our cell but he has a childlike quality to him, an innocence that none of us possess, as if this system has kept him in the state he was in when he committed his crime. I think about Nietzsche saying that at one time in history, people who wronged others in their social group were punished with a severity that equaled the crime; and after that punishment, not only did they not repeat the offenses, but they also were considered to have paid their debt for the offense. Nietzsche claimed in the late 19th century (and I would claim is even more the case in our 21st century) that nowadays people pay for a crime for the remainder of their lives, whether it be through the inability to acquire decent work based on criminal records or it be the continuous revocation of the same crime committed decades prior. The overall goal for the endless un-reconciliation is one similar to medical industries not wanting to find a cure for ailments. People dependent upon and stuck within the system become filters for the process of monetary circulation and are best kept as such, as lab rats for the greater good, as space monkeys for the knuckle dragggers.

I’m thinking these things, though I dare not utter a word of them. Instead, I join in with the dogs and bark about the variations of bitches and pussies as I know them. I would separate myself from the pack if I were to provide my insight to anything other.

It’s here I realize we’re all in this cell due to some relation to love, even if by some extension of it: jealousy, passion, and so forth. I represent the beginning stages: a wedding. The carny represents the next: giving up the self for love and fulfilling the desire of the other. The guy who beat his wife is some stage nearer the end, either right before or directly after she cheats on him. And thus the final stage, the guy beats the wife’s new lover to a pulp. And the cycle is complete in a way that makes an enemy of Love and thereby justifies the system that controls it.

I wonder if it all is really, rather than being about love … is all this … is life and the control of it all really about … I mean … could it be that as the dogs in this kennel discuss nothing more than … could all of life, directly or indirectly, really be about pussy? This is, of course, from a man’s perspective; we could say “cock” for a woman’s, or perhaps some ambiguous sexual connotation to encompass both genders (Freud and Lacan would say both genders are phallic, for even the lack of something is the representation of that something that is missing).

I wonder ... Is love really our own childlike want to control a vagina like a toy? Do we ever leave the Oedipus and Electra Complex stages, where the moment a child first recognizes their own sexual identity, the very next step is to focus libidinal energy on the parent of the opposite sex? Then, all extensions and versions of jealousy and rage focus on the parent of the same sex. Is the guy who hospitalized his wife’s lover not the unrepressed Oedipus Complex, since his desire to possess and control the sexuality opposite his own and destroy the one that is the same as his and therefore the rival to him actually plays out, as if it escaped its subconscious repression? And he, like most of us, dared not think about sharing that vagina, as if it were his little toy that he could not stand the thought of someone else getting pleasure from. He demonstrates how we will throw tantrums that destroy others if they play with or attempt to play with things we claim as our own. We are nothing more than infant twins, each on opposite tits, sucking away and making an enemy of our own brother for indulging as we do. We will beat him to a pulp. Hospitalize or imprison him. Make a repeat offender of him to trap him within the system that supports this behavior because this justifies its existence. Even if it is all over a toy we care nothing about.

The law shapes man into its image, Lacan says, exploiting the poetic function of language to give man’s desires symbolic mediation.

I often think that we are no different from salmon, spending our whole lives trying to get back to the place we came from. We swim up streams of vaginas every chance we get until we die, and sometimes we die by them or because of them. Salmon spawning in the one place it was spawned from. I say vagina, or I say pussy, but really I understand that this is connected to reproduction. This is connected to survival of the species. We humans are a living, breathing organism that strives to grow, spread, seize, and dominate every inch of our immediate surroundings (for us as individuals) until this inch grows into all space (for us as whole organized units).

Everything we do is connected to the womb—that which we crawl out of like Jesus rolling the stone back for resurrection. To die and be born again in the same place, we have to protect the womb. We have to keep it sacred and cleanly, preserve its virgin-like and godly qualities. We have to claim it as our friend, our soul mate, our companion, our wife, the mother of our children. In other words, we build walls of illusion around it like fences around territory. And then we hang dead carcasses on posts to deter other dogs. We have to claim the womb by some way that designates us as the sole owner; meaning, we control it and only we can touch it; only we can play with it; no one else can stick their cocks in it but us; and no one but us gets pleasure from the one we claim as our own. Otherwise … we will destroy it—a Pagan temple where queues of beasts await in provocation. The goddess becomes a fallen statue in her own bed of ash, dripping, oozing, disease infested, and speaking the language of heathens from some dead religion. Decrepit and useless. There will be no rebirth otherwise.

∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫

∞Road to Trial∞

Just before the twelfth hour in the tank, when conversation was dead and sleep was impossible, I lie awake reading all the markings on the walls and floor. Hieroglyphics of the slaves. None betraying the pattern of either keeping control of something or always loving someone. I wonder by what means were they able to leave these marks, but then I see the broken pieces of concrete rock lying loosely about the floor. As an unfamiliar feeling sets in, something beyond boredom and close to devastation, I understand how scratching philosophy into the layers of paint would help ease this approaching panic. A small purpose would be given in this way, a tiny goal, something that lets us and others know we were here, alive, and real; and something that (once again) becomes our own.

I grab a rock and underneath the slogan Never give ‘em the last inch, I start my own contribution, slowly inscribing: and take

The guy who beat his wife, he jumps up as if he’d woke from a nightmare. Sweating and breathing hysterically. He pushes a button on the wall and a woman’s voice comes through a small speaker demanding to know what his emergency is. He can’t speak. He’s hyperventilating. Me being close to panic already, I feel his instability spreading to me. Like some air born pathogen. And from the looks on the faces of the others as they begin to watch, it’s spreading to them as well.

A loud buzzer. The door opens. A guard takes him out of the cell and as he does he says, “Holy shit, this tank’s stuffy’er ‘na horses face eatin’ corncobs.”

The window is completely fogged over, as if we’ve been recycling each other’s breaths for centuries now. The guard stands next to the open door allowing new and cold air to come in. I sit upright, lay a blanket across my lap, wrap another around my shoulders, close my eyes, breath deeply and slowly, and attempt the first meditation of my life. I don’t know what meditating actually is or even what it consists of, nor do I know how to actually do it. But I attempt it anyway, attempting it as I’ve heard of it being done. I eventually calm myself through the process and end up in some place other than where I am.

I journey through Joseph Campbell’s theory of monomyth. Thinking back to Colorado when I, the hero, was called to action as Campbell says is the first step of all heroes ranging from Greek and Roman mythological heroes to Buddha and Jesus. I see the mountains—snowcapped and towering in their implications of a land where it’s okay for Blacks, Queers, and drug users to be human beings. According to Campbell’s theory, after the hero begins his journey, he will first cross a threshold where some foreign creature will take him further into the land of the unknown, or as Campbell says, the entrance to the zone of magnified power … where darkness and danger reside … a passage beyond the veil of the known into the unknown. The threshold guardian takes the hero closer to if not directly into The Belly of the Whale, according to Campbell. Jonah comes to mind, of course. But also, Dionysus and Hestia. Jason and Medea. Odysseus and the Odyssey. Jesus and the Romans. Me and the knuckle draggers. The hero enters the belly of the whale where the metamorphosis begins. Once inside he may be said to have died, only to return to the World Womb anew.

“Where’d you get two blankets from?” the guard asks me, and my eyes snap open and I’m brought back into my cell. I shrug my shoulders, act clueless, and say they were wrapped this way. “Supposed to only have one,” he says and turns around. And with that our cell mate returns, pale but calmed. He apologizes and goes right to his mat and blanket. Everyone rolls their backs to one another; and still seated upright, I close my eyes to the heavy noise of the door shutting.

Campbell says the hero, upon exiting the whale’s belly, is no longer who or what he was when he entered it, and he is then ready for a series of trials and tests from some awaiting female character—either a goddess or a temptress of some sorts—who has the ability to lead the hero astray or to encourage him to continue his journey. After her, the hero meets a male father figure for atonement consisting in the abandonment of the self-generated double monster—the superego and repressed Id. This requires an abandonment of the attachment to ego itself … and one must have faith that the father is merciful. This center of belief will be transferred outside of the self.

After a few moments of being lost in the silence, I wake. I grab my piece of the floor, the small chiseled concrete rock, and I continue my contribution to the slogan. As quiet as I can, next to my two words—and take, I press the rock into the paint and drag it into figures forming the words: back every inch from ‘em you can.

With a small purpose, there is no panic. Time is irrelevant. I take careful pride in my lettering and refurbishing the part of the slogan not created by me. I add a comma after the other rebel’s part of the slogan and a period after my own, uniting them as one and the same and ending them together as such. I brush the remnants clear and blow heavily across the phrase that now reads:

Never give ‘em the last inch, and take back every inch from ‘em you can.

I read it and wonder if others will understand it, or if it will be hidden by all the other slogans like the messiah surrounded by murders and thieves. I wonder if others will add to it. I think in years it will turn into a poem—stanzas by those of us who know what it means to own nothing except that final fucking inch. In decades it will become a new decree … maybe. But really I know it will be lost and forgotten once it’s covered with a new shade of grey paint as thick and dense as the power structure that willed it to be. Winds turn sands and hide footprints this same way.

Centuries pass and then the door buzzes and the guard says, “Westerholt. The judge will see you now.”

I throw one blanket to the carny and one to the guy that beat his wife’s lover. The guy who beat his wife, he says to me, “Hey man. Larry’s the impound guy; I know him. He ain’t gonna give you your car without a license. He’s gonna bleed you for every cent he can.”

“Thanks for the heads-up,” I say. And the door shuts behind me.

A new lady sits where the first did, but they are one and the same, like Romans to a messiah. She hands me my clothes and directs me toward the same room where I showed my dick to the officer earlier. It’s almost 10am. Within ten minutes I dress, and then I’m given my wallet and cell phone back. And with that, my own identity.

“Directly across the street's the courthouse. Judge’s chambers is down the hall, last door on the left. She’s waitin' for ya’.”

When all the barriers and ogres have been overcome … the triumphant hero meets the Queen Goddess of the World. This is the crisis at the nadir, the zenith, or at the uttermost edge of the earth, in the tabernacle of the temple … The meeting with the goddess is the final test of the talent of the hero to win the advantage of her charity … And if she shuns him, the scales fall from her eyes; if she does not, her desire helps him find peace. So says Joseph in his Hero of a Thousand Faces.

Outside the sun is warm and bright and opposite everything from where I just came. I breathe and taste the air like a newborn resurrected from the womb. Squinting and yawning and stretching. Each vehicle that passes is a truck of some kind: dualies, F150s, and old farm pickup trucks. The buildings are from some other era, pre 20th century. No stop lights in either direction for as far I can see. It’s like a dream. I’m lost on some time travel expedition. If a horse and buggy came down the street and stopped to watch two gun slingers pace and draw on one another, I would not be surprised in the least.

Down the hall of the courthouse and in the last door on the left, I wait to see the judge in an office with Jesus décor all over. Crosses hang on the walls. Bibles on the shelves. Magnets on the filing cabinets: several with proverbs and one with a picture of Jesus holding a lamb. A picture on the wall shows a man and a woman holding hands and walking on the beach toward a sunset that colors the entire scene shades of orange. At the bottom of the poster it reads, Our love is designed by Jesus. And though it’s a silhouette of a male and a female figure holding hands, it’s obvious they are a white couple. A white, heterosexual, non-drug using couple, designed by Jesus himself. I am in God’s country, at least this version of god; and I am about to have one his own protégés pass the same judgment on to me as they would have he himself pass it. Since he hates Blacks, Queers, and junkies I think it fortunate, at the very least, that I am white, heterosexual, only on the proper occasion do I use drugs, and it helps that I really am originally from this god fearing jungle.

She yells from the courtroom next door that she’s ready for me and the secretary gives me a nod. “She’ll see you now,” she says as if I was too stupid or not worthy of hearing the judge’s yelling myself.

The courtroom is empty of people but filled with antique wooden chairs with red velvet cushions aligned in scattered rows. Her desk is at the front of the room. This is not the typical courtroom you see on TV depicting the 21st century. This looks like an elementary school from a time when plainsong and national athems filled the rooms. It’s still haunted by such chimes.

An old white lady with short and tightly curled grey hair peers over the rims of glasses at me as I approach. I ask her very politely if I may take a seat at one of the two chairs across from her desk. The game has already begun; I know the one inch I want from her. I no longer use the dialect I did in the tank where pussy was the topic. I now speak with a language even elevated above that I did with the lady who gave me my slave tags. I follow our introductions with lots of yes ma’ams and no ma’ams. And when she gets a pencil out to start figuring the total fines, I quickly mention that I am an English instructor at the university back home and so math certainly isn’t my strong point. Simultaneously I have informed her of a respectable career as well as humility exposed through a personal weakness. We laugh a bit at my expense: the joy of all I’ve been through and the circumstances that caused them. I admit fault repeatedly, bring up the importance of the wedding, and I most certainly mention being originally from Texas myself. And not two seconds after she tells me the total for my fines, I ask for my inch.

“Your Honor,” I say, “I wonder if you might consider giving me anything for the time I served in your jail. I spent nearly 13 hours in the tank and just wondered if you can give me anything for that. However little it may be. I would be more than grateful.”

“Well, we don’t give anything for time less than 24 hours served,” she says. And just as I nod in understanding and tuck my chin to my chest, she says, “Usually… that is,” and she smiles. “How ‘bout this?” She scribbles through the original total she’d written down, which was just over 400 dollars, and she draws a new figure that is just under 300 dollars.

It’s not much, but it’s something.

I shake her hand and thank her. And I notice, Joseph Cambpbell was right, scales do not fall from her eyes.

∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫

∞Atonement∞

One step closer to getting out of God’s country, I call Larry’s Tow. After I tell him who I am and ask for directions to his impound lot, he says, “Hell, boy, I’m out-n-about. Only two clicks from ya’ now. I’ll pick ya’ up.”

The final step for Campbell’s hero is confrontation with a male figure who holds the key to either life or death. In my case, the final figure holds the keys to my rental car. And I’ve already been warned by my cellmate that once this Larry guy discovers I have no driver’s license, he’ll care more about money than he does about me as a human. He will see me as some sort of cash cow ready for the prostate milkin’, or something like that; I’m sure. But, as Campbell claims, the hero must have faith that this male figure is merciful. Paralleled with Freud’s claim of the Ego’s projections becoming manifestations, the hero must transfer his inner mercy outward and onto this male figure who then reflects it back as an act. In other words, I have from the time Larry picks me up on the corner near the courthouse until wherever his impound lot is to pull out all the same inch winning tricks I have so far.

As I stand on the corner in the centermost part of this Wild West remake, an oversized truck with a diesel engine’s purr pulls up next to me and the door swings open. “Hop own in,” says the old man. In a Western flick, his name would be Stretch. His boots rest at the bottom of his long thin legs that are wrapped tightly with denim. His belt buckle protects his entire midsection like a shield. Button collar shirt with stripes and his lip’s fat and full of chew. “Colla’rahda, huh? Bet it smells like pig’s shit and cow guts to ya’ll when ya’ll come down here to the panhandle.” And he’s right. The stench is everywhere. Breezes are unwelcome; all they do is spread the horror. “Ta’ us, down ‘ere, That’s the smella’ money, son.”

I don’t hold back. I fire at him with a southern draw, because I know my time is limited. I have to become one of his own and he’s already attempting to separate me from being such.

“Born an’ raised in the panhandle, sir. I know the smell quite well.” With that, I talk about Amarillo being my hometown and I thank him repeatedly for picking me up. Then I continue on with all the same previous strategies as those I used to get every single inch I could from everyone who had some control over my life within this last 20 hour period:

Get those in control to identify with you. Match your language and intellectual level with that of their own; you cannot have those in control thinking you are smarter than they are and you cannot give those in control any reason to believe that you are dumber than they are (one insults their intelligence; the other confirms their stereotype). However, you must behave in a way that lets them know you are aware that they are in control; this will keep them from feeling as if they need to remind you who is in control. This is indeed the classical dialectic of Master and Slave. The slave must know and accept his position, so that he can maneuver through all the barriers that create this position before he can free himself from those very barriers. In other words, a slave must know he is a slave and all the ways in which he is a slave before he can free himself from slavery.

The recipe for making a slave:

• Remove one individual from his or her own people: family, friends, and any other social group.

• Further separate the individual from all people who speak the same language as him or her.

• Just prior to basting, brush away any previously known identities (this includes everything from the individual’s name to associations they identify themselves with).

• Add new identity in 2 parts: Part One. Give the individual a new title, not a name in the sense of a Proper Noun (this should be something derogatory, something that lets the individual know every time he is summonsed by this title that he/she is at a lower status than his master and/or all those who refer to him by this title). Part Two. The slave should no longer be considered an individual. Their new identity should have him/her assigned to all groups similar in stature as their new position, thereby also losing any individualism. Nigger, Queer, Dope-user, White-Trash, Criminal — these are good examples for both Parts One and Two.

• Prior to adding the slave to one holding tank with no windows to the outside, an act of humiliation should precede (public nudity often works well). The walls of the tank should be painted a dull color so the slave gets no stimulation at all. The tank should also be no more than 12’X10’ in diameter. If a tank of this sort is unavailable, a cage or a shack directly behind the master’s mansion should suffice, so long as the cage or shack is in similar condition as all other animals’ cages on the same property.

• Beat, whip, or whisk the slave at your leisure and to a pulp that is to your liking.

• Serve to a God fearing Christian; and Enjoy!

And since this is the process to make a slave, the recipe need only be reversed for the slave seeking freedom:

• Do not Enjoy! Get/be/remain angry (History shows that angry people are those who shift the course of mankind)

• Do not serve the Christian god. His book and ideals promote slavery (amongst other things like homophobia, patriarchy, servitude to a master [even when not a slave as the current topic], narcissism, and murder of those that are different in any way).

• Consider all beatings, whippings, and whiskings as Nietzsche claims of all things that do not destroy us. Even if they truly do not make us stronger, believe it is so while it’s happening so that you may get through the process and eventually overcome it.

• Remove yourself from the confinements of the master’s tanks, cages, shacks, and even the shadows of his mansion. Position yourself in a way that makes it impossible to be caged (i.e. do not drive without a driver’s license).

• Get your identity back, and associate yourself with those you identify most with, and those whom encourage your self-expression.

• Master the use of language (knowing when and how to use its variations among whom)

The whole reality and its effects lies in the gift of speech, Jacques Lacan says, for it is through this gift that all reality has come to man and through its ongoing action that he sustains reality.

Never has this quote rang truer than here in this desolate Texas dirt-hole town, where language creates both a law and a belief system that imprisons someone for something so minor in its true essence because of how it is greater in its implications. That is to suggest: the act of driving without a driver’s license is not the same threat as the driver and what he represents when coming from a place where value systems are different. But language is the bridge of the dialectical process; and though language enforces, language is used to challenge the enforcer's words. Those who use language like whips and chains to control others as they will themselves into positions of power through it should not be surprised when someone uses language and lashes back in a way that calculates repositioning that same power, even if it is only by an inch in favor of the one lashing back through tongue and pen.

At the impound lot, Larry and I are like old buddies talking about high school football in Texas being better than college football in other states, and Texas women have asses like no other women on the planet (I don’t give a fuck about football. Give me Nietzsche, Freud, Lacan, and King any day. Talk about Campbell and his “follow your bliss” philosophy. Rhetoric and its power to seduce and manipulate. And I damn sure don’t care about Texas ass no more than I do pregnant pussy. But Larry doesn’t need to know any of this). I never lose faith in his mercy; and I’m projecting my inner belief outward and on to him. Tough I dare not do it without the assistance of words, for I believe in the power of language irrevocably.

In this tractor garage just on the outskirts of this shithole Texas town, the lot is filled with locus shelled cars and tow trucks and trailers. And in here, Larry sits at a desk and adds up my cost. Just as he tells me the total, another 300 and something dollars, he orders some other gentleman who's legs dangled out from underneath a truck to go fetch the red hatchback. Instead, just as I hand Larry my debit card, his partner (or employee or whatever he is) rolls out from under the truck and walks right up to us and says, “He ain’t got no DL, Larry. Trooper Walkins told me last night about ‘im not havin’ it. We cain’t let ‘im outta here in that car.” His greasy cap and brown coveralls become the focus of my hatred.

I turn directly to Larry and ignore ol’ Skeeter, or whatever the fuck his name is, and say, “Larry, I just wanna get home. I’m 50 miles from the Texas border and all I want is to get back to Colorado. I ain’t got no one who can even come get me.”

Larry puts his face in his hands just as ol’ Skeeter, or whatever the fuck his punk ass name is, says, “Cain’t do it. Larry, you ain’t even considerin’ doin’ this; are ya’?”

Skeeter is about to get a drop kick to the fuckin’ throat and a karatee chop to the bridge of his nose right when Larry says, “I don’t know why, but I am considerin’ it. 31 years in this business, and I never have allowed it once." He pauses. Shakes his head. Looks up at me and says, "Why this time, I do not know.”

I’ll tell you why. I’ll tell everyone why … because while I was here in God’s country … I fought, through the use of language—the only tool I’d been afforded and the only tool they did not strip me of—for every last mother fuckin’ inch that was rightfully mine to begin with anyway.

∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫∫

∞Epilogue∞

The drive home was done at neither one mile over nor one mile under the speed limit. Until I crossed the state line into New Mexico, I felt like a slave on the underground railway. My palms were sweaty; I had cottonmouth; and I kept looking in the rearview mirror for police or troopers. All I wanted was to be back in the north. The moment I was in New Mexico, everything felt differently; and as I approached Colorado, the mountain range in the distance made me feel at ease. I felt proud to call Colorado "home." I imagined the mountains representing this strange place where black people are accepted, gay people are allowed to love one another, recreational drug use is permitted. I imagined just over the approaching mountain range, Colorado as this land like OZ where witches and flying monkeys all walk upright and don't drag their knuckles on the ground, unicorns and fairies prance and frolic beneath rainbows, more gods than the Hebrew wolf hanging from a cross are celebrated, music plays in streets of gold, dogs chase only their own tails, and police and state troopers spend their time focusing on real crimes.

I missed my best friend’s wedding. The only request he made to his bride to be in regards to the wedding, he said that she could have everything she wanted for the wedding, the only thing he had to have … was me there. It’s been nine days since Carlton and Erica’s wedding and I have not stopped typing this essay since I got home. Every spare moment I found has been spent in front of my laptop laying down this story. I believe dogmatically that language creates and sustains our reality, controls us and gives us the ability to control. And so this story about language, told by way of language itself, is my attempt to capture a moment in time, to control the narrative before it slips away. This is my gift to Carlton and Erica. But more so, it is my apology to them both. Two of the most powerful words in the world, said in any language at any time, are I’m sorry. And though it will never make up for the ceremony I missed, I have just said how sorry I am in just over 9.6 thousand words.

Carlton and Erica, I’m sorry.

I’m so sorry that I missed the ceremony of your union.

I love you both dearly—forever and always…

One Love.

~Harley

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