#have the head be the dog and have it connect to fake wires that wind around the body

[nicky-jr]

consider: arlo fursuit-- *i am forcibly dragged away*

[cruezins]

       ☣  ;  (  KIM TAEHYUNG  ,  24  ,  HE/HIM  )  coming up next on rebel radio is OPAUL by FREDDIE DREDD  .  this tune goes out to SIWON RYU  .  rumor has it they just rolled into town and are fightin’ for the GHOULS  .  they’re AFFABLE  ,  INQUISITIVE but also AIMLESS  ,  MERCURIAL so watch your backs out there  .  we wish them the best of luck here in our golded city of light  .  stay vigilant  ,  stay dirty rock ‘n rollers and we’ll catch you for the next one  .

𝐎𝐎𝐂  :  hello  !  i’m deni and i don’t know what editing is  .  i use she/her pronouns and live in the gmt+9 timezone  .   i’m terrible with ooc chats and half the time just want to vibe a connection or plot idea  ,  so please don’t hesitate to throw a half-formed thought at me because i swear i’ll do the same  .  my discord is gay fairy#6371  .  anyway  ,  here is siwon  ,  someone i’ve been work-shopping for a while  !  looking forward to writing with you  ♡

                     ☣  ;  𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐒𝐄 𝐈𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐑𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐇  .

cw  :  drug mentions  ;  stop me if you’ve heard this one before------

       his dad’s a junkie and he hasn’t seen his mom since some fatcats bought their restaurant for a steal a few years before  ,  but that’s the way of life for a lot of people in the underground  .  young  ,  bored  ,  and desperate to hear and smell anything that wasn’t the rottenness of his own childhood home  ,  siwon found himself on the streets more nights than not  ,  spray paint in one hand   ,  painting nights in greens and purples until reds and blues chased him away  .  makes his first steal before he can tie his shoes  .  creates alliances with the neighborhood kids  ,  sneaks around to watch how the haves live with their pretty  ,  pretty screens and their ugly  ,  ugly words  .  school isn’t anything special  ,  either  ,  and while siwon can’t remember shit that he reads from a page he can work with his hands  .  fast and efficient  ,  nimble fingers whether they’re flying across a keyboard or fucking around with some screws  .  you can make something of yourself  ,  some of his teachers tell him while others can’t stop bitching about homework or tardiness or the way he falls asleep in the middle of class  .  but what’s siwon supposed to make  ?  he and his ragtag group of weirdos he calls friends  .  when he gets older and nights get hungrier  ,  siwon learns to stop relying on the benevolence of neighbors and finds a job  ---  he’s fast  ,  after all  ,  with a sweet face and wide eyes  ,  makes a helluva getaway after years and years of running  .  

       thieving’s a natural grift  .  he’d been training for this his whole life  .  then he catches the eyes of a boss man who isn’t nearly as mad as he should be catching some kid with his wallet in his hands  .  courier comes next  ,  ferrying messages from a bunch of suits all over the city  .  siwon never opened the packages  ,  never second guesses the credits that start bloating his account  .  desperate  ,  he does what he’s told and does it well ------ and that’s the real kicker  ,  isn’t it  ?  that after a year and some-odd months of dedicated service they leave him high and dry with some bullshit he doesn’t have any involvement with  .  after years of running  ,  boys in blue finally catch him and he’s left to take the fall of some dumb fuckery  ,  man  ,  and he’s pissed  .  steaming in jail  ,  it’s a wonder some other gang didn’t get to him first  .  the longer he sat and talked with that ghoul member  ,  the more he grew to despise the rich  ,  the ones who left him to rot after all the shit he did for them  .  what was even the point anymore  ?  dog eat dog kind of bullshit  ,  no sense of loyalty or shit anywhere  .  the law and all that money was out to get him from the beginning and siwon had enough of it  .  a few months locked up but he learned and leaned and learned  ,  only able to get out on a technicality  .  the second he stepped back out into the sun  ,  siwon followed the map given to him and signed up for the ghouls  .  city of light be damned  .  the only lights he wants to see are flames eating this hellhole alive  .

                    ☣  ;  𝐈 𝐖𝐀𝐍𝐓 𝐓𝐎 𝐓𝐎𝐔𝐂𝐇 𝐓𝐇𝐀𝐓 𝐋𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓  .

➤  full name.  ryu si-won ➤  date of birth.  january 29th ➤  hometown.  city of light ➤  gender.  cis male ➤  affiliation.  ghouls  ➤  primary occupation.  drug runner  ,  pickpocket  ➤  secondary occupation.  network manager at an internet cafe 

➤  sexual attraction.  pansexual ➤  romantic attraction.  panromantic ➤  character alignment.  chaotic neutral ➤  personality type.  enfp ➤  temperament.  sanguine ➤  wants.  power  ,  family

       stands around 5′11  .  broad shoulders  ,  slim hips  .  floppy  ,  messy hair and sun browned skin  .  half legs  .  a few pieces of silver in his ears and a small hoop on his bottom lip  .  dresses somewhere between a washed up rockstar  ,  your college weed dealer  ,  and a miami vice reject  .  style’s a whim with a closet’s chaotic mix of anything he thrifts or patches together  .  most of the time he’s sporting cuffed jeans  ,  vintage blouse  ,  a denim jacket or tweed blazer and thick ass boots  .  keeps all that hair back with a bandanna or a headband  ,  hair ties on his wrist  .  nothing in his closet’s technically new and he loves looking for a bargain steal —— or simply just a steal  .  likes colors just as much as he likes his neutrals  .  wears a black air filtration mask and fingerless gloves  .  considers his floral button-up shirts fancy material and his trousers cut off at the ankles  .  likes the smell of old leather and the breathing of fringe on a jacket  ,  the weight of heavy rings on his fingers and sunglasses swooped low on his nose  .  wears a monocle because he can’t be fucked with reading glasses  .   his hair’s been every color of the rainbow and he’s always changing it up thanks to temporary dye  .

                                    ☣  ;  𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐄𝐃 𝐈𝐍𝐓𝐎 𝐎𝐍𝐄  .

       hustles at arcade halls  ,  scarfs down ramen and burritos like they’re gonna disappear  ,  looks as comfortable in a dark  ,  dirty alley as he does standing under all those lights in the neon district  .  pockets full of candy and a lollipop between his lips  .  likes cheap beer and cigarettes  ,  fast talking and smooth smiles  .  gets up when the sun goes down  .  who knows if he ever gets a full night’s sleep  ,  but you can find him taking a nap just about anywhere  .  seems to live for the dark hours and stays busy as a bee  ,  at the internet cafe one moment and grabbing fried cheese sticks in the next before crossing the bridge to watch the street races and venturing to the tunnels for the fighting rings  .  complains about being broke but puts down bets faster than anyone  .  lives for the feeling of wind in his hair so the window of his top-floor one bedroom shit hole stays open all the time  .  feels the rain on his skin  ,  plays with matches  .   learned how to assemble a gun in less than sixty seconds and stays packing nowadays though he can’t really shoot for shit  .  spray paints boobs on the sides of government buildings and dicks on malls  .  looks like an angel under all those holographic lights  .

       rides a motorbike and his skateboard  .  can do crazy math in his head and spot fake bills with incredible accuracy  .  can barely stand to sit still  ,  always moving except when there’s a computer screen in front of him  .  gets addicted to things so easily it’s scary  ---  people  ,  food  ,  liquor  ,  feelings  .  craves that intimacy  ,  craves that closeness that’s always been denied to him  .  has a loud as fuck laugh and a love for sneaking into places where he doesn’t belong  .  catches extra cash on the side by fixing up broken-down machines and can figure his way around a motor with a bit of elbow grease  .  still sees his family  .  not as much as a good son would  ,  but he sends cash when he can and looks after his younger sister  ,  makes sure she stays well and clean  .  they don’t know half of what he’s gotten up to since he was let out of prison  ,  but they might have some idea --- after all  ,  who’d pay a crooked boy with a record as well as he seems to be  ?  when the sun starts to come up and he crashes into bed  ,  siwon stares out the window and thinks about how in another world  ,  or in another time he probably could’ve been something  .  could’ve made something great  .  but for now he’s just got a whole lot of anger  ,  raw like a fresh wound he can’t stop picking at  .  

                           ☣  ;  𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐑𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆 𝐖𝐈𝐓𝐇 𝐘𝐎𝐔  ?

➤  bonds.  my loyalty to my friends is unwavering  ;   i owe everything to my mentor --- a horrible person who’s rotting in jail somewhere  ;  i fleeced the wrong person and must work to ensure this individual never crosses paths with me  . ➤  flaws.  once i pick a goal  ,  i become obsessed with it to the detriment of everything else in my life  ;  when I see something valuable  ,  i can't think about anything but how to steal it  ;  i have a weakness for the vices of the city  . 

       he’s friendly  ,  but he doesn’t make friends easily --- the ones that he has made  ,  he’d do anything for  .  because that’s how he’s gotten this far  ,  right  ?  all those people who looked after him when others tried to stomp him out  .  he’s still close with his teen friends who threw a few grifts with him  ,  gaming buddies that he knows only through a screen  .  little escapes from all the other bullshit going on in the world  .  even though he isn’t a club guy  ,  he runs into more than a few faces on his rounds  .  maybe they’re bad influences or sweethearts who help that touch starved affliction that comes from living in a city so wired  .  on the flip side  ,  there’s some enemies --- competitors in the runner world  ,  antagonists he meets at the races or rings for whatever reason  (  insane bets make tempers run hot  ,  who knows when they’ll flare for good and siwon’s learning the hard way how to keep his mouth shut  )  .  he’s fixed up a few cars or weapons for people recently because he misses working with his hands  .  y’know  ,  making nice  .  then there’s people he’s caught in a crossfire with  ,  where they’ve met something nasty one too many times before over turf  ,  territory and clients  .  a newer face to the ghouls  ,  he’s bugged someone into mentoring him  ,  and gone on a few runs with someone he loves to call a coworker  .  

       eager to prove himself as more than a green kid with a keyboard and an eye for detail  ,  find him cutting deals and making trades in smokey barbecue houses  ,  hole-in-the wall ramen shops or by taco tents  .  a full bellied class of clients are happy clients in his opinion  ,  and siwon isn’t above not making deals with the other groups who’s names aren’t violent delights  .  speaking of which  ---  there are definitely some skeletons there he aims to confront  ,  some old demons to fight from that class of people that fucked him over  .  there’s an ex lover in there somewhere  ,  probably met in that pre-prison childhood phase when he mingled past class lines more  ( ~1.5-2 years ago )  .  someone he’s healthily fearful of for whatever reason  ,  and maybe a vendetta against the family that scammed his parents out of their business and basically sent his life spiraling  .  there’s someone who isn’t what they seem  --- he doesn’t know who they really are  ,  and maybe they don’t know who he is  ,  either  .  they’ll learn eventually  .  someone he’s protective over  ,  someone who protects him in ways he doesn’t even know  ,  and those he looks after because they grew up on the same side  .  desperate for connection  ,  desperate for a place  ,  he finds it all in heaven and hell  .

[marcosoropoet]

Lemon Cake ~

1. The way it works is I want a cup of hot black tea... not falling slowly, in reverse augmented reality money banquet begging rose vortex prizes in this cataclysmic rose-gold trick u look like a new weirder snapchat filter, wasn't it some high-up guy that stopped everything ((( the other day ))) to fix a cheeseburger emoji? legit muted chatter on the other moon @green geo-political stupor attracting pivoting magnetized crosshairs freezing blood cold, sangfroid, stalking the horror victim relentlessly — and I'm stuck in a trapezoid alone inside this very weird dream, and I don't want you to look at me... but at, this, in its place. "it's safe, you can show yourself now" —... is it me? that I can't see? a crackingly crazy dog with the animal terror look in (((the eyes))) bites down on cumulus cirrus myth, rains blood down configuring liquid glass fireball hush in place of a goofy smile myth you think you knew me you think you have a print-out of the dna blueprint... 2. Glock Terror Noir: "I beeped to you twice loud, right? That means I'm here, right? FUCK YOU YOU SHOULD BE OUTSIDE ALREADY! You stupid fuck!!!" "You got the gun?" It wasn't a lucid dream yet very vivid, hyper real. Everything cut out with sharp edges of colour. Everything cut out with a crimson jewel tone refraction of myriad bursting colours. 3. A thousand rabbit coins for one violet kiss. Goes to my head. Flipping through a magazine, seeing my name in black velvet lights. buzzkiller butcher spin. I took too many lashes. Clouds of dice, sky of black velvet. Humans made of pliable molecules, in upward sky and forward time prettiness trying to understand everything like always.stop. You can spot civilizations on any street. Cymbals erupt in metallic sonic splash. The fragrant steam of food. Hot sun in tearing eyes. We are navigated by the sun. Solar matrix. Solar head-trip. Solar juvenile expectations. 4. a crackingly crazy dog with the animal terror look in the eyes (((the eyes))) bites down on cumulus cirrus, rains blood down configuring liquid glass fireball hush of silent fire roar in place of a goofy smile you think you know me you think you have a print-out of the world ending in the cataclysmic baking of white light. Baking soda, YouTube. Everyone kept talking with no questions.questions simply wiped with a bright nano-sizzle. Lovely Laundry can do bright nano-sizzle for you no extra cost lovely laundromat is re-processing tape loop for you with no language so blank 5. I have cast iron bells and indigenous whistles. Cracks, fissures, broken bones cannot compare with a broken brain. The pop-open scenario of a greeting card is my 3-D gig. Yours you'll have to find.My dogfoot bathtub fills with ocean water, and reflects a useless boring world. Second-hand smoke and cracked mirrors. personality buzzes? A sucker punch kills the show. When we were just about to land on Jupiter, as injured caricatures of a newer generation. As mind-boggling freaks under my direction and fresh algorithm. artificial but our intellects welcome you to warm lovely laundry* As gallons of tutti-frutti body-wash explode from the tv screen. As silent, screened double agent doppelgangers clockwork entering the zero dome court, are announced in digital voice. As rocknroll would cool my warm forehead. As the black clouds came down a blanket. I am a liar and kept saying that they were violet. A street connection finally made, each party sauntered away in rain coming down hard. I stayed incognito, a complete unknown, some don't know jack about the public eye. But honeychild I'm on my own, on my best behavioral electrode. I don't talk so loud because nobody cares, and soft yellow applause is a small yellow bird, which gives me clunky goosebumps. anonymous content. white eyes, red sun. Can we cut a deal? I look upon the wavering reflection of my face in the pool of crushed light and abandoned darkness There I see myself so close to the eye it causes hallucinatory thought-speech. Knocking! ... I bought a big bouncing ball and soft yellow applause is a small yellow applause is a small yellow bird, White eyes, red sun. Can we cut a deal? I look upon the packed bowl of five alarm chili with a broken brain. The pop-open scenario of a greeting card is my 3-D gig. Yours I'll have five stores to find. My dogfoot bathtub fills with ocean water, and reflects dumpster cracked crackling gardenia candles... Mad thought-speech. Knocking. I'm bringing you a lemon cake, since I found out that you had just moved in the streets slant and distort because nobody cares, and some bubblegum welts. I bought a big bouncing ball and some shit for you when you was under the radar so don't fuck with me, next morning the liquid police rolled you away, I safekept your belt in the backpack with the interstellar interstate fused wet grey clouds dripping inky newsprint. Standing frozen, still, waiting for the newsprint and a cracked mirror. personality carries the buzz? You are naked in digital voice. As rocknroll would cool my warm forehead. As the black clouds came down a blanket. I am a liar and kept saying that they were green-gold. But they wasn't. A street dogs stands up.Gas station coffee, hazelnuts, driving through the tricky narrow brick-lined cobblestone alleys ))) kill the show. When we were just about to land on Jupiter, as injured caricatures of a newer generation. As mind-boggling freakshow, I stop the world to continue my friendship with ((( myself ))). You'll run for ointment, and take the bloody curtain with myself. I have no sense of time but have overgrown myself. I have cast iron bells, indigenous whistles, and fresh green pinwheels for y'all. Cracks; I stop the world ended in the street. Cymbals erupt in metallic sonic splash. The fragrant steam of food. Hot sun in tearing eyes. for a long time now. I ((( uh ))) actualize myself in the center of nowhere how is that? around the rusty tectonics of the picture in vivid blades of green country grass under brown cattle sinew, focus bright beam polished pyrite black shale mile Running on auto pilot projection of artificial gelatin intelligence resists rendering mass malfunction tremor gaping swallows. vacuum. blackhole. microcosm. more rapid imagery. helicopter. red propeller swings hard very quietly not making too much noise. too much scratch selfhelpbook many please tonight no. Not ever! Never in a million years. Cigar touting clowns, in formal barbed wire attire, and fiberglass Bow-Ties. Entire walls and windows covered in aluminum foil glaring eye of metallic skin; a searing spotlight blasting white rays of simple pure technology, propeller swings hard, hums loudly, large white-hot light hit /up! yes, fake-out in The Lovely Laundromat. very quietly not making too much scratch selfhelpbook many please tonight. solo bassiest sitar floated out from the quantum illusion, so I will display all of my pieces in the q u a n t u m i l l u s i o n of filmic boundary universe knife-edge time, timelessness evolves into the wind — I went to the portion where sparkling dust motes, in bright beams of day: no no I've ate already officer — ...these comments/moments.repeating fruity dripping reds ...would you like the egg soft boiled sir? The spy motions with his long 24K pinky nail. Bad mother persona places bitch's sister's sheltered elite urban mutation basement sector composite. Do not find me there please yesyes 451...451...451..., the siren shuffled its screeching fast — I went to the show instead of the money-crave zombie industry brand week, with its truly myriad iterations, a million jealous flashbulb moneyshots screeching fast. dry-ice frozen three dimensional pop clusterfuck strobes pulsating on grinding grin trashcan collage alley moneyshots of dry-ice frozen three dimensional strobes pulsating on grinding grin trashcan collage alley moneyshot font/color graffiti to boot grind down to grey ash, silt slides off of the sociopathic shelter, don't gimme no free-as-the-air mama depersonalization, baby forge a very practiced, precise, dark sycophant; thus having left many with a deep amazement, and an addiction to their smooth hiding inside whole icing not defaced, baby. A public building in the sea-tang background of a hallucinatory black shadow puppet eyelash one-off vortex, Radio:...day and night I sit at home and I cry, (1234), wonderin' maybe if this is too telling of the money-craving for some peripheral excitement. Choppers swoop down low with a searing spotlight blasting white rays of simple pure technology, propeller hard-flung repetitive sound, blue siren screech around the zombie We are controlling you away, I safekept your belongings in the street. Cymbals erupt in metallic sonic splash. The fragrant steam of food. Hot sun in tearing eyes. Inside, the gold mine candles, Prehensile party sauntered away into the goldmine's sweet cool air As gallons of tutti-frutti body-wash explode from the tv screen. As silent, screen.piano.blue smoke rising in the projector's beam.cyclops. As silent, screened double agent doppelgangers entering the liquid police rolled and navigated by the sun when you walk very gently you will see and define the desire to rise above grey rocks and sedimentary boulders, to hit and get cracked gardenia candle-flash hit of reminding flesh, the delicacy and myth. But if you storm through me, and stampede, you will be messing with me and lovely laundry takes great pleasure in you our lovely wet customer. I'll fall far to the other side of the room, and the screened double agent doppelgangers were entering volcano freeze-hold. perfume zoom flipping through cymbals erupt in metallic sonic splash of street festival band playing in fragrant steam of food. Hot sun in sparkling eyes. My dogfoot bathtub fills with ocean water, and reflects a useless boring world. Second-hand smoke and cracked mirrors. gallons of tutti-frutti body-wash explode from the tv screen. As silent, screened double agent doppelgangers entering the zero dome court, are announced in digital voice. I don't talk so loud because nobody cares, and soft yellow applause is a very small yellow bird, which gives me clunky goosebumps. anonymous content. white eyes, red sun.youtube.time jumps and dilates... Can we cut a deal? I look upon the wavering reflection of my face in the pool of crushed light and abandoned darkness. I'll cry stone tree myth, for every glittering blackeye unguent. There I see myself so close to the eye it causes hallucinatory thought-speech. Knocking. Why hello there"!" fake af, I'm bringing you a lemon cake, since I found out that you had just moved in today. Uh-huh, yeah (turns around and points) right there across the street, uh-huh, r i g h t t h e r e.

[raedas]

Theme music plays.

Carmen sneaks through the museum.

Chase: Freeze! Right there!

The video pauses, revealing that we have been watching a recording.

Chase: Now rewind. Stop. Zoom in on her face. That is not Carmen Sandiego.

The culprit has a similar silhouette, but wears an eye patch and has straight white hair.

Chief: She calls herself the Duchess. A.C.M.E. had no record of her existence... until late last night when she sashayed out of Amsterdam's Rijksmuseum packing a painting valued at over 30 million euro.

Chase: 30 million euro for that?

Julia: "Woman in Blue Reading a Letter" is one of Johannes Vermeer's most important earlier works. SEe the hallmark of his style? The way he paints natural light makes his subject look so realistic.

Chase: Ms. Argent, need I remind you that you're the only one who cares about such dull facts?

Chief: Excellent eye, Agent Argent. Attention to detail is the very cornerstone of A.C.M.E. surveillance.

Chase: Uh, um, precisely why we should further analyze the particulars of this, uh, uh... hmm.

Julia: Swipe here.

Chief: I highly suggest acquainting yourself with our CrimeNet technology, Agent Devineaux. You're not with Interpol anymore. Your first mission as agents of A.C.M.E. will be to recover that painting and ascertain whether or not this Duchess is working for V.I.LE.

Chase: Or, whether she is an accomplice to Carmen Sandiego.

Carmen: Blue isn't really my color, but I have to admit... I've never stolen anything so luminous.

She's looking at the painting stolen by "the Duchess."

Player: Enjoy it while you can, Red. You have a whole hour before you need to get back in character.

Carmen: Right. Let's get the crew up to speed. Zack, Ivy!

Zack, wearing the eye patch: Avast, me mateys! Arr!

Ivy, wearing the white-haired wig: Is this a good look for me?

Carmen: Those aren't toys, people. They're my disguise. Now pay attention. Here's what we know: Player's decryption of the V.I.L.E. hard drive revealed details of an intricate ongoing operation. V.I.L.E. operatives have been quietly stealing paintings by the artist Vermeer from museums all over the world and replacing the originals with amazingly accurate forgeries.

Ivy: What? Why would they bother leaving fakes behind?

Carmen: To ensure museum security would never realize the originals had been stolen to begin with, which would allow the entirety of Vermeer's collected works to slowly and steadily be amassed by V.I.L.E. mastermind Countess Cleo.

Zack: What's the big whoop about these paintings anyway? No cars, no clowns, no dogs playing poker?

Ivy: Yeah, and she's reading. Snore.

Player: You aren't the only ones who thought that. But after some research, I began to see things in a different light. The Netherlands isn't only known for its tulips, windmills, and wooden shoes. It's famous for its painters from the Dutch Golden Age of the 1600's, Vermeer among them.

Carmen: But the ordinary people of his portraits weren't the stars of the show. That would be the mind-boggling way Vermeer captured natural light with his paintbrush. Only 34 confirmed paintings by the maestro exist. Not a whole lot for a major artist. That makes each one an extremely rare and valuable treasure.

Player: Which is why we freaked when we learned there was only one last Vermeer left for Cleo to steal, from the Rijksmuseum in Amsterdam, capital of the Netherlands.

Carmen: So I had to act fast and got to it first and made my escape through one of Amsterdam's 165 canals, masquerading as the Duchess. "Woman in Blue Reading a Letter" is our only shot at stealing back the other 33. We need Cleo to take the bait so we can push for a direct face-to-face, in the hopes of figuring out where she's keeping the rest.

Player: And if she had any suspicion that she were dealing with the master super thief Carmen Sandiego, she'd never let you anywhere near her stolen prizes.

Carmen: That's why, when Cleo's courier arrives to authenticate the painting, it'll be the Duchess who meets him at the door.

There's a knock at the door.

Player: Whoa, that can't be him. He's an hour early.

Zack: Yowza! Room service is wicked fast here.

Carmen: Wait! Don't open that doo--

Zack does. Carmen and Ivy hide. Player disconnects the video call.

Dash: Oh, still running on Moscow time. Hmm. Um... you're not a duchess.

Zack: You're not my sandwich.

Dash: Ahaha, I must have the wrong room. I...

He spots the painting.

Dash: Oh... there she is. "The Woman in Blah"... I was to meet a duchess. You would be her...?

Zack: Duke. Ah, yes. Ahem. I'm the Duke... ahah, of, uh, uh, uh... Vermeer! Vermeer. Yes. Haha.

Dash: That's a pace?

Zack: Um, yeah. I-In Boston. B-Boston. And you would be, mate?

Dash: Dash Haber. Executive courier to Countess Cleo.

He uses an electronic monocle to check that the painting is authentic, then starts to walk off with it.

Dash: I'll wire the funds immediately and take her off your hands.

Carmen motions for Zack to stop him by motioning her finger across her neck. Zack runs to Dash and repeats the gesture.

Zack: Does, uh, this mean anything to you?

Dash: Heh. I'll inform the Countess.

Cleo: Mr. Haber, report.

Dash: The painting checks out. But I think the Duke would prefer to deal directly with you?

Cleo: Duke? I promised a complete collection. If I don't have number 34 in my hands tomorrow night, I'll be laughingstock of the criminal underworld.

Dash: The Countess wishes to invite you to a dinner party and auction.

Zack: Great! Yeah, text me the address.

Dash: Good. A car will pick you up tomorrow, 5pm sharp. And no plus-ones, just the painting.

As soon as he closes the door, Ivy throws the wig at his head.

Ivy: Is your brain made of Swiss cheese? Yes, the kind with the holes.

Player: Why would Cleo auction the Vermeers after going through so much trouble to complete the set?

Carmen: The thrill of the hunt doesn't last long for her. And the combined value of the art could easily surpass one billion dollars.

Ivy: [whistles] Hello, V.I.L.E. slush fund.

Carmen: We'll only have a brief window to steal back all 34 while they're under one roof before they scatter to the winds. The good news is, we're invited to a party.

Player: And... the not so good?

Carmen: We only have 24 hours to transform Zack into a convincing duke.

Zack is standing in front of a mirror.

Carmen: Cleo will expect a duke to speak in proper diction. Repeat after me: "Park the car in Aardvark Yard."

Zack, with a Boston accent: Park the car in Aardvark Yard.

Carmen, moving his mouth up and down: Park the car in Aardvark Yard.

Zack: Park the car in-- hold on, hold on. I'm gonna get it.

Carmen: Cleo will expect a gentleman to wear appropriate wardrobe.

Zack: Aw no, not a monkey suit.

Ivy: It suits you. You're way more monkey than man.

Carmen: Salad fork.

Zack: Okay.

Carmen: Table fork.

Zack: Got it.

Carmen: Dessert fork.

Zack: Yum, dessert!

Carmen: Fish fork.

Zack: Yuck! F-F-Fish? Oh, come on! You never said I'd have to eat fish.

Carmen: If they serve it, just keep telling yourself it tastes like chicken. You need to learn enough talking points about art history to fit in.

Zack: Oh come on. Why?

Carmen: Because if Cleo thinks for even one moment you are not who you say you are, she'll feed you to her dogs.

Zack: Just don't let her feed me any fish. Okay, okay, okay. Small fork, salad, dessert fork, cake. Small fork... Park the car in Aadvark Yard. Park the car in Aardvark... Park the fork in Salad Yard. Park the fork in my mouth.

Carmen: Zack, you ready?

Zack: Ready to park the car in Aardvark Yard.

Ivy: Dude, that's weird, right?

Carmen: It's showtime.

Zack goes to the limo. Carmen and Ivy watch from the car.

Cleaner: Arms?

He extends his arms. They use a wand to check him for contraband.

Ivy: No tracker?

Carmen: First thing they check for.

Cleaner: Clean.

Cleaner: We go.

He puts a bag over Zack's head. When they drive off, Carmen and Ivy follow.

Carmen: You're doing great, Ivy. Just keep a safe distance. ...We have a tail.

Ivy: Would you look at that. A tail tailing a tail.

Chase: This A.C.M.E. technology is more my speed.

Julia, on a screen: Agent Devineaux, the hotel guests registered under a fake name, but I was able to connect the payment source to the van rental. You may very well be following the Duchess.

Chase: Or, Carmen Sandiego.

Julia: I suppose that is possible.

Chase: Ohoho! Delighted to hear that you agree for once.

Julia: But depriving the world of historic works of art does not seem to be Ms. Sandiego's M.O.

Chase: Bah! Just see what you can learn in the hotel suite. I am driving.

Julia: But Agent Devin--

Carmen: Hmm, an old admirer... in a new set of wheels. Player, there's a bridge half a klick southeast of us. Can you hack into it?

Player: I'm on it.

Carmen: Take this turn.

She does. Chase follows.

Player: Ah, a drawbridge. Coming right up.

He starts to raise each side of the drawbridge from the middle.

Carmen: Straight ahead. Step on it.

Ivy: Really?

Carmen: Make the jump, Ivy. We can't let our tail blow Zack's cover.

Chase: You jump, I jump.

Ivy: Oh gosh, oh gosh, oh gosh! I can't!

She slams on the brakes. Chase sails ahead.

Chase: Nooooo!

The car half makes the jump. Then he sees Carmen in his rear-view mirror.

Chase: You! Haha, I knew you were behind...

His movements cause the car to start falling backward.

Chase: No, no, no, no, no... noooooo!

The car plummets into the water.

anon did you. did you type this all out yourself because i would like to shake your hand

[arlenenewbrand]

Apple share price drops after announcement

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[lunarfae714]

after the vernal equinox, 2015

intimacy

in the unseen, 

microbes flee 

off the tongue 

dance on the dirty rim of the teamug

bliss

on the mountain bald: the numbing wind of soltitude

guilt

in the bloodmarks on the tight, smoky skin of my lover.

***

let it go--

tybee mushroom tea

the soft songs of wind

playing in the pilsner bottles,

the mildew edges of

sharpened teeth

washed up on a

jetted shorline

catnaps on crooked grey

dark matter comes

in clouds

of grease.

painted scenes from

manhattan museums

& the gulls laugh in ritual

-the squall of sunsets

broken images super-

imposed

into sunflower seeds.

***

jaco

the woman of the sea

reigns the high tide

her power unseen,

& women drink free.

my intuition is stronger here,

dreams dark & strange, now i

watch the fan,

how the spinning taco

moves the water bubbles

on my skin.

i hear voices in the fan,

through the bamboo,

spirits dance through shadows

in sober hallucinations

my magic is fueled-

i know how people feel, where the

lost objects go.

the abuelita ghost

disgraces our dirty hostel,

why she hangs around above the cast irons

to shame how the land has moved.

the land of iguanas

and stray dogs,

the street horses

for show.

dazed by the dark

crows above,

the birds yell here

woo hoo hoo hoo,

a deep waltz of the hermit.

crabs run free to

challenge me

to a claw-off.

the birdsong &

roosters in early

sunrise & sets.

who now sows the

seeds of this

town of cement?

***

the open heart chakra

unreal

"there is so much Light coming through your eyes"

Light confused, real, or passing

Love talk dissolved into frustration fleeing

"i will take care of you"

in the bathroom at the devil's hour

nude gymnastics on the handicap bars

or the black leather couch

outside in the rain,

where the cameras don't record.

on the beach at the crowded club with the

beds for "lounging," empty pools,

loud music & people changing faces

where's does Light go when you throw your bottle on the street?

you taught me to read the ocean

when to dip on the board, so the currents 

wont

sweep me away.

***

forced hustles

when i ride my bicycle out of the tourist town

on to the highway

the welcome goes dissipates.

mango falls like lullabies

over the mountaintops,

the afternoon storm comes every day.

the zebra chicken pace roads

of tall pines lining like curtains

to hide broken huts,

roofs with holes, clustered together,

the old women and men sit

in folding chairs & scorn us 

(to stare with a darkness)

my wide eyes and white skin,

undesired swords

papayas for cash

from their backyards

in their grass

walking bills 

families against intruders

but the dark pretty boys

beneath the banana patch

throw hellos and whistles into the air

friendlier than the rest

its hard to follow the surfers advice,

shrug it off like layers of clothes

but to be a woman in a sexist country

to hear one more "ay mama"

to try and block out horns

from each car that passes by,

thumbs up, glazed stares,

but i often still take the free drinks

bring peace to

strip the patriarchy at

the end of the night when the lines

between prostitutes and strong women

turn grey with each tequila shot

in fake plastic.

and you are naked in the rain at the end of the night

jumping off the roof of the hotel next to you

shaky shingles under my wet feet

into the swimming pool.

women here are like the horses on the beach

slapped and rode without say,

"when it swells, ride it" says the beach bar,

without question.

the club called space, "because in space,

no one can hear you scream."

i will be strong

when the police motocyclist

stops me to ask if i have a boyfriend,

i got asked today

why my eyes show such confidence

he didnt understand,

pura vida.

***

nunca me dejes con el sabor de miel en mis labios

the roosters warn us of morning

& the grey stray gnaws at my toes

***

embracing the mother archetype

in the hostel home--

herd in the streetpeople,

feed 'em & paint

the cycle of Sky on the walls

because no one should spend a moment

without seeing mother moon.

***

My taste is Aging. With time, I desire someone for the whole run or nothing at all. & the platonic moments in-between....glimpses of Love, some, through the gaps of teeth of sweet teachers, Love is kindness, and I don't hesitate to tell them everything on my mind. But it's not about me. My taste is Aging. As seasons pass, quicker now, i want the patterns on my clothes to fade away-- the prints on t-shirts to melt, words to unwrite themselves, so I can be only color. Earthly hues, crotcheted shades that reflect patterns of time...mud, grass, & mojado. Celery, mirrors of colors i see most. i want to become dirt, for my fingertips to play the piano of the earth. i want to disappear into the bench so they stop looking. or to the bright colored buildings, fade into them, brilliant stains of Spanish colonization, streets once threaded by pirates, filibusters.... my skin is browning, French bread in the oven. caramel flavor in the throat every time I look up, come to the caldeza calle later, let me take you on a trip, familiar faces now they know my name...let me melt into the park bench. now a smiling man asks to share the bench, not an invitation for 20 questions, i thought, as i watch the sweat balls fall off his thick brow and slicked back hair...so much gel satures the combed jetblack hairs...he asks if im a Christian missionary, why i am not writing in Spanish can't you see I'm writing on a stream of consciousness and I cannot understand when you speak as fast as my mind runs why can't I just glide into town and eat scraps like the coyote dogs and men that circle us. the men stand in a pack in all directions, staggered, still. ready to attack. the stranger talks about nica peligroso & I wonder. sweat pounds down my face, no clouds crowd the 3pm sun, and I am wearing white, Duncan's shirt because it reminds me of him. He is my fuel when I am down, I know he will always listen & lift me up. Even if the words aren't always right, the Love, the strongest I have known. Yet my sweat swims on my chest--I love to be naked but I can't here.  I return to my job at the bar, a date with my notebook. Interrupted. pass the young kids who sell cigarettes & candy in their handwovenbaskets. I sure wish they weren't so cute. I listen to the church bells ring 5pm, catholic country, mass and processions and women who do Hail Marys in silence as they pass by churches into the streetmarkets where even toy dinosaurs are laid out on the cement. Old town. I will erase my mind so it can be filled with beauty--sights, openness, to experience as I prepare to travel again, alone, in love with the land, in love with the new. Who isn't? I love it here too, I just keep getting myself tangled in neon cobwebs. Who painted my cobwebs? The beach is dirty here & the some serpents love to bite. why are my dreams so vivid and I can feel everything? I have never felt so present, the subconscious world of the bodysoul, reigns in Granada. The volcano watches over everyone. Waiting. On clear days, i can track the crevices with raised eyes, the dips of destruction. Back to the men, there's no darkness in their eyes, only glimpses of sincerity, friendliness in their throats. i want them to notice the dark circles, crescent moons that wax under my eyes- I am tired--the scorching sun, the dorm life of people forever coming & going, the sore back and calves from wandering juices out the bubbles from my blood. I can bounce back. being of water, I am one with the the waves. I will be still soon~I can ignite locals & travelering folk with music, dancing, fast-paced mojitos, sass & stories. I can love everyone when i remember we are one. Traveling tests the pesos mi corazon can lift, what am I doing here, how can I keep the golden light with strangers when such a huge part of me is carved away & replaced by a nervous heart and dizzy stomach. I am learning. It comes in waves & will pass with time. Oscar, the cattle farmer, makes me laugh now as the dogs fight in the street, with cheesy smiles and goofy dances. He tells me I have to learn the history of dance, it's charming. If the moon is right, we will partner as he continues to tell me the rich culture of poor nicas from a sharp tongue. A barb wired bar does the appearing act with the strangers of the eve. i am learning lessons on nourishment from strangers, friends are the richest. I no longer crave what i used to, short affairs, instead Receive Love through language , through movement or starry or sun-eyed guitarists i learn ambitions & spirit through reflections and grow from similar drives in the health way. 

Waiting is rich, mature, perfect. I wait for the Love.

Stimulation so easy, so much culture & more flavor to feed the eyes. And Walking, wandering, is meditation, a way to see and cycle mantras in my head, to a clear mind--

***

there is a time of night

when only salsa music plays from the bar

as the nacho macho men 

with the necklaces of saints

sing along to ballads of love lost

**

in the land of lotus flowers

ritual earth dance

smoke & stones

hummingbirds,

sun and no sickness, 

hangovers island cured

woken by wild birds of paradise 

i wear dirt & facepaint,

smell of smoke & incense,

do not hunger

because food is all around us,

in the sunrays,

the moonbeams.

the land is kind,

inviting to connect our barefeet

to our bare selves,

our purpose, our blessings.

Isla teaches us to be kind,

in the hours of the scorching sun

we carry each other

when the gravel is too hot for the other.

my heart understands-

loses the worry, jealousy, darkness

out of my true essence.

spirit dances down my hairs

wavy & free,

dressing my naked skin

the dirt carresses my feet

clay & the smoothest sand

nothing bites my skin

& the volcanoes are gods,

watching over the island.

we eat vegetarian hot dogs on the beach

(bananas in bread)

over translator books

to aid our conversation.

we watch the rain fall

on the watchtower

we paint cosmic triangles:

material, spiritual, divine

and hold on.

***

warm rain,

and strands of lightning dance

freckles are the stars of the body

telepathy & laughter.

senses awakened, cleansed, reborn

native islandfolk offer rides on their

motorcycles, stuffed with four people

or a place at their home to sleep,

next to giant pigs

gallos replace Granada's churchbells.

crickets, the serenaders of the night.

peter pan, i saw on the ferry

wanted to cradle in his lap

with the large lips

of a cancer man.

old soul 

with marypoppins backpack

& digeridoo.

and the sailor.

my time by the water

in the hammock hut

by pirates & drugas.

when i was wondering what to do,

peter told me, 

"todo esta volando"

he sucked out the venom.

we’d fry yucca cakes

over a little fire at sunset

local farm workers

passed around a coco loco,

my skin was like job's in the devil's curse

i took it as a sign to leave.

we slept on the sunmat on the porch,

& woke each other up to speak of our dreams

after an evening

of moonlit walks around sleeping bovine

& barbed wire, 

stopping to hear the tongue

of mother moon.

on a secret path

through neighbor's farm

staring in awe,

the boys and i.

we then watched the sun set

behind Concepcion volcano

trix-yogurt colors

on a paddleboard with simone

our silhouttes divine

activitating our third eye

sunset on the pineal gland.

nude, smoking the pipe 

from a mermaid,

and i thought i’d changed my mind.

the simplicity of island life,

fallen fruit & fires,

houses from palm,

folks drank rum like water,

fished for dinner,

lived with the land,

making love at nighttime.

***

after the island

the angry boss

who doesnt share his fancy meals

speaks only french in a spanish country

has never laughed.

he looks at me, wide-eyed

like im an alien in his house,

terrified & confused

when i go in for a hug.

he spit at me

when i walked away

"an immature child

destined to go nowhere"

i can't say i didn't cry

but i sure have grown a bit

and been around

***

puerto viejo

maid life with the mad frenchman

can't he look around

at the abandoned beaches, clear as sky

with the occasional wanderers,

constant rainbow butterflies

& rich smells of the land, the jungle.

i bicycle on the one sacred road

between the jungle & sea,

a blood vessel highway,

we are beating cells

the strong heart of the land

string nebula clouds circle

between the daily storms

the beach is like a painting-

exposing the meaning of seafoam green

the brushstroke overhead is a jaded blue--

i run my toes along the coral

and the brilliant eyes-turquoise

of a slovenian man meet mine

to ask the time

he holds my hand as i try his slackline.

if only the madman could open up to see

the spiders, sacred mothers of the forest

palm-sized, red-striped, abundant

with webs like vecinas

they are the grandmothers, the ones

with the power in the latin way.

but he couldn't--

so i ran away from the french jungle regime.

that day, the sun painted a golden halo

on each passing body,

the sand & sea shone like glitter--

cerulean & pumpernickle

i ran faster than my sweatfall,

fueld by french elitism & the manic madman.

& the hearts, doors, jobs, opened as answers,

enlightened spacetalk from starseeds,

touch, words, and galatic downloads

purififying

maca starships & hummus hugs,

raising vibrations,

a new environment

for a deadly disease.

**

followed by wild dog

i out hold my thumb

and trust in the yoniverse.

***

We hide our room key in Ulysses

& fall asleep to the stream.

This truely is the rich coast--

i watch prices ascend in the tourist blackholes

of the sea. you have to pay to leave

this country, and pay hundreds

for an import.

lets turn folks to dollar signs

stand at the cascada,

dive past the reef to see clearly

the creatures live more freely than us.

***

the only sunny day in a month,

everyone at the playa 

& i

cluelessly mind the lodge

watch the freckle bugs do the pac man

along the bamboo bench,

the curtains' slow return

after the windspell,

the slightest turn from the

four diseased & sleeping dogs

& the still spider

above the bookshelf.

i listen to sitar instrumentals,

peck through Wuthering Heights,

pick a stray banana off the bunch,

as the howler monkeys' deathly cry grows & grows,

and wonder if i am moving at all.

***

the longer i wait,

the longer Plath resonates--

[i think i made you up inside my head]

***

my life is funny--

each night i have sleepovers

with a sweet, random man:

construction worker, volunteer,

survivor, who's made it.

enamored with fishing,

his desert home,

indian warfare,

accidents.

we drink from dirty glasses

(in the night, the cucurachas

throw a party--i see them scrambling

in the morning

with the eggs)

i think life focused on investments,

retirement plans, the great divide

is a scary story

as he pokes at me for being so lost,

but now-

the sun climbed out after days of strong tears--

tears that took electric sockets so we could remember

to live with the land

tears that knocked a tree

on the house of Tao

so his books could be cleansed.

the hummingbirds' salsa

& my dirty, lost self

will take each moment with gratitude,

each bite on my body, doubt on my mind

and just be--

as i wander the garden of Tao.

***

my spanish is best with the children,

they are on my level,

 delany, the nude 3-year old

i met in the ocean

we sat in shallow water

& played with the crabs,

their elusivity, our entertainment.

alejandra, the maid's daughter,

my closest nina,

we share a wildness of emotions,

and snacks.

***

throwing rocks at plastic bottles

the wasteland is wasting away, 

soon, we will too.

***

bocas del toro,

dirty, spanish verision of venice.

can be oddly romantic,

fellow travelers look to fall in love,

on the candlelit pier

pure families outside the port town.

drunk taxi boat drivers,

dirty turquoise water, 

& translucent waters of starfish beach

too beautiful to be touched, free

unlike the lobster in mesh bags,

the unreal clouds a spliff in the sky,

wild colors at sunset

over a wild jungle,

waves

in theit flavor-colored homes,

people are happier by the sea.

**

on bastimentios,

a neighbor isle,

i am one of five non-natives,

hike for hours in the jungle,

thick mud paths,

found petroglyphs,

to the beach with the piercing redfrogs.

beach hunger

of stray dogs 

& children with machetes, 

who want a pack of cheap ham.

i play poker,

cook for a family

in an unlocked pastel cabin

over the sea.

**

i escaped to the cloud forest in the mountains

where the deerflies roam freely,

& the men here stay forever, living on student loans.

where Boquete means blow job,

the nights are cool &  calm

& filled with whiskey & warm stews.

Where the bulidings are painted yellow,

on the steep hill, trails

to the waterfalls, treasure hunts

for miles & miles.

“no kids, no debt, no drama”

the giggly panamanian

honeybear caretaker

starts the massage train

& we are off.

***

,

lost on the outskirts 

there is nothing more satisfying & sensual

than being alone with the river.

men have been disappointing me,

with false friendships & mal intent,

i have to be alone--

open my legs only to the rapids

washing machine, pleasure in

singing the mating song

of prayer.

***

(bad) cravings from the worm

the hungover italian boy

working construction in the city 

keeps me company at breakfast.

i taught him to put bananas in his pb&j

and it may have changed his life.

*

Panama City

vibrantly loud town--

the parties & streetpeople last all night,

and in the mornings, (Spanish) church bells blast

for all to hear (repent)--

angelic foreign voices praise gods

this cloudy Sunday

to wake me from dreaming

of smoking fruit loop blunts,

& having my child art sold for thousands

in the galleries.

families of blackbirds circle in the sky

on beat with the songs,

to attack the sinners,

or embody ascendance?