#he also has a busted leg from war(the streets) so he got a funny little walk and a funny little run

[jaxthedragon]

I love my dog. Truly the saddest, wettest cat ever

[aethelar]

For @evening-rose-309 who sent a prompt about a dog

“Would you stop?” Newt hisses, tugging his sleeve out of his soul’s mouth.

“Newt?” Leta asks, hesitating and cocking her head at him curiously. Newt can - just - see the shadowy outline of her own soul, something small and inquisitive peering over her shoulder. It’s a mark of how well he knows her, how close they are as friends, and the fact that she’s never seen so much as a stray tail-wag of his own soul is something he tries not to think about.

“He’s worrying again,” he says, frowning down at the dog. “Which he doesn’t need to do, because nothing’s going to go wrong.”

The dog - his soul - raises an unimpressed eyebrow and snags his other sleeve to try again.

“Oh,” Leta says. “We can go back, if you’re worried. Sorry, I didn’t realise.”

“What - no, I’m not worried. He is. It’s fine. C’mon Leta, we’ve been planning this for weeks.”

She’s already leaving though and he scowls in ungracious defeat. “If your soul’s worried then you’re worried,” she calls back to him. “The mooncalves will be there next full moon.”

The dog, black and white with a luxuriously silky coat, trots smugly after her and barks when Newt is too slow to follow. “Heel,” Newt snarks as he obeys. “Sit, stay. Roll over. I thought dogs were meant to be loyal and obedient, but no. I got the overprotective worrywart. Do I look like an overprotective worrywart? No. Clearly, you’re someone else’s soul, or just some random dog ghost that appeared in the night and stole mine. I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Newt, you’re muttering again.”

He pulls a face at Leta. Then another at his soul, who is looking immeasurably happier now that they’re headed back in the castle instead of out to the forest at night, and is carefully scouting round corners for prefects.

Newt rolls his eyes, but dutifully hides behind a tapestry when he’s told. It’s his soul doing the telling, after all. You can’t argue with yourself.

Except, apparently for when you can. Newt’s expelled, his brother’s gone to war, he’s going to follow him - and his soul won’t let him go. “He’s Theseus,” Newt hisses, yanking his sleeve back and continuing to shrink his stuff into the battered suitcase he found. “We’re not going to leave him.”

The dog dances in place, as frustrated as he is, then tries to steal his registration forms. “Give those - hey! Do not chew that up, that’s the only ID I’ve got and I need - hey!” Newt salvages the soggy scrap, then throws it down in disgust. The charm’s bust; it displays his real age, too young to sign up.

“Listen,” he says, then levitates his case out of reach. “Listen damnit. We can’t stay here. What else are we meant to do? It won’t be that bad. We’re not backing out, so could we please just - could you do what a soul is meant to do and back me up for once?”

The dog whines, ears back, tail curled down. He crowds closer to Newt, butting his head against Newt’s lanky, unmuscled form and growling softly at the fake ID. “It won’t be that bad,” Newt repeats quietly, reaching out to stroke behind his ears. “We’ll be fine. Are you going to help me fix the charm?”

His soul does. It’s better than it was before.

War is not better. War is worse. The dog curls round him at night and leaps between him and enemy spells and once when Newt falls unconscious he feels his soul pulling him out the mud before he drowns. War is worse, and on his worst days he hides with the dragons and admits to his dog that he was right and they should never have come, and his dog rests his head on Newt’s knee and licks his face to comfort him.

“Hush,” he mumbles. “It’s not illegal, it’s heroic. We’re saving lives.”

He gets a flat stare in response, followed by a deafeningly loud bark. Thank god he’s the only one who can hear it, because there’s at least four guards that he can see. “You are entirely far too concerned with the law,” he says. “Where did I go wrong with you. Do you think I should use a shield charm, or go invisible and rely on stealth?”

In answer, the dog huffs, then grabs his sleeve and tows him round to the circus’ back entrance. Newt hadn’t even known high-top tents had a back entrance. “See?” he says. “We’ll make a hufflepuff of you yet. Let’s go free some unicorns.”

In Egypt, they fall ill. That’s the only way Newt can explain it. He doesn’t know what’s wrong, or what’s causing it, but he feels - tight. Too tight. Constrained. He wakes up gasping for breath with his fingers clawing at his throat, but there’s nothing there. The dog flinches at things neither of them can see, hackles raised and backing Newt into defensible corners when the shadows come too close.

There’s nothing there. Newt knows there’s nothing, he’s checked, but the dog is on such high alert and being so overprotective that they barely make it out of Cairo alive. The thunderbird is safe, though, and when Newt stumbles his way through a splinching his soul hauls him over the sand to a sheltered place to hide.

“Oh fuck,” Newt says, staring at his leg with wide, shocky eyes. “Oh fuck, it’s, what do I do, I never - I got expelled half way through that course, I don’t know what to do, it’s bleeding oh my fuck.”

The dog noses at his hands, teeth catching on the end of his sleeve, and Newt curls his fingers instinctively around the bottle. “Dittany?” He reads. “What do I do - hey, wait what are you - ow.” The dittany burns, but it does its job, and Newt’s leg slowly reforms into something he can walk on.

“Huh,” he says, as the dog inspects the scar. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

The illness doesn’t go away. By the time Newt gets to New York he feels like he can barely breathe every time he wakes up, and he spends the first morning throwing up in the toilet and cursing the fact that it wasn’t just sea sickness like he thought. The dog sticks close, too close, so much that it’s almost hard to walk through the crowded city streets.

“Is it a wizard thing?” Jacob asks, the fourth time Newt’s had to stop and wait for his soul to stop blocking the way. Jacob’s own soul is a monkey, Newt thinks, maybe one of the primates - he caught a glimpse of it when Jacob was staring in wonder at the creatures in his case. Not for the first time, Newt wishes he could share his dog with someone else. Not everyone. But. It would be nice, he thinks, for some people to see him the way they sometimes let him see them.

“No,” is what he says out loud. “Wizard souls aren’t any different from muggle ones, as far as I know. Mine just disagrees with me a lot.”

“Oh,” Jacob says, taken aback. “I’m... sorry?”

Newt would laugh, except his dog is curled miserably around his knees, staring out at the world as though it would hurt him. “Don’t be,” he says, dropping a hand to bury in the silky fur. “He’s just looking out for me. I wouldn’t have him any other way.”

In MACUSA’s holding cells they’re interrogated by a man called Percival Graves. Newt’s dog tries to rip his throat out. When they’re sent to be executed, the dog bites through the cuffs before Pickett can even crawl down to them, and barely gives Newt time to rescue Tina before he drags them away. They run through secret passages and disused access tunnels and Tina looks at him funny and asks how he knew they were there, and Newt waves the tattered ends of his sleeve at her in answer.

After, when Graves turned out to be Grindelwald and Picquery threw him in a cell, when Tina’s reinstated and Jacob’s forgotten and Frank is flying hurricane-high and riding the wind to Arizona, Newt stands on the dock and watches his boat pull out of the harbour.

“We were meant to be on that,” he says, but it sounds distant even to him. The dog gives him a muffled bork in reply, teeth clamped around his wrist, tail tucked low between his legs.

He’s started looking raggedy. His silky fur is going bald in patches. There’s a red welt developing around Newt’s neck from where he wakes up in the morning and has to remember how to breathe.

“Ok,” Newt says, letting his soul pull him insistently back to the city. “I’m coming. It’ll be ok.”

“Oh,” he says when he finds the man. He’s in chains, rough iron that suppresses his magic and has rubbed his skin raw and bleeding. It matches where the dog is losing fur.

“The fuck are you,” Graves rasps, shifting to hunch protectively over the little sugar-glider in his hands. It too is chained, one spelled iron-link that closes around its throat like a collar.

“Um,” Newt says, trusting his dog to keep watch while he works on undoing the wards. “I’m Newt. I think I have your soul.”

Graves freezes. His gaze darts between Newt and the dog, and there’s something undeniably vulnerable about realising that he can see him. The dog steps between them, hackles raised, and growls a warning, and that, of all things, makes Graves relax.

“Yeah,” he says, a vaguely hysterical note to his voice that suggests he thinks he’s dreaming. “Mangy mutt that likes to fight. Sounds like me.”

“You should see him when he’s had a bath,” Newt says mildly. “He’s very handsome.”

The wards fall, and Newt busies himself with releasing the chains and misses Graves reaction. When the last iron link cracks open he feels it like a weight lifted off his neck, and the sugar glider squeaks and scrambles up to sit on Graves’ head.

“You’re going to drag me on an adventure, aren’t you?” Graves asks, sounding resigned. “And then you’re going to get in trouble and I’m going to have to rescue you.”

“Well,” Newt says. “You’re going to make a fuss about breaking the law, and then you’re going to worry too much about everything that could go wrong. But you’re also going to be there to make sure it doesn’t go badly wrong, so that’s ok.”

Graves barks out a laugh, and chokes through the coughing fit that follows. Both Newt and the sugar glider hover awkwardly over him, Newt with a spell to ease his airways, the sugar glider with a tiny hand tugging comfortingly on his ear. “Sounds like me,” Graves says when he can speak again.

“Good. But first, you’re going to come home and get better and I’m going to fuss over you until you’re well again.”

“And that,” Graves says, and raises a finger to stroke the sugar glider with a fond smile, “That sounds a lot like you.”

[caltropspress]

FEEDBACK LOOP #7: Curly Castro’s “Weapon 13X” featuring Breeze Brewin

There was a very old man, an old white man out in the crowd, and he started screaming and crying like a baby and he kept crying and he said, “God damn, God damn, what is this God damn country coming to that the niggers have got guns, the niggers are armed and the police can’t even arrest them!” He kept crying and somebody led him away through the crowd.

—Robert F. Williams, Negroes with Guns (1962)

Gun flash beats the child’s head in, maniac teeth dance in a bloody grin blue lies, badge confessions, yng dude dead just beyond his mama’s arms

—Amiri Baraka, “Stop Killer Cops”

Police said Cleaver and Hutton were holed up at 1218 28th Street with two 9 mm automatic pistols, two AR-15 and one military-type M-14 automatic rifle, and a large supply of ammunition, some armor-piercing.

—Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139

1.

“Weapon 13X” is a diptych. Two verses; one pivot—or volta, for you bookworms. Curly Castro is first with a séance that summons the mysteries of Clarence 13X and Weapon X. These nullified variables and Roman numerals come together in an elixir mix so potent that it would make Aes Rock choke on the amalgam. Castro opens the fission gate and discharges two-hundred forty thousand mega-therms on the city of brotherly love, the city of bombs from above onto a 6221 Osage Avenue row house. Shameek just got bust in his arm, leg, leg, arm, head. The Black man is God personified, and Logan is regenerative. Adamantium claws. Mathematical jaws. Science dropped and experiments performed. Spark this like metal does when dragged across concrete.

2.  “Harriet would grab her balls, / This my gun, and this my rifle.”

Harriet Tubman gets cast by Kubrick for Full Metal Jacket, recites the Rifleman’s Creed, but it was actually a pistol she kept buried within the folds of her calico. She sallied forth seeing visions from the overseer’s heave of a weight—made her skull snap. Don’t sleep. “When the caliber’s inside you,” you can’t necessarily count on “the muzzle smoke revival.”

3.

Quelle Chris provides production, lest we forget his 2019 Guns album with its Dada-bullet, double-barreled barrage album art. The title track armed to the teeth: “Ain’t no cracking that code, / Ain’t no safety on locks, / Might as well get you one, / Procrastinating will get you popped.” The machine gun funk outs finks and COINTELPRO cooperators, conspirators, dispiriters. Here, Castro’s got those same turncoats and sucker MCs in his sights, so to speak.

4.  [The oppressor] teaches the Negro that he has no worth-while past, that his race has done nothing significant since the beginning of time, and that there is no evidence that he will ever achieve anything great. (Carter Godwin Woodson, The Mis-Education of the Negro, 1933)

Castro makes a promise, provoked by those who came before him, those who brandished firearms in the faces of their enemies:

We never will disarm: these are the lies that you were sold, When your glory tripped up, you trade your weapons in for gold. With Yakub in the schools, trade your dreams, knowledge folds. Found the tome, Mis-Education Negroes…

Dr. Yakub sloshing liquids in the lab—Bunsen burners explode and the lab leak is viral whiteness. Tricknology replaces Biology. Castro is looking back while moving forward. “Doomed to repeat it”-type forewarnings. He knows the ledge and also wants his people to.

5.

aim     get your sights & its sound in abstract or journal movements to a peace settlement

dude shot my man

dead,          precious lord blow off theres no willy in th blues theres no you.

—from Tom Weatherly’s Maumau American Cantos (1970)

Castro is a “gunhand, cybernetic with spray cans, / Basquiat, baklava, Mau Mau.” That’s likely an intentional malaprop—surely his militant stance calls for a balaclava. Even still, Castro doesn’t stutter. He will still sh-sh-shift his voice on you—the dynamics of his delivery raise stakes and get guttural, scraping against sewer plates. He’s potent, even if Basquiat’s pistol appears flaccid with its hand-scrawled linework. In another piece, Basquiat starts the decolonization process at the point of a safari helmet. The image detonates.  

6.  Free country? Man, I should fuck you up for sayin’ that stupid shit alone.

“This film is a call to racial violence!” a film critic shouted at Roger Ebert after a screening of Do the Right Thing. She worried Bed-Stuy would set fire to theaters, but Lee’s 1989 film wasn’t The Rite of Spring in Paris in 1913. An amerikan psychotic turn to theater violence would be postponed until Aurora in 2012, and it would be white violence, which would come as a shock to none who have tracked the trajectory of white violence. Displacement is white violence, too. White violence is a sine qua non for gentrification. And so Castro allies himself with “Buggin’ Out battle brownstone houses, some Bird fans, / While Mookie turns the radio up and launched the trashcan.”

7.  “We are the weapons.”

Of late, Castro has consistently been proving you’re out your depth, with verses so allusive they suggest a strong “Erick Sermon and Parrish Smith, nobody blink. / They don’t now who the fuck that is” vibe. So what, though? At this point, Castro’s a vet, an elder. The youngins need to catch up or cash out. Get KRS-One bookish, kiddies, or be left behind. Be the weapon or never prosper. Create your own mythos: “Omega built a mother by the sun and Cyclops sent / a blurred Baraka poem capable to raise the dead. / Yet instead I use the sword...”—with Wu-Tang pronunciation of the w in “sword,” of course. History moves backwards and forwards at the same time. Language is lost and recovered. The poem is “blurred” because it’s been duplicated on a mimeograph—a machine that involves a “drum.” The words are ink-smudged. Baraka’s former partner, Diane di Prima, shouted, “"Power to the people's mimeo machines!” Accuse and attack, Baraka sloganeered. We’re talking about agency—by hand-crank, handgun, or mic check.

8.

Castro creates imagery like Emory Douglas did with paint: painfully bold and saturated with color like blood soaks clothes. Baraka called Douglas’s art a combo of “expressionist agitprop and homeboy familiarity,” which applies to what Castro does on the track. I quote Mao who called literature and art “part of the whole proletarian revolutionary cause,” and Mao quotes Lenin who called lit and art the “cogs and wheels in the whole revolutionary machine.” And Baraka also said Douglas’s work:

functioned as if you were in the middle of a rumble and somebody tossed you a machine pistol. It armed your mind and demeanor. Ruthlessly funny, but at the same time functional as the .45 slugs pouring out of that weapon.

The Panthers were trapped and tear-gassed in a West Oakland basement. Eldridge Cleaver told Bobby to go out naked—unarmed as the day he was born not quite eighteen years earlier—but he emerged from the burning house fully dressed, with dignity, and he was searchlighted and shotshotshotshotshotshotshot dead.

Castro needs Brewin to make the cypher complete—a two-man killarmy using loud words in quiet wars, no silencer.

9.  “Before blurting out, try analysis, brother.”

Breeze’s Yo, listen… at the start of his verse is comparable to Sir Thomas Wyatt intoning Whoso list to hunt… to begin his 16th-century sonnet. The amalgam here is less Five Percenter plus clandestine government experimentation and more a deconstruction of the both violent and sexualized language of braggadocio. “Anything you say isn’t played like Miranda Rights,” and so we’re already with our hands behind our backs, silenced by an pig officer’s gag order. The competition doesn’t get played; they play themselves.

Sir Thomas Wyatt sets it off like so:

Whoso list to hunt, I know where is an hind, But as for me, hélas, I may no more. The vain travail hath wearied me so sore, I am of them that farthest cometh behind. Yet may I by no means my wearied mind Draw from the deer, but as she fleeth afore Fainting I follow.

Breeze has wanted to stay pleasant to the ears—you know, like Lauryn Hill phone sexing—so this isn’t new territory but rather a well-worn path. Wyatt’s wearied and “so sore” by “the hunt,” the pursuit of his love interest, even though he knows “where is an hind.” Still, “as she fleeth afore / Fainting [he] follows.” He can’t help himself.

Love is lost within violent pursuit. Breeze speaks of a “plan to strike” and “zero in” on a “target,” his quarry. He and Castro are “talking about broads often, no doubt, / We broad and burly as hell, / Brag about the hunt, you was jukin’ a girly gazelle.” Breeze’s assault is dizzying, a salvo from all angles: “Hit ’em with some counter clay rebuttals that’s subtle but still befuddle if dude slow.”

10.  “It’s nothin’, I gotcha, and that’s word to Super Lover Cee.”

Super Lover Cee and Casanova Rud’s 1988 single “Girls I Got ’Em Locked” articulates the carceral embrace of “locking” a girl down, which—consequently—requires violence to enforce: “Don’t ever touch a girl owned by me or I’ll ruin ya’, / Slap you with my mic simultaneously as I’m doin’ ya.” The girl is commodified, and Super Lover Cee takes a proprietary attitude toward the relationship. If you overstep, you’ll be ruined, that is, you’ll fall. And while you’re prostrate, you’ll be slapped with the phallic mic simultaneously. Is the Super Lover doin’ her or you, though? What’s truly getting him off? That hypermasculine posturing skews homoerotic. Breeze Brewin laughs at you for subscribing to the nonsense: “Dag, if that was what you believe then your world be a hell.”

11.

Liberal discourse suggests policing your impulses. Put down the gun—don’t touch it. “Touchy subjects,” like racism (apparently), get the “We need to have a conversation” treatment. Look, don’t touch. Don’t touch the exhibit of stolen artifacts—those Benin bronzes in the British Museum. Beneath the topic of orignoo gunn clapping, Curly Castro’s track is about the x’s and o’s of eros as well. Many gestures meant to protect women are merely some other man staking his claim, adorning her with “diamonds in letters plain,” as Wyatt writes of the collar around the deer’s “fair neck.” Wyatt’s sonnet warns against overstepping (or even half-stepping). The collar reads Noli me tangere (touch me not)—she belongs to someone else. It’s a bad touch example. Like his fellow Indelible J-Treds, Breeze Brewin is the living circle-circle-dot-dot: nobody can touch him.

12.

Let’s bring it back to Little Bobby Hutton. When Eldridge Cleaver told him to leave the ambushed basement naked, he was thinking of Bobby’s safety. He thought the extreme measure of appearing on the street without clothes would be enough to convince the pigs he wasn’t armed. Cleaver was naïve to think so. Bobby Hutton was right to emerge clothed. In doing so, he rejected the indignity of the auction block, the lynching, the mutilation and spreading of souvenir flesh. The searchlight made Bobby Hutton the subject of a spectacle, yes, but he refused to consent to the psychosexual desires of white supremacy. He refused the castration ritual. Little Bobby Hutton, in effect, threw down a challenge to the cops: Use your imagination once again. Try to think of a few situations where your own weapon might be used against you…used against you…used against you.

Images:

Emory Douglas, The Black Panther, Vol. IV, No. 78, 1971 (detail) | Weapon X (detail, issue unknown) | Emory Douglas, Rat Subterranean News (1970) | Harriet Tubman with gun sketch | Anti-Mau Mau British propaganda poster | Newspaper headline from Negroes with Guns | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Untitled (date unknown) | Jean-Michel Basquiat, Native Carrying Some Guns, Bibles, and Amorites on Safari (1982) | Screenshot from Spike Lee’s Do the Right Thing (1989) | Two images from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968) | Emory Douglas, The Black Panther (miscellaneous poster) | Medieval depiction of the hunt (unknown) | Image detail from the Berkeley Barb, Volume 6, Number 15, Issue 139 (1968)

[mrsalwayswrite]

The Difference Between Champagne and Rum Part 1 (Alfie Solomons x OFC)

So this was a cute one-shot that came to mind that somehow turned into a mini series. I’ll hopefully have the other parts up soonish (once they are written). 

I want to dedicate this piece to the most lovely @evelynshelby​ for inspiring and encouraging me to write an Alfie piece. (Btw, she has her own incredible stories that you should definitely follow.) This is my first time writing a fanfic piece for Peaky Blinders. I have always been too nervous to attempt it. So let me know if you think I did Alfie justice. 

Summary: A young Alfie prepares himself to spend a night in jail. Next thing he know, he is on the run with a blonde angel by his side. Nothing about this night goes as he expected. 

Warnings: Some violence, swearing and racial slurs. Just the usual in Peaky Blinders. :)

Words: 5k

~The Difference Between Champagne and Rum~

Part 1- Saved by an Angel

1911

He knew it. Everyone knew it. Bless her, even his own mother knew it. No matter what the Rabbi said. Alfie Solomons’ soul was damned. He was sinful and that would not be changing anytime soon. He easily picked up and wore that mantle though. For it meant there was food on the table for his family and coal to keep them warm in their dilapidated, shoddy apartment. It also meant his younger brother and sister could stay in school and receive a good education. Plus their mum did not have to work sewing till her fingers bled from dawn until midnight. No, his soul was damned but he did not care. He was the man of the house, had been since the age of nine when his father died, and his family came first.

The first time he saw her…he wondered if he might regret missing heaven and all its beautiful creatures. It would be a shame if all the angels looked like her. Perhaps he could amend his ways…later. 

Blood ran down from the left side corner of his mouth, leaving the tang of copper and dirt on his tongue. The dull ache from his mid ribs told him that he would have bruises there tomorrow. He would have to keep them hidden from his mum. None of the pain affected him though. None of the blood stopped him. In this moment, he was an invincible force of nature. Even the devil himself would refuse to fight him right now.

He glared down at the bleeding, busted man at his feet, the wrath of all his ancestors fueling his rage. “You want to say that again, you fucking wop?”

The man –teenager really- sneered but wisely kept his tongue behind his teeth.

The lad at his feet was only a year older than himself, just barely an adult, but that did not matter. Not here on the dirty streets of London. Not even when the gang of wop lads outnumbered the few Jewish lads walking back to the shitty apartments of their families. Big fucks little. And a certain Jewish lad promised himself to one day be the boss. To never back down from a fight until everyone feared his name and pissed themselves even thinking about fighting him.

Alfie eyed the seven other Italian lads sprawled out in the back alley in various states of injury or restrainment. Two of his own lads looked injured enough but otherwise no one was dead. Returning his intense gaze to the ringleader at his feet, he cracked his bloody knuckles.

“See here. That’s the thing, innit? You think just coz you got them fuckin’ suits and greased hair, you s’better than us. Mmm? S’fucking disgrace, mate. Me little sister can fight better than you lot.”

“Fuck you, Solomons.” The man spat blood onto Alfie’s shoes.

Alfie kicked the downed man. “S’disgusting, Sabini. Mate, you gotta learn to shut your mouth before shit starts fallin’ out, yeah? Now, I’m gonna…”

“STOP THEM! STOP THOSE BOYS!”

He looked up as several whistles blew, alerting him to the coppers running straight towards them. Rapidly he spun around, already seeing the panicked look on a few of his lads’ faces. He guessed these coppers were probably paid off by the Sabini family, so the Italian lads would be seen as the victims or get a slap on the wrists while the Jewish lads would be thrown in jail at least overnight if not a couple of days.

“Ishmael, Natan, get the lads! Get ‘em to the warehouse!” Alfie barked out, eyeing the inevitable situation. He was not afraid. This would not be his first time in handcuffs or in jail. At the rate it was going, probably not his last time either. He would make sure they remembered his name though.  

Fists clenched at his sides, he stood perfectly still, like a statue made from stone- unmoving, unrelenting, fearless and determined. Only his icy stare betrayed the whirlwind of emotions seething underneath his skin. He waited for them. As a predator eyeing the unsuspecting prey approaching, he remained fixed amongst the Italian boys he had just been fighting. To any outsider he appeared Ares, the god of war, his victims laying at his feet.

Once the coppers tried to arrest him, to make him surrender…the whirlwind of fire was released. He attacked, doling out several solid punches to those in uniform. They would never forget his name. They fought back with their batons, meeting his bloodied fists. Red clouded his vision. Moments blurred as he held his own. At one point he laughed, cocky and brash. Youth and vengeance fueling his rage.

Eventually, it took four grown men to slam him on the ground and handcuff him. The rocks and debris scrapped the side of his face. He sputtered as a fresh wave of blood filled his mouth when one of the coppers kicked him in the stomach. Cursing colorfully in Russian, he remained down…for now. From what he could see, it looked like the lads had gotten away. Two coppers were trying to wrestle two different wops down and arrest them also. The rest were pulling the Italian lads up against a nearby wall to assess their injuries.

“Move it, boy.” A gruff voice commanded him, dragging him up and towards a nearby brick building across the alley from the Italian boys. Smart man to separate them. He hit the wall, none to gently, and slide down to sit, his back resting against the coarseness of the brick. It tugged at his coat. Sweat soaked through his shirt underneath with flecks of blood splattered sporadically. Whose blood though was the ultimate question. Through half-hooded lids, he watched the coppers and the Italian lads while resting and assessing his own injuries. His ribs rebelled their current position. At least one or two of his knuckles felt busted. The trickle of pooling blood in his mouth made him think he cut his inner check. A new throbbing came from his temple. He could not remember if someone got a hit in or it was where the force of impact from being slammed to the ground originated. The boss would be fucking livid with him. So would his mum. Honestly, he was unsure which was more terrifying when yelling at him.

Opening his eyes to blink away any sweat and blood trickling down, he shifted slightly, the brick digging into his back. That was when he saw her. An absolute angel on earth. Casually walking, as if for a relaxing stroll in the park, she came closer in that dirty back alley. A copper walked close by her, a hand on her elbow as if to guide her. Alfie would not tear his eyes away from her. Never in his seventeen years had he seen anything he could truly label gorgeous or breath-taking. Yet this creature of light did not waver like a flame or mirage. No, she strolled with her head raised proudly, a pout to her full lips with an almost bored look. Her long, blonde hair glowed under the dingy streetlamps, casting a halo around her face, highlighting her delicate features. What made her stand out even more was the party dress and heels that seemed more appropriate for an aristocratic event or a club than the dank back alley full of blood, sweat and piss. Her dress was purple with a sweetheart neckline, lace just barely covering her exposed shoulders and ending mid-shin. Everything about her screamed wealth and posh. Still he could not hate her. It would be like hating a field of sunflowers or a dazzling morning sunrise. His eyes traced her lithe, feminine form and he swallowed subconsciously. There was no way she was older than him, but her silhouette left no doubt that she was a beautiful woman and not a pretty girl.

Once they got close enough, she softly said something to the officer escorting her then without waiting for a response, strutted towards Alfie. Each step she took in his direction, the dirt, blood and sweat felt amplified on his skin and clothes. He could not move nor speak, his mind having lost all function in her wake.

Friendly-like, as if they had known each other for years, she knelt down at his side. Apparently uncaring of the grime in the alley. Her emerald green eyes sparkled like a priceless gem. Quickly she pulled a handkerchief from her small clutch and tenderly dabbed away the blood at his temple, cheek and mouth. No one had touched him this gently outside of his mother and siblings. Unconsciously he leaned into her touch, the handkerchief against his skin.

“Looks like you were in a right, proper fight. I almost feel sorry for the other guy.”

“Naw, don’t be, love. Those wops asked for it.”

“Did they?” She glanced over her shoulder at the others against the opposite wall of that alley. “What did they do?”

“Looked at me funny, right? Can’t ‘ave none of that.” He was not actually going to tell her the wops started yelling racial slurs across the street at him and his lads and making comments about how their mothers spread their legs for anyone. No, he would play it off.

“Well, serves them right then. Looks like they probably needed some dirt on those clean suits and shoes.” Turning back, she winked at him then continued her cleaning, ignoring the rest of the chaos surrounding them. It truly felt like being in the eye of a storm. Nothing and no one else around mattered. All he could see, feel and sense was the angel before him. Even her touch was delicate as she cleaned up his face. Not once did he wince, but that could just be from his mind unable to focus on anything besides her.

“Are you injured badly?” She asked, keeping her voice low as her eyes found his in the gloom.

“No. ‘M fine.”

“Ever been to jail?”

He definitely was not expecting that question from her. “Yeah…yeah, I have.”

She hummed, seeming unsurprised. “Have fun?”

“Oh yeah, fucking best day of me life. Champagne and dancing to fill the night, yeah?”

She laughed, and in that moment he decided that was his favorite sound on this planet. It was robust and sweet, her head tipped back and eyes crinkled. “Well I would hate to take away that pleasure from you but I was wondering if you wanted to get away. I mean these officers are lovely and all but I would not mind a stroll under the moonlight. What do you think? Want to escort me?”

“Love, I’ll follow you wherever you wanna go, yeah?”

A smile burst forth, brilliant as a supernova and filled Alfie with a fire he had never experienced before. Sure he understood the fire of anger and wrath, it helped fuel him in the fights he got into. This though… this fire seeped deep into him like a brand made on his bones that warmed him from head to toes.

“Cheeky. I’m going to hug you but do not move from that position. Wait for my signal, got it?”

He nodded, mouth dry. What the bloody hell was happening? Wait, he would get her dirty with all the filth on him. Before he could protest, she shifted and wrapped her arms around him, embracing him. The scent of lavender filled his senses, making him subconsciously take a deep breath. Was it a perfume she wore? Was it just infused into her skin? It did not matter, he wanted to drown in her scent and never resurface. Her lips were next to his ear, her breasts pressed against his chest, her warm breath ticking the hairs on his neck. It was too much. This angel, a being of light, was creating quite sinful images in his mind. Awful, beautiful, wicked scenarios that entailed her pearly white skin laid bare beneath him. All the blood in his body rushed south and suddenly he felt lightheaded, unsure if it was her intoxicating scent and proximity or his bodily reaction and blood loss. It felt so wrong. His soul was damned, blackened by his choices. Yet he yearned for her like he never had before for anyone or anything.

Both a moment and an eternity later, he heard a faint click coming from behind him. With that she leaned back, but not before dragging a single finger slowly down his jawline. That simple touch sent shivers down his spine.

“What’s your name?”

“Alfie. Alfie Solomons.”

“I’ll be right back, Alfie. Stay here.”

With an astounding amount of grace, she rose from kneeling next to him. Casually she strolled over to the copper who had guided her initially into the alley. He had been speaking with two other coppers standing near the Italian lads. During their strange interaction, Alfie had actually forgotten about the fucking wops and coppers, too entranced by her. Now looking around he could see some of the coppers walking away with the other lads while others stood around surveying the area. He counted at least six coppers in current view. Four too many to all be informally patrolling together. Did someone tip them off to the fight? Were they waiting? Questions swarmed in his mind. At least the Jewish lads got away. They were lucky this time.

Twisting his hands, he froze. The handcuffs no longer strangled his wrists. Actually they felt loose…a quick shake and they practically fell off. That was what she had done when embracing him? Now a new set of questions swarmed like a crazed flock of pigeons in his mind. How? Why? If anything, his respect for her grew…and his curiosity. This was clearly not her first time getting out of handcuffs. She was an enigma. A posh girl who could break someone out of handcuffs in seconds. Glancing to his left, he noticed her small clutch lay on the ground near him. Was this a sign of trust or manipulation?

Overall his rational mind continued to scream ‘what is happening?’ for nothing about tonight was going as expected.

A couple minutes later, she sashed over to the four Italian lads sitting against the far wall and began chatting with them. One, with a black eye, said something and winked making her giggle shyly. A jealous rage crept upon Alfie. Who the fuck did those wops think they were talking to his angel? They were lucky they were all handcuffed because if even one tried to touch her, he would kill the sod…and make it fucking biblical worthy. He continued to watch with growing ire as she laughed and talked with them for several minutes. It took every ounce of self-control to remain where he was and continue the pretense of being handcuffed still.

Finally, she rubbed one of the lads’ shoulders in farewell while making a comment that caused them to laugh or snicker before she returned to his side.

“Nice fuckin’ chat you have there, yeah? Makin’ new friends?”

She sat on the ground next to him, brushing her hair over her shoulder, it easily reaching her mid-back. “Patience, sweetheart, patience. All part of the plan.”

“Plan, eh? That’s the thing, now, innit? I’m not much for patience. Too restless, me mum says, asking too many questions, yeah.”

“I promise I’ll make it worth your time.” She purred out, a glint in her eyes.

His trousers suddenly felt a little tighter. “Oh yeah? Care to share with the class?”

“Now where is the fun in that?”

“You ain’t gonna get me shot, right? That s’fucking pain and would ruin me night.”

“As long as you can keep up.” She deadpanned then glanced over at the other lads, keeping her voice lowered. “You know these streets?”

“Yeah.”

“At the signal, we run. You can get us away from here.”

“Yeah, yeah.” They sat in poised silence for a long moment. He unashamedly took the time to admire her beside him. She was too clean, too pristine to be from anywhere around here. Hell, it looked like she bathed regularly which honestly was uncommon where he was from. She certainly had weaned at the bosom of wealth and continued to be nurtured by it. So why was she here? Why did the coppers have her? Why was she so desperate to get away from them? “What’s your name?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” She winked, fiddling with the hemline on her dress.

“Ah, come on, love.”

“I saw you fight the police men.” She abruptly changed topics. “I have never seen anyone fight like that before. I bet you could box in the rings if you wanted.”

“Yeah? Just somethin’ you learn on the streets, right? Not much to it. I’ve always been broader and stronger than most lads, yeah, so I guess it is easier. Me grandfather taught me some.”

“Well, I found it incredible to watch.”

A second later, a commotion had him whipping his head up in time to see the Italian lads leaping up and running down the alley, some faster than others. The coppers immediately started after them, yelling and blowing their whistles. Chaos suddenly ruling the alley.

He guessed that was the signal.

Leaping to his feet and ignoring the sharp pain in his ribs at the movement, he grabbed her hand. Within the span of a heartbeat, they were racing away from the commotion. Adrenaline coursed through him, helping him forget the aches, pain and fatigue from the fights that night. A shout sounded from behind but neither one of their steps faltered. At the end of the alley, still holding her hand, he pulled her left into a different back alley. He kept his ears open for shouts and whistles, eyes open for coppers and any of those wops looking for revenge. He knew this town, these streets like his own name. They were a part of him, as much as his own blood and bones. He both loathed and loved them. They made him who he was. Yet he promised himself to rise above the poverty dragging its inhabitants down. He would rule this place. Fuck anyone who tried to stop him.

After at least ten minutes of running, he pulled her behind a local dress shop. The streetlamps could not pierce the gloom behind the store, making it perfect for hiding out. Plus there was usually a couple boxes laying around to sit on and it did not smell nearly as bad as the butcher shop just down the street. He pushed her against the wall and pressed himself beside her. Both of them gasping for breath, chests heaving. A glance at her surprised him. A brilliant smile shown, illuminating her face. As if sensing his gaze, she turned her head to meet his eyes. He could not help returning the smile.

“Think…we are…safe?” She asked between deep breaths, eyes still locked on his.

“Yeah…yeah. Don’t hear footsteps…besides ours, right?”

“Yeah.” Her smile turned mischievous as her breathing began to even out. “You seemed to know right where to go. I’m suspecting you have done this once or twice.”

“Once or twice. But you, fuckin’ hell. Gettin’ me outta those handcuffs. You do that often?”

“Once or twice.”

He barked out a laugh, shaking his head. This girl, this angel, was nothing like he had ever met before. Standing next to her now, he realized the top of her head just reached his chin, even in those little kitten heels she wore. For some odd reason, that realization made him smile.

“Is St. Mark’s church far from here?”

Raising an eyebrow, he smirked. “That where you’re supposed to be, innit?”

She shoved him, playfully. “Well is it?”

“No, not far. Come on, love. I’ll walk ya there meself. Can’t have you wanderin’ and gettin’ lost, yeah?” He chuckled at her glare before she just rolled her eyes. Pushing off the brick wall, he was surprised when her hand shot out to grab his arm.

“Wait.”

“S’alright? Need to catch your breath?”

Then the completely unexpected happened. He knew to the very marrow of his bones that he would never be the same again.

She roughly tugged him closer before raising up on her toes and pressing her lips against his. Immediately a heat wave shot through him. Without thinking, his body moved on its own accord. He was too focused on the delicious taste of her pouty lips, that entrancing scent of lavender dancing around her, and her body pressed against his. His hands automatically sought out her hips, backing her against the dirty, brick wall to further press himself against her. A slow sweep of her tongue had him open his mouth on a moan which then allowed their tongues to fight for dominance. Her hands moved from his neck upward into his hair, alternating between fisting it to force him closer and scraping his scalp with her nails. Sure he had kissed a couple of girls before, he was a seventeen-year-old hot blooded male. None of those times even came close to this moment. This kiss that would forever ruin him for any other woman. This was heaven in its bliss and hell in its torment. He ached to get closer, to taste more of her, to hear her breathe out his name. With each moment, every touch and continued molding of their lips, she burned further into him, like a drug he would never fully be able to escape.

Finally their lips unlocked, lungs demanding air. Panting with swollen, bruised lips, they stared at one another caught up in the moment of passion and fire. A whole brigade of coppers could have come marching down the alley and he would not have noticed.

“Do this often?”

“Once or twice.” He teased back, his ego inflated at seeing her look as wrecked as he felt. Apparently his kiss and touch affected her just as much as hers did to him.

She laughed, eyes sparkling in the dimness. “Still wanting to escort me?”

“Love, you ain’t gettin’ away from me now.”

Reluctantly he pulled away from her. All he wanted to do was continue kissing her, breathing her in and never let her go. Yet reality demanded something very different. It was obvious she was in a far different class from himself, something he would never achieve. He picked up her clutch that had been dropped on the ground during their snogging. Together, they stepped out of the alley and into the deserted street, heading south towards the church.

“You stopped bleeding.”

“Mmm? Oh yeah.” He touched his temple where there was certainly a cut. “I didn’t get none on you, right? Don’t wanna get any dirt or blood on you, keep you from being all dolled up.”

“I am fine. That stuff never bothered me anyway.”

He quirked an eyebrow at her. A posh lady not bothered by blood and dirt? She certainly was turning into a class all of her own…and he did not mind at all.

“What? Stop looking at me like that.”

“You’re the oddest lady I ‘ave ever met.” He teased.

“Excuse you!” She shoved him away, causing him to laugh as he stumbled several steps over dramatically. “See if I ever kiss you again, making fun of me like that. Plain rude is what that is.”

Swiftly moving back to her side, he wrapped his arms around her, holding her close. She refused to meet his eyes until he tipped her chin up with his hand. “Awww…come on, love. I was just teasin’ you a bit is all. I like you. Never been into girls scared of gettin’ their hands dirty meself. End up bein’ too much fuckin’ work, yeah, they are.”

A soft smile graced her lips. “Well, I would hate to be that.”

“Forgive me? I can get down on my knees right here if that’s what you want. I’ll sing a song for you, but you might think a damn cat is dyin’. Probably best if I don’t. Scare you away, yeah.”

She laughed, eyes crinkling. “I forgive you.” She pressed a quick peck to his mouth before sliding out of his arms to continue walking side by side.

“Do I get to learn who you are now?”

“Oh, I am no one interesting. Just a simple lady out on a stroll.”

Scoffing, he nudged her shoulder with his. “That’s the biggest fuckin’ lie I’ve ever ‘eard. A fancy, posh girl like yourself is never a ‘simple lady’, yeah? So, what’s your name?”

“Perhaps I do not want to be her tonight.” She sighed, looking up at the stars as if to distance herself from reality. A feeling Alfie understood all too well. She continued, her voice just a whisper in the night. “Perhaps I want to be someone different…someone else before society forces me to put the mask back on...to pretend for the sake of family and reputation that I am someone I am not. My apologies. I am rambling. It does not matter. Tis not your problem.”

He stopped, moving to stand in front of her. The depth of despair in her words made his heart clench. The whole night she had eluded an aura of authority, confidence and, truthfully, a sex appeal. Now though, whatever wall she protected herself with dropped for a moment. She tried to move around him but he gripped her upper arms gently yet firmly until she looked up at him. Those emerald eyes held him, curiosity and hesitation warring in their depths. Ever so gently he ran a knuckle down her cheek before tracing her lips with the tip of his finger. A piece of his mind imaging their passionate snogging was only a figment of his imagination.

“Look at me, love. You’ll never be a ‘simple lady’ coz you s’fuckin’ something else, right? You can break outta handcuffs faster than most men take a piss. Then you outrun coppers in those kitten heels all while laughing like a fuckin’ lunatic. But hell, maybe all posh ladies are like that where you are from, yeah? Scarin’ the shit outta normal lads but not me, no, love, you’re stuck with me now.”

With a blossoming smile on her lips, his self-control ran out. Bending down slightly, he kissed her. This kiss was slow and soft, a caress of lips and intermingling breaths. He broke it, placing his forehead against hers. “So, who do you wanna be tonight?”

“Either no one of consequence just out enjoying a stroll…”

He snorted. That was him every day.

“…or a king and queen, looking down on our kingdom.”

With a flourish, he bowed, probably not properly in anyway but it made her laugh. Then standing up, he quickly pulled his long black coat off and draped it over her shoulder. The goosebumps and faint shivers had not gone unnoticed while he held her. She giggled, giving him a proper curtsy while wearing his coat as a robe, looking more regal than she should.

“Your majesty, your carriage waits for you.”

Her smile was brighter than the full moon and stars above. Still giggling, she wrapped an arm through his. “My king, you are truly too kind.”

“Naw, that’s what us fuckin’ proper royal people do, yeah?”

They both laughed as they strolled down the darkened, dirty streets. Their conversation steered clear of anything too personal. Both enjoyed this pretend game, being someone else if even just for a little while. They talked about what they would do to make the city better, complained about the particular subjects that annoyed them, how many dogs and horses they each wanted, and where their summer getaway should be. On more than once occasion, they stole kisses from one another, some chaste and some not so much.

Yet like the clock striking midnight and the spell being broken, their time neared its end as they approached St. Mark’s church. Ahead, Alfie could see several cars lined up on the street. Their drivers standing around smoking and talking, waiting for those inside. The cars and drivers screamed wealth, far more than common in Camden Town.

“I can go from here. Thank you for walking me.”

“You sure? I don’t mind none, love.”

She slipped his coat off her shoulders before handing it over. “Thank you, Alfie. This was far more fun than I have had in a long time.”

“Will I see you again?” The words came blurting out without his permission but he did not regret asking. He desperately wanted to see her again.

“I hope so. I truly do.”

“Wait, I still don’t know your name. That’s not quite fair, innit? I mean, when I first saw you, I thought to meself, there, now there’s a fuckin’ angel.” He reached out a hand and twirled a lock of blonde hair around his finger. “Pretty damn sure you’re the most beautiful thing on this fuckin’ earth, yeah? And I’ve seen the ocean before, Margate yeah, but its nothin’ compared to you.” Where the words came from he was unsure but they poured forth on their own. As if knowing their time was over, he wanted her to remember him, even if it was for blubbering like a simpleton. He hoped she would not forget him like he would never forget her.

Taking a step closer, she kissed him once again, cupping his cheeks. “Call me that. I’ll see you around, Alfie. I do not think this is good-bye. Not for us.”

Before he could respond, she twirled around and walked towards the cars, gliding like a phantom from a dream. It did not take long for the men to notice her, one in particular coming to her side. After a minute of talking, he walked next to her up the stairs of the church then disappeared into the light after opening the doors.

Alfie stood rooted in the shadows for longer than necessary. It was foolish to linger, he knew that, but his body felt immobile. His eyes glued to those doors he would never pass through. Finally with a huff and curse, he tugged his coat back on and turned away. His walk home would be long for St. Mark’s was in the opposite direction of his mum’s shit apartment. It was worth it though. With each step, the lingering hint of lavender drifted off his coat. A reminder of the only other person besides himself to wear it. His feet were on autopilot for his mind could not stop ruminating on the blonde beauty with gemstone eyes. An angel on earth.

On the barren street under the moonlight and flickering streetlamps, Alfie prayed for the first time in years. He prayed to see her again. That whatever fate brought them together would not desert them now. He needed her light in the dark world he inhabited. He wanted once again to hold and kiss his angel.

[chiseler]

Rip Torn: A Retrospective

Rip Torn died on July 9th at age 88. That he lived that long is nothing short of miraculous.

In the summer of 1969, Rip Torn was drunkenly screaming through New York’s West Village on his motorcycle when he slammed it into a police cruiser. Torn broke his leg in the accident, but didn’t notice. The next morning he got up, got on a plane, and flew to Paris where he was set to star in Joseph Strick’s film version of Henry Miller’s Tropic of Cancer. He shot the entire film all hopped up on painkillers on an untreated busted leg,. And you know what? He still gives a remarkable performance. It wasn’t the only time he worked with broken bones, either.

For over 60 years, Torn carried on in the proud tradition of John Barrymore, Errol Flynn, Robert Mitchum, Frank Sinatra, and Lawrence Tierney as the last of the great Hollywood hellions. In between insane drunken escapades, he was nominated for Emmys and Tonys and Oscars, he established himself as one of America’s most respected character actors, a man with a knack for making even a small role a pivotal one, and he was in Every Movie and TV Show Ever Made. Next time you watch something take a close look at the credits and you’ll see.

Torn’s given name was Elmore Rual Torn, Jr., but was nicknamed Rip as a boy, as was tradition among all the Torn men. He was born and raised and educated in Texas, studying  animal husbandry in college before turning to acting.

The motivation behind the decision was different than most. He hitchhiked to California to break into the movies not because he wanted to be a big star, but because he thought it would be an easy way to raise enough money to buy himself a ranch. Things didn’t work out quite so zip bang as he’d planned, though he did earn small roles on TV and made his feature debut in an uncredited role as a dentist in Elia Kazan’s great and scandalous 1956 film Baby Doll. Kazan hired him again the following year to play another uncredited but extremely important role in the equally great Face in the Crowd.

Although he wasn’t making the kind of money he needed to buy that ranch, he was getting enough acting jobs along the way to start taking the whole enterprise a bit more seriously. He moved to New York to study at the Actor’s studio, worked in theater both on and off Broadway, and from the mid-’50s to the mid-60s established himself on TV in everything from Playhouse 90 to Thriller to Route 66 to The Untouchables. After that things took off. There was just something sinister about Torn, those wicked eyes of his, that crooked-toothed leer, the whole rat-like demeanor, that suited him for villainous roles of all kinds. Plus he was a chameleon who could shift his whole look and stature with the simplest change of accent. He would go on to play Judas in King of Kings, countless presidents, doctors, senators, military officers and judges. He played rednecks and gangsters, cowboys and spies and executives. He played Walt Whitman twice, was in a whole bunch of Tennessee William’s plays (on Broadway, TV and film). Yeah, like I said, between the mid-’50s and the present, he was in every damn thing ever made. Trying to summarize his career is pretty much impossible, but there was a stretch there from the mid-60s to the late 70s when he was top billed when he was turning small supporting roles into leads, when he was moving easily between TV, experimental films, and big budget Hollywood jobs, and when he was starting to earn himself a reputation as a wild man.

Looking back on it now, it’s hard to imagine the kind of talent, both in front of and behind the camera, that came together on the 1965 period gambling picture The Cincinnati Kid. It was originally a Sam Peckinpah film with a script by Ring Lardner. Then Peckinpah was fired (surprise!) and Norman Jewison was brought in to direct. He thought the script was too self important and talky, so he brought in Terry Southern. He also gave Hal Ashby his first big break, bringing him in as editor and assistant director. Steve McQueen stars as a hotshot young poker player in ‘30s-era New Orleans. Karl Malden is a former hotshot on the skids. Jack weston is the loud whiny guy. Ann-Margaret is the bad girl, Tuesday Weld is the good girl, and Edward G. Robinson is the old man, the undisputed champ, the stud poker king feared by everyone.

Ah, then there’s Rip Torn. His name’s deep in the credits but the whole film turns around him. He plays the slick and sleazy Southern Gentleman who will stop at nothing to see the Robinson character toppled. See, Robinson beat him at poker once, and for a Southern Gentleman of his stature there’s nothing in the world worse than losing. There’s one scene in particular, Torn’s showpiece here, in which he tries to blackmail the dealer (Malden) into cheating, and though it doesn’t sound like much nobody can muster up the cool menace like Torn. Oooohhh, he’s such a rotten son of a bitch.

Four years later he starred in Moses Ginsberg’s first film, Coming Apart, an experimental number that’s been called “More a Happening than an actual movie,.” Filmed with a single static camera to recreate the feel of a documentary, Torn stars as an unbalanced psychiatrist who torments and confuses his female patients, eventually going completely batty himself. It all takes place in one small room shot by that one unmoving camera. It’s at turns compelling and unbelievably tedious, and if it weren’t for Torn (thank god for that Actor’s Studio improv training) it would be unwatchable.

Around this same time Dennis Hopper cast Torn to be in Easy Rider. Then at what was either a production meeting or a cocktail party in New York (depending on who’s telling the story), Hopper and Torn got into a bit of a ruckus over whether or not all Texans were  rednecks out to kill hippies. A knife was pulled (though Peter Fonda would later claim it was a butter knife, or maybe a fork, or maybe both). Next thing you know, Torn was thrown off the picture, and Hopper cast Jack Nicholson in his place.

About a year later Torn joined the cast of Norman Mailer’s improvisational experiment, Maidstone. Essentially it was a raucous, drunken three-day party out at Grove Press founder Barney Rossett’s Long Island estate around which Mailer tried to film himself as a director trying to shoot a movie. As the story goes, before shooting started each actor was given a card briefly describing his or her character, and that was as close as anyone got to a script. One character, however, was given a card at random informing the holder that his character was in fact a CIA assassin whose job it was to kill Mailer. The card’s recipient was supposed to be kept a secret from everyone in the cast, including Mailer.

Well, according to Rossett there was a little confusion there. Maybe it was the booze, or maybe the card simply wasn’t worded clearly. In any case Torn (naturally) got the card, but instead of thinking his character was supposed to kill Mailer, he somehow got the idea that HE was supposed to kill Mailer. Lucky for Mailer, too, as the confusion resulted in the only scene in the film anyone remembers.

After the shoot was over and most everyone had gone home, Mailer and his family are walking back toward the house when they’re stopped by a grinning and quite mad Torn, who is also clutching a small hatchet. The cameras are rolling and you can tell this was something Mailer was not prepared for. Nor was he prepared when Torn goes after his skull with the hatchet. The two wrestle each other to the ground, Mailer bites Torn’s ear, Torn leaves a deep gash in Mailer’s scalp, and Mailer’s wife and children scream in horror until a couple crew members pull Torn off him.

And that, my friends, is entertainment!

(The next morning Rossett found a drunken midget floating in his swimming pool, but that’s another story.)

Then came the motorcycle accident and shooting Tropic of Cancer on a broken leg. As it happens there were two films based on Henry Miller novels filming simultaneously two blocks apart in Paris. Jens Jorgen  Thorsen’s Quiet Days in Clichy starred Paul Valjean, an American dancer who looked an awful lot like Miller, but neither sounded nor acted like him. Torn, meanwhile, looked absolutely nothing like Miller, but somehow by adopting just the slightest hint of a Brooklyn accent (and on all those painkillers) was somehow able to embody him completely. It’s a gritty, funny, poetic film and Torn is great, though to be fair it should be noted that Clichy was dirtier.

Also in 1970, Torn spoke out against the war in Vietnam on a TV show, and a few nights later someone fired a bullet through his window. It was a hell of a year for him.

In ‘73s Darryl Duke film, Payday, Torn gives what he himself would later refer to as his best performance. Or maybe his favorite. In any case he’s really something as Maury Dann, a  womanizing, hard-drinking, bastard son of a bitch of a second-rate country singer. Dann and his band are on tour  through the South as Dann screws and screws over everyone around him, from band members to family, to pretty much every woman he meets. He never quite hit the top, but insists on acting and being treated like he has. Toward the end he even talks his chauffer into taking a murder rap for him, since he has to get to a show. It’s an extremely dark, cynical, and painfully accurate portrait of the country music business of the early ‘70s, and Torn does all his own singing. It makes for a nice counterpoint to Robert Duvall’s quiet, soft-spoken, and sensitive country singer in Tender Mercies from a decade later.

Although again his name is buried deep in the credits of Larry Cohen’s 1977 biopic The Secret Files of J. Edgar Hoover the entire film revolves around him. He narrates, after all, and gives another memorable performance as a young man who decides to join the Bureau after his father (another agent) is gunned down by a two-bit hood on the street. After seeing what’s going on in the FBI, though, and after being punished himself for a minor indiscretion, he tries to bring Hoover down a notch or two. In what could have been a hamfisted cartoon, both Cohen and Torn (and star Broderick Crawford near the end of his career) manage a shockingly human portrait.

As a flipside to Torn’s tendency to turn minor supporting roles into leads, there was 1978’s Coma, the medical conspiracy thriller directed by Michael Chrichton based on the Robin Cook novel. Torn was fourth-billed behind Genevieve Bujold, MIchael Douglas, and Richard Widmark. And sure, Torn’s character, Dr. George, is the film’s central villain, the man behind a Boston hospital’s fiendish conspiracy to harvest human organs and sell them on the black market, but he only appears in one scene, and speaks roughly four lines. It’s unclear whether this was the plan from the start, an attempt to turn his character into another Harry Lime or Mabuse,  or if maybe all his other scenes were cut after Torn went after Crichton with a hatchet (we can only hope). In any case he was missed. He might have livened up what was otherwise a pretty godawful picture.

As Torn grew older and a little larger and his hair started getting thinner, two things happened. He began playing more authority figures, which only makes sense I guess. He had that look and sound about him. He also started doing more comedies and genre films. Sometimes he even combined the two, playing Ronald Reagan in ‘82s Airplane II: The Sequel.

In ‘91 he was Bob Diamond, the charming, sleazy, and utterly  ineffective lawyer trying to give Albert Brooks a boost out of Purgatory in Defending Your Life. He was the sinister CEO in the otherwise dreadful Robocop 3. He even began lending his voice to animated features and video games (usually playing a god of some kind).

Then in 1999 Dennis Hopper was a guest on Leno and told a few old Easy Rider stories, including the one about how Torn had pulled a knife on him at a party. Well, Torn, remembering things a bit differently, sued him for defamation.

It’s pretty hilarious if you think about it; these two guys who were both completely out of their heads in the late ‘60s going to court to determine which one of them was behaving badly. I mean, they both had reputations to maintain.

Well, most of the witnesses agreed with Torn that it was Hopper who pulled the knife (except for Peter Fonda, who remembered all kinds of different utensils), and the court ordered Hopper to pay Torn nearly half a million in damages.  It was all kind of silly. I mean, it’s not like the story cost him any work. Hell, trying to literally kill Norman Mailer on camera didn’t even cost him any work. But I guess pride’s a funny thing.

After that he continued to work regularly, as Agent Zed in the Men in Black films, in sit-coms, in made-for-TV films, christ, anything that came along. Every director I’ve ever heard talk about Torn can’t praise him highly enough for his talent and professionalism (except maybe Mailer), though given his admitted temper, it’s also possible they’re just scared of him.  He was nominated for six Emmys for his role on the Larry Sanders Show, and came to be recognized by a whole new generation as the executive Alec Baldwin worships but wants to replace on 30 Rock.

Along the way he set himself the task of repairing any damage his reputation as a hellraiser might have suffered as a result of that Hopper lawsuit. The DUIs started adding up. Or at least getting noticed, in part thanks to the actor’s tendency to swing on the arresting officers. Along with being the president of the Extreme Dodgeball League (who knew it even existed?) it seems he was also an extreme regular at a bar near his Connecticut home.  Every once in awhile the bartender himself would tip off the cops after Torn headed for his car. I’m not sure if that bartender’s still there, but even after being fingered like that Torn remained a regular, though he didn’t always drive. And that in itself might have caused some problems.

After returning home from the bar one night in 2010, Torn found his keys didn’t work in the lock. Seeing no alternative, the 79-year-old was forced to break into his own house. He was probably surprised a few minutes later, just as he got his shoes off and was making himself comfortable,  when the cops arrived and informed him that he wasn’t in his house at all, but had broken into a nearby bank. And the cops were probably surprised to find Torn was carrying a loaded handgun. Yeah, he’s not the only one who’s been there, as I think many of us can attest.

Once it was clarified that it was not Torn’s intention to rob the bank, he was given a two and a half year suspended sentence and three years probation.

The arrest prompted the tightassed, no fun creators of Thirty Rock to kill off his character, but he remained as busy as ever, including an uncredited role as an alien in Men in Black Three.

He once proudly noted that he’s never missed a performance. He’s worked with broken legs, broken arms and ankles, and once while doing a play he passed a kidney stone on opening night. He was a rare, tough old bird, a vanishing breed, and one of my heroes. We won’t see his like again.

by Jim Knipfel

[brg-has-moved-follow-link]

A New Path:Chapter1-The Broken Guardsmen

Summery: Post FFXV,

The world recovering from the damages of war and the darkness arises with a new king, one directly bonded with the crystal of their star. Having no real choice in the matters at hand the Blind King ascends his throne to protect the people of Eos from the dark deamon hordes that still roam the lands and to unite the people under the new sun. Though he is unsure of his new found duties and the tasks at hand, Royal Adviser Argentum sets forth to be the best he possibly can as he recovers from injuries sustained in the final battle with the darkness. As he attempts to keep his heart and head on the correct paths. Also recovering Amicitia Finds his new position within the kingdom to be far more difficult than he expected as larger responsibilities are laid on him as well as getting use to being the shield to his new king

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Chapter 1: The Broken Guardsmen

A disgusted look crossed a worn face, as his eyes caught his reflection in the mirror as he opened his faded wardrobe. A slender hand ran across a still healing scar on his chest, the sting persisted from the stitches holding him together. The Red scars over old, a gash over his nose, to the sick purplish, bluish, green bruises covering his body, all seemed to only stand out more on his pale skin. It had only been a little over a week since the Suns return from a ten year hiatus, but it wasn’t like everyone was hitting the beaches to tan just yet. And it wasn’t like he was very tan before the whole event, but he looked sickly white compared to what once was. The Shaggy haired blond grimaced pulling a dark colored yet elaborate silver detailed front tank top over his head, grabbing the wide leather bracelet out of habit closing the armoires he kept his things in with a deep sigh.  Another day in the apocalypse in the light, heading for the door he snapped the bracelet over the barcode on his wrist. Straightening the strap of leather before he lifted the CrownsGuard coat off the hook on the back of the door throwing it on as he stepped out of his apartment. At least with the long sleeves and below his ass tail on the jacket it made sure most of the damage he suffered was hidden. The Slight limp he had wasn’t as easy to hide as the bruises, yet luckily it wasn’t a long walk to the train that would take him across town to the castle.

As he walked his cell phone buzzed in his breast pocket of his jacket,  glad he had stuffed it in there before his morning shower he went digging for the device. Once out and firmly in hand he hit the green accept.

“Damn it Prompto Where are you?” Came the gruff voice of Gladio as he lifted the phone to his ear.

“Well good morning to you too, I’m headed to the Train Station as we speak.” Prompto said weaving through a few city folk. “What’s the rush anyway?”

“You are not going to believe the shit I have to say, So hop your ass on that train i’ll pick you up at the station.” The beeping told him the call had ended.

Prompto gave a look to his phone before flicking his eyebrows in a sort of shrug. What would he not believe exactly? Curiosity had him, he shoved his phone back in his pocket as he made the short yet painful trip up the stairs to the station. Yeah that knee was going to be something he was going to live the rest of his life with, he thought. Looking to the large analog clock, he nodded to himself before walking over and leaning on the elaborate base. Taking the weight off his bad leg he rested his head back, maybe he should have taken the pain killers he was given. But at least there was something to lean on for three minutes, and he hoped his  knee doesn’t blow walking to the train.

Running his fingers through his hair his head turned hearing the blaring horn from the train that would take him across town. The screeching sound and rumbling of the train coming to a stop just angered his knee and stitches more. Pushing off the clock he headed toward the doors that parted as a flow of people exited the train. After all the passengers filed off he slipped in claiming one of the open window length seats. If anything he didn’t want to get caught standing the whole trip as the tracks may still have been in service but some areas still needed to be smoothed out. The dinging warning that the doors were closing meant there was going to be light passengers for this trip. Music to his ears as he wouldn’t have to worry about a full train and people bumping into him.

His peaceful trip come to an end when he heard a voice he hadn’t heard in six years.

“Hey, You’re that Argentum Guy, Prompto right?”

Oh for the love of Six strike him down now. Prompto turned his head to the man in question that dropped down in the seat next to him.

“It’s your old buddy ol pal Dino, Dino Ghiranze yous guys did a couple jobs for me back in the day.” Same Grey hair same irritating face.

“Yeah I remember, I almost was eating by a giant bird because of you.” Prompto informed crossing his arms attempting to not start anything with the ‘reporter’

“Awe, but you weren't.” Dino made himself comfortable setting his arm along the back of the seats. “So’s you got any news to tell? Any juicy tales from the battlefield, how about yous guys fight at the castle bringing back our glorious sun?”

“I have No Comment.” Prompto wasn't going to take responsibility for what he might do if the guy leaned any closer to him. He wasn’t sure if it was the whole blackmail to get jewels for the guy, or his twisted stories he had been so lucky to read over the years, but he just didn’t like this guy.

“Awe come on a reporter has to report something, How about any word on the News from the castle?”

Sighing he shook his head, “Look I was just sort of let out of the hospital so i’m not exactly up to date on the current events.”

“Hospital? You look to be in one piece.” Dino leaned back in his seat crossing his legs. “Glad to see you in one piece though, So did the other two wict you make it?”

So word wasn’t traveling to far, He gave a simple nod as an answer. Yeah they had made it through ungodly battles with gods and old kings and like a million deamon horde. Yet here they were broken and beaten but still standing.

“Wells that’s good news, not much is getting past the council where yous guys fight is concerned. But It��s Obvious yous guys won the battle and there are lots of confirmed victories from the glaives making headlines. Course most want to hear how the team of four worked out.. Guess i should extend my condolences for the loss of your friend and our last king Noctis. May he Rest In Peace.”

Prompto sat forward and hung his head, like he needed to be reminded of that. It was hard enough to walk to the castle that day knowing that at least one of them wasn’t returning. But with Dino saying it only made it all sink in, his best friend, before he knew he was a friend wasn’t coming back this time.

“Awe Gee, i didn’t mean to upset yah.” Dino said having seen the CrownsGuards reaction.

“No, it’s fine. Thank you for the condolences.” Prompto said sitting back up feeling a little more dead inside.

“HEY EVERYONE THE COUNCIL IS GOING TO NAME A NEW KING!”

Prompto wasn’t quite sure how far back in the train car that news had come from but it had the irritating one out of his seat.

“Well now that’s a story, was good talking to yous tell the other two I said Hi would yah? Keep in touch, Kapish.”

“Oh... yeah, sure.” Prompto said as the grey haired reporter headed off to find the voice. He sighed with relief as he didn’t have to deal with Dino anymore, but then his brain took over. Who, what, and wow that was fast. The thoughts running through his head, Who could be King? Did Noct have some Secret brother? Or Was there some other royal family that was in line to take over after...no. Wait Maybe that was what Gladio was on about, with the information he would never believe?  

He felt the train slowing as they arrived at his stop, Crown City, Center Station to be exact. The central point almost every train stopped at this station from around the crown city. Since it was the closest stop to the Castle towers building, funny he had been there less than two weeks ago and had to walk there on foot after the Regalia was wrecked.  Which he needed to ask about that car, if anything he didn’t want to see it sitting in a junkyard.

Once the train came to a complete stop Prompto pushed himself to his feet and walked his busted body out of the train car.

“Prompto!”

He turned to the sound of Gladios voice, not like a six six tower with coal black hair was hard to miss in full CrownsGuard attire with his arm in a sling.

‘Gladio, Hows the Arm?” Prompto ask heading over to him about as fast as his knee was going to let him.

  “Probably feeling about as good as your knee is. Why are you not wearing the brace?”

“Because the brace can’t be worn with the boots, and i’ll settle for what keeps my kneecap in place at this point. So Where is the car before it blows out and you have to carry my ass?”

“HA! Yeah i’ll one arm dead carry you if that’s the case.” He joked, Gladio wasn’t much better off one arm broken in two places along with a few fractured ribs, and guessing covered in just as many bruises and scratches as Prompto. He turned and headed for the stairs down to the street, Gladio kept his steps short for his shorter legged friend.

“So where is Iggy?” Prompto asked using the railing more than he wanted as he made his way down the stairs.

“I don’t know, i haven’t heard from him in a couple days, but he’s probably doing what we should be and recovering. Course he might also be super busy with the council putting together the memorial, which is something i need to ask about today. Don’t let me forget that.”

“Ok, I’ll forget to tell you about remembering the thing you want to ask about.” Prompto said trying to lighten the mood and it was easier to say through his teeth.

Gladio shook his head looking over his shoulder slowing to a stop. “Thanks, and are you ok? I didn’t know a pale guy could go that pale and still be standing.”

“CAR, Just keep walking.” Prompto grunted walking past him only to have Gladio switch his walking pace to match.

“Sit in the front, it’s the blackish one there in the middle.” gladio half ass pointed with his busted arm.

“Sucks breaking your dominant arm doesn’t it?” Prompto stated seeing the gesture as he b-lined for the car in question. He had done that once as a kid falling from a tree trying to get the perfect photo over the wall, but it did get him out of a few writing class assignments which made it not all bad.

“No Doubt.”

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Please forgive me as i haven't actually played this game since i lack a new enough console, so not all characters or places will be 100% cannon but i will attempt to do my best. Constructive Criticism is welcome as well as feedback so i can improve my writing skills.

This is also a open contorting head cannon for the concept idea that is in a constant state of change so hold onto your butts, because i don't even know where this is going at this point. It's Promnis with a Demi God Ignis is my only complete thought.

Anyway Thanks for reading!

[fatgirlwritesscenarios]

Achilles Heel

((I am...on a roll? What is this? Are you guys dumbfounded by my sudden activity? Because I am. Don’t get too excited, though. I don’t live to disappoint, so try not to have any expectations of me, lol. Anyway, Joshua! My baby, Joshua. It’s been a while since I’ve written anything for him, so I figured it was time and thought this was a cute idea to go with. Enjoy!))

Pairing: JoshuaxReader

Genre: Fluff

Word Count: 2,258

Summary: Your weakness is a nurse-in-training with kitten eyes and the sweetest smile who’s willing to stay up until 3 AM to make sure you’re home safe and well taken care of. You couldn’t ask for a better nurse, a better boyfriend, a better Achilles Heel. 

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It was well past 2 AM on a Wednesday morning, but the city traffic remained as busy as rush hour during a Friday afternoon. The black SUV with the tinted windows blended well amongst the other cars, spotless and gleaming from a recent wash, yet plain enough to avoid curious speculation. You still had 15 minutes before you reached your apartment, the throbbing pain in your body making a demand of rest from you that you struggled to ignore, but still succeeded in doing so.

It helped that the driver, a very good friend of yours, was so drunk on the hype of your recent underground brawl, he couldn’t stop talking in that loud, animated fashion of his.

“I can’t believe how badly you kicked that dude’s ass, Y/N! He was a whole head taller than you and had at least, at least, 50 more pounds of muscle than you did!” he gesticulated wildly, giving you a mild heart attack when he took his hands off the wheel and the car drifted a little too close to the other lane.

You smirked and huffed a chuckle, “That’s what made him easy to take down. Big, bulky bears can’t catch hummingbirds.”

“Hummingbirds can’t kick in quick succession like that either, but there you were,” he continued, filling the car with his boisterous laugh, “And that right hook, girl! Whoooooo! That was killer! And don’t even get me started on that leg-lock you had around his neck. We all thought he was gonna die!”

“That’s against the rules.”

“That’s the only rule, Little Bird.”

“No. You also can’t use blunt weapons at The Cage unless it’s No Bars Sunday.”

He cut you an unamused look, “Fuck me, then, I guess.”

Your own laughter spilled out of you, the pain intensifying to the point you had to force yourself to calm down, inhaling slowly through gritted teeth. That bumbling giant you had as your last opponent did quite a number on you, even if you did win the match. His fists were the size of your face and he landed a couple of good blows to your ribs, the epicenter of your pain.

You sat back as the car came to a slow roll at a stoplight, your friend continuing; “How did you know to go for his left side, anyway?” he asked, glancing at you, “What’s your secret, girl?”

Head rolling to look at him, you grinned, “I don’t always go to The Cage to fight, you know? I go to observe and I’ve seen him fight more than once. He’s an ambidextrous fighter ; he can throw an easy punch with his right or left arm because he doesn’t favor either one. Tonight, he kept his left arm tucked in to block and mostly hooked with his right. That’s when I figured he probably hurt himself at one of his last fights and hadn’t healed yet. That was my best bet to win.”

“And you almost killed him! I’m surprised you didn’t break a rib into his lung with that last kick!” he cheered, positively giddy, “What the hell would you have done if he hadn’t been injured?!”

You shrugged, “Gone for his knees.” Your friend just looked at you. “He has bad knees. That’s his Achilles Heel.”

“Achilles Heel!” he repeated, as if it were the catchphrase of the year, “That’s wild, girl! That’s some straight philosophy shit!”

“It’s not that profound,” you said, the light turning green and your friend hitting the gas a little too hard, “Everyone’s got one.”

“An Achilles Heel?”

“Uh huh.”

“Even you?”

You turned to look at him, a secret smile dancing on your busted lip, “Especially me.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he was too riled up to care. The rest of the ride continued in the same manner: your friend recounting certain parts of the fight for the umpteenth time and you trying to breathe your soreness away. The busy streets gave way to more residential areas, the street lights illuminating the path ahead.

At long last, your apartment building came into view and your friend parked on the main street adjacent to it. “Here you are, Little Bird,” he said, grinning wide at you, “Thanks for getting me into the fight tonight!”

“Thanks for giving me a ride back to mine.”

“Are you going again next week?”

You shook your head, reaching down at your feet to get your duffle bag, “Nah, I think I’m set for a little while. I need to give myself time to heal.”

“Whatch’ya  walk away with?” he asked.

A smirk touched your lips, “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Damn, okay. It’s like that?”

Your friend never stopped being funny and even though it hurt to laugh, you couldn’t help it. Opening up the duffle and reaching in with both hands, you shifted around for second before pulling out a little wad of bills. Benjamins to be exact.

You held it out to him, “Here. For always driving me and making sure I’m safe getting home.”

His eyes shimmered with glee, deftly plucking the money from your fingers, “I don’t do it for the money; watching you beat the absolute shit out of a grown man is my favorite thing in the world, but thanks anyway!”

You rolled your eyes with a playful air, snapping your head to the side when a knock came at the window. You and your friend tensed up in that one instant, but soon relaxed when an ember warm voice said, “Don’t panic. It’s just me.”

You would recognize that voice anywhere, at any time and in every way. A voice that reminded you of soft cotton and lollipops. Joshua waved through the tinted window, nice and snug in his favorite hoodie- coincidentally, it was the first hoodie you ever bought for him a few years back when you were just friends, but crushing hard on each other.

Your friend unlocked the door, Joshua opening it and standing in the doorway. His trained nurse’s eye swiftly grazed over the immediate injuries he could visibly detect in the dim light of the car, his brow furrowing for only a second at the bruises and dried blood on your lip. In the blink of an eye, his deep concern was masked and he leaned in to kiss your nose.

“Welcome back, beautiful,” he said, reaching over to unbuckle your seatbelt.

“I didn’t go to war, Josh,” you teased, earning a gentle knock of his knuckles under your chin.

He took your duffle bag from you and pulled it over his head, “You might as well have. I was worried about you.”

The seedling of guilt that lay planted in your chest cracked and rooted itself with its tiny little tendrils. His concern over you during nights like this was both a blessing and a curse. Or perhaps, maybe, it was your love for him that cursed you now. Your relationship with The Cage was a steady one; it had been established long before you even met Joshua. Fighting was your passion and your therapy. You never had the intention of giving it up, not for anyone, but knowing that you caused sweet and gentle Joshua to worry over you on a regular basis for something that you could so easily stop- that’s where the guilt came from.

You apologized a lot for it.

“I’m sor-” Joshua silenced you with a swift kiss, a playful smile tugging up the corners of his lips.

“Don’t say sorry. I’m always going to worry about you, babe, no matter what you do,” he said, chuckling when you leaned up for another, “That’s what you do when you love someone.”

He pulled back and took your hand, helping you out of the car while saying to your friend, “Thanks for bringing her back home safely!”

“Yeah, you’re welcome. I’ll see you guys later.”

You nodded before Joshua closed the door, watching as the black SUV pulled away from the curb, made a smooth U-turn and blended back into traffic. Hands clasped together, fingers laced, you and Joshua began the short trek back to your apartment, the lights gleaming warm yellow from the third floor.

“It’s almost 3 AM, Joshua. What are you still doing awake?” you asked, trekking into the lobby and boarding the elevator.

“Waiting for you to come home, of course,” he answered lightly, pressing the button for the third floor and turning a heart-warming smile towards you, “And studying for an exam I have in a couple of days.”

Joshua was training to be a certified nurse and was two months out from completing the program while also interning at one of the city’s best hospitals with a career ready for him once he graduated. People who knew you and Joshua- and about your weekend trysts with violence and underground criminal activity- believed that Joshua went into nursing so he could properly take care of your injuries after your fights. That assumption wasn’t true. Joshua already had plans to go into medicine and nursing when you met him as a teenager, but you will admit that his resolve to become a nurse strengthened itself once he found out about your pastime.

Perks of being you.

“So how was it?” he asked you once the elevator opened on your floor, guiding you slowly down the corridor.

“Good. Exciting, as always,” you replied, glancing at him, “You wanna know how much I made?”

He hummed for you to continue as you approached your apartment door. “Five grand,” you said, beaming proudly.

Joshua whistled low, pulling the key from his pocket and unlocking the door, “Impressive, baby…but that also means your opponent was bigger…doesn’t it?”

You shrugged, slowly walking past him and heading for the small, square kitchen table in the dining area where you sat down, “It could mean that. It could also mean that my opponent wasn’t shit and everyone knew it, so they bet on me to win anyway.”

“That’s never the case for you, babe. You and I both know that,” Joshua chuckled, setting your duffle bag down on the sofa and eyeing you closely, “Besides, if your opponent were easy, then you wouldn’t be limping, favoring your left side where I’m guessing you were hit multiple times, and you wouldn’t have any bruises at all let alone a ton on your face and a busted lip.”

Damn him and his keen nurse’s eye.

“Fine, you got me. He was a bear.”

“A real bear?” You stared at him flatly, feigning being unamused to which he laughed and moved to kneel in front of you. His eyes gazed fondly at you, roving over your injuries and falling more in love with your perfectly imperfect self. He stroked your thighs idly and tilted his head to the side, “Let’s get you showered and cleaned up so I can treat the wounds properly. Then off to bed, okay?”

“Okay,” you breathed, smiling into the kiss you pressed to your lips.

The shower was heavenly for your sore, aching body and you probably would have passed out right then and there had it not been for Joshua sitting in the bathroom with you to keep you company. Your fights always left you understandably exhausted and after a few incidents involving you falling asleep while standing up, Joshua made sure to be present until you were nice and snug in bed from then on.

The following medical checkup that ensued went rather quickly; there were no major cuts or swelling aside from your busted lip. His main concern were the bruises littering your torso, but he applied icy-hot and a cream to ease the pain. He was nothing but gentle and tender with you, kissing all of your injuries to make them better, whispering praises in your ear for being his strong, beautiful, ass-kicking girl.

Joshua took care of you. After all of the fighting was done, after you dragged yourself home, after facing a world that laughed in the face of a woman’s strength and then sneered when it couldn’t beat her down, he took care of you. He was the only reason that you still smiled and still believe that there was some good left in the world. You wanted to wake up in the mornings because of Joshua- to see the cute curl of his lips and listen to his bashful laugh that he tried to hide behind his hand.

Joshua was your world. You probably didn’t say it enough, but he was. You didn’t care about life without him; didn’t want a life without him. He was your everything. Your strength…and weakness.

“Good thing I have tomorrow off. I can properly take care of you,” he whispered after tucking you into bed beside him, the darkness blanketing the both of you and softening his already gentle voice.

“I thought you made plans to see the guys tomorrow,” you whispered, your eyes closing.

Joshua shrugged as best he could, considering his position, “I see them every other day. I’d much rather spend time with you.”

You smiled a sleepy smile that made him dizzy, it was so cute, “You take such good care of me.”

“Of course.” He kissed your fluttering eyelid, “It’s because I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” A sweet sigh of a whisper and you were drifting off, Joshua positively melting before following after you.

Everyone had an Achilles Heel- the thing that’ll be there undoing. Joshua was yours and you’re perfectly fine with that.

[trashfics]

Foxgloves ://: Chapter 3

Summary: Y/N was content living a normal life. Well, as normal as her life could be with the power to stun and cause death (in extreme conditions) with just a touch of her hand. Let’s just say gloves are a girl’s best friend, not diamonds. When the Winter Soldier surfaced, she was called in by Director Nick Fury to assist Captain America in fighting against a corrupt SHIELD. To the world, she is known as Foxgloves, the girl with poisons touch. To her team, she’s a mystery, coming out of nowhere, with her amazing combat skills and poisonous touch, to be recruited into their little group of super humans. Nobody knew of her origin, until Helmut Zemo’s plans consist of more than exposing the Winter Soldier as Howard and Martha Stark’s killer. Warnings: Mild cursing, CA: Civil War Spoilers. Word Count: 2,400k+ Last Chapter: [X] {“Buck! Stop! You’re gonna kill someone.” I hear Steve shout as he’s knocked down. James breaks the flooring next to the blonde’s head, pulling out a military style backpack. “I’m not gonna kill anyone.”}

James tosses the bag out of the open door, just as another soldier comes in through the window. I pull out one of my smaller guns and shoot him in the leg, causing him to fall onto the ground. His hands instinctively going to the fresh wound, while I pick up his gun. A new soldier perches himself outside of another window, only to be pushed away by Steve. James pushes me behind him as he sticks his metal hand up, blocking the bullets from a new soldier, eventually throwing a cinder block at him, launching him into the closet door.

Three gunshots pierce the door, knocking the hinges off. James punches the wall, sending the man behind it backwards. He takes on the first soldier who attempts to enter, while I take on the ones on the stairs. A sudden crash through the sun roof startles me, causing the soldier I was currently fighting to knock me down. He raises his gun at me, getting ready to shoot, but I’m faster. Jumping up, I rip off my glove and grab his exposed wrist, rendering him immobile. Slightly smirking to myself, I continue down the stairs, paralyzing as many soldiers as I can. ‘We don’t want to kill anyone,’ I remind myself, ‘just stun.’

Steve eventually makes it back to the action, snatching the walkie talkie from what looks like a middle-aged man, whom was calling for back up. ‘Oh, no honey, I think we’re good.’ The good ol’ captain jumps from stair to stair, trying to get down to where James and I are. The brunette sends a man over the railing, Steve reaching out and grabbing him. “Come on, man.” Chastises the blonde as James punches a soldier in the gut. ‘Ouch,’ I wince, ‘that’s defiantly got to hurt.’

James pulls the railing off, swinging down like Tarzan and into the door next to me. Steve clips two men together and sends one of them over the railing, the other keeping them from going splat. I stun a few of the men coming at James, as he jumps down the stair well. I rush down, dodging anyone coming at me. “Are you fucking crazy?!” I yell at nobody in particular, (*cough* James Buchanan *cough*). He grabs onto one of the railings, yelling at the strain in his arm and shoulder. Pulling himself over the bar and onto the landing, he busts through a door, me trailing in after him.

He takes a running start and jumps onto the roof of the building next door. “Sam, I’m going to need a lift.” I say, as a figure in a black and silver suit attacks James. “Who the fuck invited this dude?” I ask in disbelief as he pounces onto the super soldier. He stands up, claws protruding from his gloves. ‘Well, damn.’ I think, hearing Steve mentally scolding me for my language. Him and James start fighting, them both attacking and dodging each other. James gets kicked into one of the A/C units with an ‘oh shit’ face as the masked assailant digs his claws into the metal. “Any minute now Sam!” I say, starting to get impatient.

Steve comes up behind me, looking down to see what’s going on. I look over and see Sam coming into view. Without saying anything, Steve tugs me behind him, silently motioning for me to hold on. I place my arms around his neck and latch onto him like a koala. ‘If we weren’t close before, then we definitely are now.’

“Who the hell’s the other guy?” Questions Sam as Steve gets ready. “About to find out” replies the captain. He starts running and jumps off the balcony, almost making it to the rooftop before Sam swoops down and I jump onto his back. He starts flying towards the helicopter that’s shooting bullet after bullet at the men on the roof. “Sam put me down, they need my help.” I say, making sure to keep my ungloved hand away from any exposed skin. “You can join them later.” He grunts, kicking the tail and diving down towards the street.

Sam flies into the tunnel, trying to catch up to Steve. The GSF already in pursuit with our merry band of fugitives. “Sam, where are they?” I ask, scanning for a clue as to where they disappeared off to. “Over that way.” He says, nodding towards the broken barrier and car buildup.

As soon as Steve’s car comes into view, the masked man jumps towards Sam and grabs onto his leg, knocking me off in the process. I skid onto the asphalt, pain bursting throughout my side. Grunting, I get up and begin chasing after the two super soldiers. James sets off a bomb, causing rubble to block our path. But, before it does, Sam launches the Cat in the Mask past Steve and I and through the falling cement.

The German Special Forces eventually surround us, alarms blaring and lights flashing. Finally, the men stop and stand up, looking around at each other as I catch up and stand next to Steve.  Rhodey comes out of nowhere, ready to fire at either party. “Stand down, now.” He demands. Somebody shouts something in German, as I look around and take in the number of guns pointed at us.

“Congratulations, guys.” Spits out the older man, “You’re now criminals.” We are bombarded with shouting men, James being brought down to his knees and cuffed. Another man comes up and pulls my raised arms down and behind my back, slapping on a pair of handcuff and knocking my knees out from under me. The masked cat man finally ends his staring competition with Steve and takes off his mask, revealing himself to be T’Challa, the now king of Wakanda. “Your highness.”

We are later transported in a heavily armed car to somewhere in Berlin. James is in a specially designed tank that restricts his arms and legs. “So, you like cats?” asks Sam, breaking the suffocating silence. “Sam.” warns Steve. “What?” he says, defensively. “Dude shows up dressed like a cat, you don’t wanna know more?” I sigh, resting my head against the window, feeling a growing headache coming on.

“Your suit” Steve pauses, “it’s vibranium?” The new man turn his head slightly, debating on whether to respond. “The Black Panther has been the protector of Wakanda for generations. A mantle passed from warrior to warrior.” He answers, his accented voice being gravely. “And now, because your friend murdered my father I also wear the mantle of king. So, I ask you, as both warrior and king, how long do you think you can keep your friend safe from me?”

We are unloaded and freed of our bindings, James being hauled off by a fork lift. “Some people just have terrible trust issues.” I mutter as we walk towards Sharon and a short, greying man in an equally grey suit. “What’s gonna happen to him?” the worry was barely discernable in Steve’s voice, but still there. “Same thing that ought to happen to you. Psychological evaluation and extradition.” Replies the hobbit-like man.

“This is Everett Ross, Deputy Task Force Commander.” introduces Sharon. “What about a lawyer?” I ask, starting to get annoyed with being in the presence of the smug man. “Lawyer. That’s funny. See their weapons are placed in lockup. We’ll write you a receipt.” He nods at Sharon, as I clench my fists, resisting the urge to sock him in the face. “I better not look out the window and see anybody flying around in that.” Threatens Sam as a man walks past with his wings.

“You’ll be provided with an office, instead of a cell. Now, do me a favour, stay in it?” says Deputy Ross as he leads us towards wherever. “I don’t intend on going anywhere.” States T’challa. Natasha walks over, giving the three of us a look of disappointment. “For the record, this is what making things worse looks like.” “He’s alive.” states Steve as we enter the large, double doors.

Hearing the angry voice of Tony causes me to sigh. “No. Romania was not Accords-sanctioned. Colonel Rhodes is supervising cleanup.” Says Stark, pacing back and forth while on the phone. “Try not to break anything while we fix this.” Warns the Russian, leaving us to our own devices.

“Consequences? You bet there’ll be consequences.” Tony says, assuring whoever he was on the phone with. “Obviously, you can quote me on that,” he looks me dead in the eye, because I just said it. Anything else? Thank you, sir.” He hangs up the phone, stopping in front of Steve, Sam, and I.

“Consequences?” I ask, rolling my eyes. “Secretary Ross wants all three of you prosecuted. Had to give him something.” Says the tired man. “I’m not getting that shield back, am I?” chimes in Steve, causing me to elbow him the side. “Technically, it’s the government’s property.” Informs Natasha, walking side by side with Tony. “Wings, guns, and knives, too” she adds with a smirk. “That’s cold.” Comments Sam, shaking his head. “Warmer than jail.” Shoots back Tony.

I leave the boys on their own, in search of the bathroom, my headache getting stronger. ‘How does he not remember me?’ I ask myself. ‘I mean, sure, he may not remember me from back then but what about a few years ago, I was there when we fought in New York, I’m sure he’d remembered Natasha at least, and Sam.’ My mental rant is interrupted by me walking into a glass wall. I step back, rubbing my forehead a bit and look around at my surroundings.

“Where the hell am I?” I ask myself, confused by my current location. Noticing a rather pale man with glasses and a little bit of stubble enter the room, relief floods my system ‘He looks important; therefore, he probably works here.’

“Excuse me? Sir?” I call out, causing him to jump. I snicker a little while walking over to him. “Hi, um, do you have any idea how to get back to the main area?” Flashing him my signature smile, I stop in front of him. He just stairs at me for a second, probably thinking ‘Who the hell is this strange woman?’, before nodding and motioning for me to follow him.

Trying to start up a conversation, I ask “So, do you have an important meeting or something?” Rather than responding verbally, he just nods. Again. ‘Well, you’re a strange fellow, aren’t you?’  For the rest of the way, we walk in silence, since Mr. Important Business doesn’t feel like talking.  ‘Maybe he’s here for James’ I shudder, trying to send away the thoughts of what could possibly happen to him.

Making our way into the heavily crowded area, I send him a nod and a smile, he just reciprocates the nod. ‘It’s something at least.’ I turn around, felling a tap on my shoulder. “Get lost on your way to the bathroom?” laughs Sam. “There was a line.” I lie; the man already has enough dirt on me as is. “Oh really?” he says skeptically, “Then why were you walking with that guy?” I scoff, “Can two people not be in the same hallway at once?” “I mean, he seemed a little shady, Y/N” Sam points out, causing me to laugh. “Everyone seems shady to you, hun.”

I walk past him and over to Steve, who has been beckoning us into a room with glass walls. “What’s going on?” I ask, sensing the tension radiating of off Steve. “They’re about to start his psyche evaluation.” He says, motioning to the monitors outside of the room. Looking at the screens, I see James staring upwards, definitely not wanting to be here as much as any of us do, probably more.

Sharon walks in later, handing Sam a piece of paper. “The receipt for your gear.” He looks over it and starts to complain. “Bird costume? Come on.” Sharon slaps the back of one of the chairs and turns to him, saying “I didn’t write it.” I start to snicker, Steve giving me a look before returning his attention to the wall. Sharon presses a button, causing the screen to change to the one with James’ face.

“I’m not here to judge you. I just want to ask you a few questions.” Says the accented voice of the psychologist. “Do you know where you are, James? I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, James.” Looking up at the man sitting across from him, James responds in a small voice, “My name is Bucky.” Sighing, I sit down in one of the chairs, placing my elbows on my knees and head in my hands. ‘This isn’t going to end well’ I think, feeling the uneasiness in my stomach bubbling like boiling water.

“Why would the task force release the photo to being with?” Speaks up Steve, placing down the photo of “James” at the bombing. “Get the word out, involve as many eyes as we can?” guesses Sharon, stress evident in her features. “Right. It’s a good way to flush a guy out of hiding. Set off a bomb, get your picture taken. Get seven billion people looking for the Winter Soldier.” States Steve. “Are you suggesting someone framed him?” I ask, looking over at the tall blonde. “Steve, we looked for the guy for two years and found nothing.” Chimes Sam, attempting to be the voice of reason. “We didn’t bomb the UN. That turns a lot of heads.-“ Steve is cut off by Sharon saying, “Yeah, but that doesn’t guarantee that whoever framed him would get him. It guarantees that we would.” We all look back at the single monitor in our room, a feeling of dread washing over us. “Yeah.” Confirms Steve.

“Tell me, Bucky. You’ve seen a great deal, haven’t you?” Standing up, I come to stand in front of Steve and stare at the monitor. ‘That’s Mr. Important Business.’ “I don’t wanna talk about it.” “You fear that if you open your mouth, the horrors might never stop. Don’t worry. We only have to talk about one.” Taking in a sharp breath, my whole-body tenses. ‘What are you up to?’ Suddenly the power goes out, the red emergency lights flashing on. We all exchange looks before Sharon says “Sub-level five, East Wing.”

With that Steve, Sam, and I bolt out of the conference room. ‘James, oh, James, please be okay.’ Was currently repeating in my head like a mantra. As we run down an empty hallway, we see all different kinds of personnel, hopefully, knocked out on the floor. “Help me, help.” Looking towards the source of the voice, I pause as Steve walks towards him.

“Get up.” He commands, in his semi-captain voice. Grabbing him by the collar, Steve slams him against the wall. “Who are you? What do you want?” He questions. “To see an empire fall.”

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