#i want to hit him with a rubber mallet

[shadiational]

Why did i make this

[pawzcore]

im so fucking obsessed with sims 3 spamton

[pygmi-cygni]

wrath - santiago garcia

i am cooking on these holyy. lowkey proud of myself. I think i'll do an aftercare series next because not every fic has that and sometimes it's nice to have some fluff.

cw: hate (?) sex, darkish santi but dw everything is okay, enemies to enemies who fuck, banter, badassery gone wrong, riding, biting, degradation, mentions of injury and violence (pg description), kinda pwp

songs to listen to: caroline by artemas, you've been a bad girl by artemas...anything by artemas....

OKAY HOT TAKE I THINK SANTI WAS OSCAR'S HOTTEST ROLE. highkey a snack.

okay okay on with the show xox

The tension was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Fish and Will, the other two on your team, had been wise enough to take a separate Jeep, seeing the venomous look in Santi's eye.

A quiet rattling from the undercarriage over the rocky terrain was the only sound between you.

You held an ice pack to your chest, trying to soothe the burning ache. A rubber mallet to the sternum was a hard hit to take, and you'd only recently regained the ability to breathe. Trying to swallow air as quietly as you could, you shifted towards the window, determined not to look at your partner.

Santi hadn't said a word, jaw clenched sharp enough to cut diamond. The anger rolling off of him clouded the air; a mix of sweat, heat and loamy soil. An irony twinge made your skin crawl. Blood was still caked under your fingernails and flecked on his cheek.

The stakeout hadn't gone well. In fact, Murphy's law seemed to be the only rule in action out in the backwoods, because nothing had gone to plan. The bodyguards for your target had switched shifts, the numbers were wrong, the target came home early...in short, it was a bloodbath.

Fish and Will took the supply van, trundling along in front of the armored Jeep Pope was currently driving.

Guilt and anger roiled in your gut. Yes, you'd been reckless. yes, Santi had reason to be angry. Did you get out alive and with the cash? Also yes, so at this point you weren't sure why it was still an issue.

"There's more ice in the back," Santi's low rumble broke the silence. His gaze was still locked forward, tone giving no room for further conversation.

You nodded thanks, grabbing a new pack and throwing the melted one into the garbage bag. The cold bite made you hiss. Santi flicked his eyes to yours in the mirror, then back on the road.

"Grab the map."

Sighing through your nose, you complied, shoving the messily folded sheet at him. His hand stalled as he grabbed the paper, clenching hard enough to tear.

"Interesting," he growled, "you can listen."

You glared daggers. This was not the conversation you wanted to have right now. Don't engage, just leave him alone.

"About time you decided to act right."

okay, fuck you.

Shoving forwards to the passenger seat, you stuck your face as close as possible to Pope's fuming profile.

"I got out," you spat, "and I got out alive, and I got out with an extra 50k. I was gonna offer it to you, but-"

Santi revved the engine and swerved off the road, swearing in heated Spanish. You screamed, thrown against the door from the force of the vehicle. Shrubs and branches crunched under the heavy wheels, and you tumbled onto the dash, chest searing with pain.

Hands hooked under your arms and dragged you into the humid fog. You thrashed and wailed, choking on breath. A familiar tan palm slapped over your mouth, and you felt Pope's grip tighten around your bicep.

While you struggled to comprehend what the fuck just happened, Santiago brought your ear up to his mouth and seethed.

"Listen very closely," he said quietly. "I have put up with you for five weeks. Five. Cinco. I am going to give you five minutes to run as fast as you possibly fucking can until I drive off without you. Otherwise, I'll put a round through your skull. Comprende?"

You shivered and coughed, mind doing pirouettes. Where did this come from? No, you didn't like Pope, but he'd never...

"Wh-why?" you croaked around his hand. With an umph you were shoved to the mossy floor, scrabbling away from him. Santi stalked forwards, dark gaze heavy and strong.

"You don't listen. You don't shoot. you fight good, but you risked all of us for what, a moment of glory? Puta," he hissed, grabbing your jaw again.

His arms rippled under a sheen of sweat and dewy raindrops. You struggled to suck in a breath, the injury on your chest throbbing with every inhale.

"P-please don't," you stuttered, trying to stand. He shoved you down, broad palm strong against your chest. A defeated whimper slipped between your lips. Santi clicked his tongue. Mocking.

"Cry later, you've got some ground to cover."

With a shove, you were stumbling forwards into a loping run. The jungle terrain was unfamiliar but you plowed forwards. Sharp leaves whipped your cheeks, wet bark and sticky sap clinging to your already drenched clothes.

Pitter pat pitter pat pitter pat. You had five minutes. 180 steps a minute, that meant you had 900 steps before-

A loud crashing came behind you. He cheated. It had not been five minutes, and Santi was a lot faster. You sprinted hard, trying not to slip on the slick leaves.

With a huge leap, you crossed a small creek and crawled up the bank. A few seconds later you heard Santi splash through.

You weren't going to outrun him. Hide. You could hide. you were good at that; being quiet and still. There was enough mud and foliage caked on you to blend in with the shrubbery.

Trying to quell your shivering limbs, you crept beneath a rotting log, rutting out a small ditch to cower in.

The forest was quiet. Every sound you made sounded amplified. Your ears strained to pick up Santi's careful footsteps.

Trying to track a Marine, huh? Good fucking luck.

You settled lower and sniffled. Better just to accept it.

"You can come out now."

It stunned you to silence. You weren't expecting him to catch up so soon. Biting your lip, you shakily crawled out of your hiding spot, hands timidly raised to your ears.

Santi stood a few feet away, posture relaxed and wide. His powerful legs were strong and steady, arms folded over his chest. Fish. God, you should have called Fish.

Fear choking your throat, your shook as he walked closer, stopping nose to nose. Raw anger radiated off of him, almost in visible rays. You met his gaze bravely, but the tears bubbling gave away your terror.

Santi's hand moved to his waistband and you flinched reflexively. His hand came up to smack you and you barreled forwards, tackling him to the soggy jungle floor. Desperately, you clawed at his chest, trying to stave him off and get back to the car. He grabbed your ankle, yanking you back into his chest.

A splitting scream tore from your throat before he stuck a thumb in your mouth, efficiently gagging you.

"Stop it, st- shut it-" he growled, pinning your arms at your sides. You grunted furiously, kicking at his ankle. Santi swore again and hitched up so your feet flailed in the air.

"I'm not gonna shoot you," he spat, wrestling you against a tree, "would you fucking stay still chrissakes, stop hitting me." Your brain took a moment to catch up, after which you fell limp.

Relief coursed through your veins.

Santi breathed heavily. "Can you...jesus can you stop moving? I need to-"

"Drop your gun," you said as soon as he removed his hand.

"Wh...I don't have a gun." His eyes were genuinely perplexed.

You kneed up to his waist, connecting with the hardness there. "yes, you do."

He buckled, groaning. Bewildered, you watched him swallow a curse before it clicked.

"...Are you-"

"Shut up," he growled, before devouring your mouth.

Oxygen deprivation was getting to you. You went slack when his tongue pushed into your mouth, harsh and greedy. Santi's grip was bruising on your arms as he kept them pinned to your sides.

"Why," he panted between sucks, "do you have to be so fucking difficult-" a groan cut him off and he returned to your neck, biting and licking for dear life.

You huffed and whimpered, overwhelmed by his attention. He kissed you angrily, teeth gnashing and clicking. A tang of iron when you bit his lip made him moan, grinding up against you.

The sharp grain of the tree you were pressed against dug into your shoulder. Lust burning, you ground back against him, urging him to kiss lower. He complied, still growling obscenities as he migrated to your collarbones.

"You hah have got to s-stop," he groaned again, flexing his hips, "f-ffucking around."

Your hands, free from his punishing grip, fumbled with his zipper. Pope shoved up against the tree harder, shucking his jeans in one go. You yelped before his hand jammed down your pants, finding the wet patch on your panties. A muffled whine was cut off by his lips while he dug his thumb into your soft, waiting heat.

A guttural purr rumbled out of his still-bloody lips, pressed against your temple. You buried your face shamefully in his neck as he thrust his fingers roughly into you, tearing blinding heat through your spine. You wailed and bucked, trying to urge him to slow down.

His thick digits were dragging against your puffy walls, spreading slick over his hand. Santi felt his eyes cross with the feeling of your wonderfully tight folds fluttering. He gritted his teeth and curled harder, wanting to see the tears threating to fall.

You gave him his wish, shuddering back against the branches as a sudden wave crashed into you, wetness gushing as your cunt sucked desperately at his fingers. He stopped moving and you screamed, wanting to ride it out with some semblance of comfort.

"Don't be greedy," he growled, ripping his soaking fingers from your hole. You whined and wriggled in his tight grip. Santi scowled and nipped your jaw, shoving down his boxers.

The cool evening air tickled, sending gooseflesh down his legs. He stammered a sigh, yanking your hips down over him. You choked at the intrusion, his girth tearing at your walls.

"S-slow down," you pleaded, pushing against his firm chest, "hurts-"

Santi cooed menacingly, thrusting up as hard as he could go. Tears cascaded down your flushed cheeks as he began a punishing pace, the scrape of your tender flesh against the rough floor was music to his ears.

"Hush," he whispered in your ear, groping at your chest, "just hush." You mewled and hiccupped, hips rolling against your will. Burning pleasure twirled up your core as he humped against your spongy center, stroking just there oh-

As he felt your walls pulse and tighten, Pope pulled away, stifling a moan at the loss. Your wet warmth was addicting - but watching you struggle was so much more satisfying. His eyes were heavy-lidded and drunk on the power, seeing your gaze shift from defiant to submissive.

"There we go," he breathed, reaching down to massage at your clit. You whined and leaned forwards, sucking his jaw into your mouth. "Feels better now that you listen, huh? See, see, you don't have to fight m-me ah ohffuck," he whined high and sharp when you yanked his hips forward into yours, crushing his cock between you.

Santi stumbled as you rutted hard, grinding against his weeping length. Stammering and swearing, he grappled for the upper hand, but you pressed him down firmly. Your shirt was rucked high, rosy nipples bouncing with every stroke. You refused to take him inside, face set as you chased a high.

He breathed hard, trying to stave off the rollicking pleasure singing through his veins.

"Stop," he growled, "S-stop, be gahhh," he howled when you reached down and squeezed his balls, making his thighs twitch and seize violently.

"Doesn't feel good, does it," you spat, eyes hazy and chest heaving. You looked desperately beautiful atop him, and Santi felt a strong surge coming through his length.

Your wet heat slid quickly against him, slick dripping onto his stomach. The smell of musk wafted up, adding to the tantalizing taste of you on his lips. Twigs and brambles dug into his back. Pope had stopped fighting, submitting entirely to your strong pace.

Short, stuttering whines lilted from your slack pout as you got closer. He grabbed your hips, grinding you hard on his needy tip. You sighed with pleasure and began rubbing your clit furiously, the rosy, stiff bud shining like a pearl in your velvety folds.

He was in heaven. You shuddered and moaned, folds fluttering and gushing hard over him. Santi bucked at the feeling of your climax, finishing quickly over his abs. You kept thrusting, pleasure overriding your mind.

"More," you breathed, digging your heels into the soft soil, "oh Santi please."

He couldn't deny that, though every nerve was screaming in overstimulation. You continued to wreck him on the jungle floor, simmering in lustful heat.

Later he crawled back to the Jeep, a half-conscious you slung over his shoulders. Fish and Will were waiting, but made no comment at your kiss-bitten neck and Santi's lust-blown eyes.

@krakenkitty @ominoose @bulletgoth @my-secret-shame-but-fanfiction @justsomeonecalledemma

@iolaussharpe-24 @rosegnome @twwcs @heeheehoohoofictimr

@steven-grants-world @ael-xander @silvernight-m @to-be-a-sunshine

comment to join!

[commsroom]

Good luck with the troubles!!!! In the name of distracting you, Minkowski is taking Eiffel to a musical. What one would he most enjoy? Or, if you want to get fancy with it, what one is Minkowski most likely to take him to?

thank you!! hm. i don't know much about musicals, so i wasn't sure i'd have an answer, but... i think i do? a couple of options:

minkowski would be sentimental about their shared les mis reference, and probably disappointed-but-not-surprised eiffel only saw the movie, so that's an option. i think he'd be pretty neutral about it / not very enthusiastic about going. if he doesn't have his memories, she'd be too embarrassed to explain why that was her suggestion. if he does, she'd prompt him and he'd be like, oh, yeah, right! i forgot. i mean, i forgot, but you know what i mean. and for a second she'd fantasize about hitting him over the head with a large rubber mallet.

if minkowski tried to pick a musical she thought eiffel would like... maybe the music man? which he's also probably seen the movie version of. (he's probably seen quite a few older movie musicals for the same reason he's seen lots of old movies in general: they were on tv, and it was that or going to bed.) he'd enjoy it well enough, but would still tell her the simpsons did it better.

a musical eiffel would actually like: ... rock of ages. minkowski would not consider it and does not think it counts.

[ritualcaster]

If i was a lawyer i say noting but bullshit the whole time then plead insanity:

"Your honor my client is chill like that"

"Your honor... can i call you Hazel? *biting back tears* (The judge is not named hazel.)"

"Eenie meenie minny moe"

"Your honor literally wadr-r-r-r-r i do"

"Your honor you aren't acting in the christmas spirit right now."

"Your honor can i borrow the hammer? What? Nothing nvm im sorry"

"Your honor can i get uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh- a reduced sentence.... uhhhhhhhhhhhhhh my merianda rights.... uhhhhhhhhh and 12 years community service for every member in the jury tonight?"

"Your honor shut the front door"

"Your honor i think my client just needs a nap"

"Sorry, your honor, i was a little hungy at the time. Needed a snickers perchance"

"Your honor nobody out-pizzas the hut."

"Your honor i think electro-shock therapy would be effective here."

"Your honor, could you repeat that? Huh? Sorry, your honor..... come again? What? Huh??"

"Your honor, are you free friday night?"

"Your honor, i think you need some time in your room."

"Your honor i want a divorce"

"*pulls home depot rubber mallet out of my pocket* *hits it against my coaster, which promptly shatters* COURT ADJOURNED!"

"Your honor, doctor who?"

"Your hon- *makes a mad dash for the doors and runs out of the building*"

"My honor, *holds my left eye* i must restore, my honor...."

"Your honor my client was possesed by spirits at the time and place of the crime"

"Your honor,it wasn't me, it was HIM!! *points at my client*"

"Your honor, are you on your period right now?

"OBJECTION!! nuh nuh!!"

"Your honor if my client is guilty, why aren't his pants on fire?"

"Your honor surely you won't see this man hanged."

"Your honor, NANANANNANA I CANT HEAR YOU!!"

"Your honor, i believe the 8 car pile-up was a divine act of god."

"Your honor i bring the last oracle of delphi to the stand."

"Your honor, you werent even there."

"CUTT!! your honor your doing this all wrong, your line was "I sentence the defendant to life in prison"."

[sundays-mutt]

astarion is such a funny character to me because i do have a lot of fic ideas for him (because i understand him Especially. Unfortunately) but i just refuse to write any of those ideas. i have to get over this but i just know the day i post something full for him and it immediately gets more attention than my wyll fics ill want to hit him with a rubber mallet

[eriquin]

The Trolley Problem, Part 21

Steve is having trouble keeping it all together, so Tommy takes the lead.

ETA: Looks like I posted this at the beginning of December and just didn't make a note of it. And then in trying to correct for it, I deleted the old one. Good job, self.

This is basically the same chapter and I'll post part 22 soon.

(master post)

Carol latched onto Tommy’s arm. He was shaking. They were both shaking. Steve was on the ground having a full-blown breakdown and there were monsters in the woods. “Tommy, what do we do?” she asked.

Tommy took a deep breath and looked around. “We get inside,” he said. There weren’t any other houses within easy view, but Steve screaming like that could still bring someone over to investigate. “We get everyone inside.”

Between the two of them, with some help from the little kid, they managed to get Steve back on his feet and into the house. Tommy scooped up the bat that Steve had dropped and held it out, ready to use it. It was a creepy piece of work, with shiny nails sticking out at every angle, but it looked like it would do the job if the monster came back.

Once inside the house, Steve stumbled into the middle of the living room and sat down on the floor. He had stopped screaming but he still looked out of it, and there was blood running down his arm from the cut on his hand. “Okay,” Tommy said. “Carol, you get him patched up. Little boy—”

“Will,” the boy said. “My name’s Will.”

“Yeah, Will. Right. Do you have bandages and stuff?”

Will froze for a second, then nodded. He took off down the hall and came back with his arms full of bandaids and gauze and stuff. Carol sat down in front of Steve and started trying to talk him into showing her his hand. Tommy stood at the front door and kept watch. 

He surveyed the damage to the front yard. Carol’s driving stunt had dug a couple of wheel-shaped trenches into the grass and pulled down the laundry line, but she hadn’t hit anything big. Steve’s BMW was parked just off the driveway. Both vehicles had their lights on and doors flung open. Steve’s engine was still running.

“Hey, kid? I mean, Will?” Tommy asked. The boy looked up. “Come here.” He got up and did as he was told. 

Tommy pointed out the truck and the car. “I’m gonna go out there and turn those off so they don’t run down their batteries, in case we have to get away fast, okay? But, uh...”

“I’ll keep watch,” Will said. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a flashlight. “I’ll yell if I see it.”

“Good man,” Tommy said, ruffling his hair. 

It took a couple of minutes to put everything right, because Tommy wanted to make sure that there was light shining on his whole path. He backed the truck up closer to the front door of the house, where it would be ready to take off if they needed to run. He went to check on the beamer next. There was a pile of hunting stuff in the trunk: bear traps and stakes and fishing wire and a big rubber mallet. Everything looked new. It wasn’t something that would’ve come from the Harringtons. Steve must have gone out to get all that stuff specifically.

He glanced back at the house. Will was still in the door, looking back and forth between him and the woods. The whole place felt tense and creepy. Tommy shut the trunk and the car doors and ran back. “How’s he doing?” he asked. 

Carol was still on the floor with Steve. She had gotten his hand wrapped up tight, but there was still a lot of blood. “He needs stitches,” she said, “and he is freaked out.” 

“Yeah, join the fucking club,” Tommy said. He crouched down next to Steve and snapped his fingers in his face. “Harrington, come on man. Get your head in the game.”

Will came out of one of the back rooms with a glass of water. He pressed it into Carol’s hand. “Here,” he said. “Maybe this will help.” 

“Yeah, because I’m going to throw it in his face if he doesn’t tell us something useful,” Tommy said. He got up and started to pace as Carol tried to get Steve to drink some of the water. 

“Come on, Stevie,” she said, trying to hide how scared she sounded. “Tommy, maybe we should call the cops.”

“No,” Steve said. He pushed the water back and blinked a few times. “No cops.”

“Oh, he speaks!” Tommy threw his hands up. “Welcome back to the land of the living, Harrington.” 

Carol hissed. “Jesus, Tommy.” 

But Steve was pushing himself up to his feet. He looked unsteady. Carol got up as well and made him keep his injured hand up high. Steve ignored her to glare at Tommy. “The cops can’t help,” he said. 

Tommy scoffed. “Yeah, no shit,” he said. “They wouldn’t believe us anyway. That was some kind of fucking monster, right?” 

“The demogorgon,” Will said in a tiny, solemn voice. 

“What the hell is the demogorgon?” Carol asked. 

“It’s something from his game,” Steve said. “He was just at the Wheeler’s house and they were going to fight one in the game, but then they had to stop.”

Will looked completely shocked. “Yeah,” he said. “How did you know that?”

Steve’s shoulders sagged. He stumbled past Carol and Tommy to the big armchair on the other side of the room and sat down. “Because I’ve lived it before,” he said. “I’ve done all this before, and I remember it.” 

It took Steve a moment to get his head together, but then he told them about how he’d woken up one day in October with the knowledge of a bunch of fucked up things that were about to happen in Hawkins. His voice was shaky as he spoke. Tommy couldn’t help but pace as he listened. Will looked fascinated, and Carol kept biting her nails. She moved to sit on the couch next to Will and stare out of the front window. 

“So we came here to stop Will from getting kidnapped by a monster,” Steve said at the end of his story. “And it just... I fucked up. It got Eddie instead.” His voice broke at the end and he snapped his jaw shut. He looked like he was going to start crying again.

Tommy rubbed his hand over his face and let out a laugh that was just on the edge of hysterical. “Yeah, this is just so fucking weird. Why Munson of all people? Why didn’t you just tell me? I would’ve helped.”

Steve shook his head and didn’t bother looking up. “You wouldn’t have believed me,” he said. “You would’ve just called me crazy.” 

“Oh, but Munson believed you?” Tommy scoffed. “I guess if you have something freaky happen, you go to the school freak—”

Steve was back on his feet so fast that Carol flinched. He grabbed Tommy by the collar and hauled him up to his face. Tommy gasped and had to go up on his tiptoes to keep the shirt from strangling him. “Do not call him that,” Steve said, glaring at him. “The word freak does not leave your lips again. Understand, Hagan?” 

This was a different Steve from the one he’d grown up with. Old Steve could get angry, but he’d hide it behind biting sarcasm and mean quips. He didn’t threaten and he didn’t like to fight. This Steve had gone from distraught to cold and serious in the space of a second. He looked ready to rip something apart, and Tommy was the only thing catching his attention. 

Tommy nervously nodded and patted his hand. “Yeah. Yeah, sorry man.”

Steve dropped him, and Tommy took a quick step back. “What are you even fucking doing here, Hagan?” he asked. He looked over at Carol. “Where did you two come from?”

Carol sighed and got up, going over to stand next to Tommy and face Steve. “We followed you,” she said. “It was my idea.” 

“What?” Steve looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“You said you were busy tonight, so we tailed you,” Tommy said. “We just drove around until we saw your beamer and then parked a block away and kept watch.”

“Yeah, then Munson showed up and joined you and we were, like, totally confused,” Carol said. “We thought it was a drug thing, but you guys kept talking. Then we followed you again when you drove off with him still in the car.” 

Tommy nodded. “It was pretty easy to follow you, ‘cause you were going super slow. We just hung back, and you were the only car on the road. But then, going through the woods—”

Carol gestured at Will. “We saw Will fall off his bike, and there was that weird thing in the road following him, and you booked it so we just... We followed you.” 

Steve still looked confused. “But why?” he asked. “Why did you follow me in the first place?”

“Harrington, you have been acting like a complete pod person!” Carol put her hands on her hips and huffed.  “What were we supposed to do? Just let it go? No fucking way.” 

Steve looked completely stunned by this and went back to sitting on the armchair. Carol followed him and grabbed his hand.

“You need to keep this elevated, dumbass,” she said, yanking it up to his shoulder. “Above the heart. Don’t you know anything?” 

He looked up at her, and then over at Tommy. “You guys... Shit, you could’ve been...” 

“You should’ve told us,” Tommy said. “At least tried to.” 

Carol sighed and shook her head. “He’s right, though. We would’ve thought he was crazy.”

“I didn’t actually tell Eddie the truth until tonight,” Steve said quietly. Will got up from the couch and moved closer, sitting at the foot of the chair so he could listen in. “I told him it was a story so I could get him to help me plan how to fight the monster. He had all these great ideas... Then I told him it was real, and he said I was delusional.” 

“But he still helped,” Will said. His voice was bright, a complete contrast to the rest of them. “He showed up with a big sword, like a knight out of a story.” 

Steve winced and nodded. “Yeah,” he said, sounding like he was choking up again. “But I brought him here and now he’s gone. And he’s... he might be...” 

Tommy shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “When did you even become friends with the—with Munson, anyway?” he asked. “Are you two buddies in the future or something?”

“No, it...” Steve slumped back in the chair, only keeping his hand up because Carol was holding onto his arm. “God, it’s so complicated. This thing isn’t just one thing. It’s like a whole world of horror and it keeps coming back. It’s all interconnected. The last time around, it killed a girl in front of him and he got accused of being a murderer, and then we were running around trying to clear his name and keep more people from dying and... Christ. We failed. A bunch of people died. Eddie died. There were monsters everywhere.” His eyes slipped closed and he covered his face with his good hand. 

"Shit," Tommy muttered. He couldn't get over the idea of Steve keeping that kind of thing a secret. "But... Steve. You could've told us..."

Carol put her hand on his wrist. "Not now, Tom." She used the tone that meant he was focusing on something too much. He nodded and covered his mouth to stop from talking about it more. He and Carol would talk it over later.

[murder-and-maryjane]

Did You Know🤔

Arthur Gary Bishop (September 29, 1952 – June 10, 1988) was an American convicted sex offender and serial killer. In 1983, as a result of a routine police investigation, he confessed to the murders of five young boys between 1979 and 1983.

Bishop killed his first victim, a four-year-old named Alonzo Daniels, on October 14, 1979. He lured the boy from the courtyard of his apartment complex to his own apartment with the promise of free candy. After attempting to sexually assault Daniels, Bishop took him to the bathroom, hit him on the head with a hammer, and drowned him in the bathtub. He fondled the boy's dead body and mutilated his genitals. He put Daniels into a box and carried him out, walking past the boy's mother, who was frantically calling her son's name. He then buried the body in Cedar Valley. Bishop relived the experience in the following months by buying and killing puppies, stating, "It was so stimulating. A puppy whines just like Alonzo did. I would get frustrated at the whining. I would hit them with hammers or drown them or strangle them."

Bishop molested a young boy, later known by the pseudonym "John," using money and toys to ensure John's compliance. On November 8, 1980, John introduced Bishop to 11-year-old Kim Petersen at a roller-skating rink. At Biship's request, John agreed to contact Petersen on the pretext of buying a pair of roller skates that Petersen was trying to sell, all so Bishop could obtain photographs of Peterson. When Bishop and John called Petersen, Bishop took the phone and asked Peterson to meet Bishop and John at a pool parlor. Bishop asked Peterson to go out to Cedar Valley and hunt rabbits. Peterson said yes, and after convincing him to take photos in the car, they got out and started walking. Bishop, walking behind Petersen, shot Peterson in the back with a .38 caliber revolver. Petersen began crying and Bishop shot him twice more in the head. Bishop molested Peterson's corpse, mutilated him in a fit of anger, and buried him, close to the body of Alonzo Daniels. Law enforcement authorities routinely questioned Bishop, but Bishop was not considered a suspect in Petersen's disappearance. Witnesses described the man Petersen had talked with at the roller-skating rink as white, aged 25–35, around 200 pounds, and with dark hair.

On October 20, 1981, Bishop lured 4-year-old Danny Davis from a supermarket to his home half a block away. After playing with toys at Bishop's house, Davis became bored and started to cry. Concerned about the noise, Bishop put his hand over the boy's nose and mouth and suffocated him. Some other boys were coming over to Bishop's house, so he put the body in a couple of garbage bags and placed it in the corner of the kitchen. The next morning, after breakfast, Bishop took the body to Cedar Valley. Davis is the only murder victim that Bishop did not molest. Several shoppers recalled a smiling man standing near the child but could only give vague descriptions of his appearance. Police launched one of the biggest searches in Salt Lake County history. Teams of searchers scoured neighborhoods, divers dredged ponds and lakes, shoppers at the supermarket where Davis vanished agreed to undergo hypnosis to dislodge greater details of the abductor, fliers were printed offering a $20,000 reward, and the FBI were contacted, but were unable to find any trace of the boy.

After murdering Danny Davis, Bishop vowed to never do it again. However, almost two years later, on June 22, 1983, Bishop abducted 6-year-old Troy Ward while the boy was waiting on the corner near his home for his mother to return from the store with ice cream and cake; it was his sixth birthday. Bishop, now using the alias Roger Downs, took Ward to his bungalow and asked if he wanted to play a game. Ward said yes, and Bishop handcuffed him, tied him between two pillars in his basement, and pulled his pants down. When Ward began to cry, Bishop hit him with a rubber mallet until he was silent. Bishop put Ward's body in a trash bag and tossed it into a stream in Big Cottonwood Canyon, thinking it would be easier than burying another body in the desert.

One month later, on July 14, 1983, 13-year-old Graeme Cunningham was set to go on a trip to California with a friend and his father: "John" and Roger Downs (Arthur Bishop). After Bishop picked up Cunningham, he tricked the teenager into going back to his home to pick up some marijuana to sell for cash. Bishop asked if Cunningham would pose for some photos, to which he agreed, in exchange for a skateboard. Bishop was afraid Cunningham would tell, so he hit Cunningham in the head twice with a hammer. He took Cunningham to the bathroom, filled the tub, and drowned him. He disposed of the body the same way he did Ward's. Two days later, "John" and Bishop went to California.

Local police looked into their past reports and found that Bishop (Roger Downs) lived in the vicinity of four of the abductions and knew the fifth child's parents. Police brought him in for questioning on the pretext of his assisting officers with their inquiries into Graeme Cunningham's disappearance. Feeling the pressure of the interrogation, Bishop told detectives he wanted to show them something at his house. When they arrived, they found more than 300 photos of young boys, some placed in a white wedding album, and 125 pictures of naked boys cut out from magazines. Police were able to identify and interview 21 boys he photographed and molested, but Bishop said that their estimate was low and to "double or triple" that amount for a more accurate total. Back at the station, police managed to obtain Downs's real name and eventually got him to confess to all five murders. The confession lasted less than an hour, after which Bishop led the police to the graves in Cedar Valley.

[the-firebird69]

There's a huge number of people that will enjoy this you take these trumps for example and you superimpose the bug and you translate what they're saying to each other you're going to see that it's almost the same

We have several announcements

-we have several presales agreements that we are signing tomorrow and we are purchasing companies and one of them is Asheville pharmaceutical Astro not Asheville and it is a decent sized company and it is yes the one with the pyramid in westborough and they're one of the major offenders who made these antacid pills and they're poisoning our son and they're getting killed because they had him on them and they're going after them here in Charlotte county yesterday there was an evacuation and last night and 20% left about 10% left today and those are old timers they're generals Colonel sergeants lieutenants and a lot of generals probably 20% of them and about five regionts all territories that you're losing and they're leaving and they're not going to their territories they're trying to secure new areas and make deals and they don't want to come back here they say you're losers and you are and they want to get him out of here and away from you and we don't mind them doing that they're like Terry cheesman she can be a real bear but she also is nowhere near as bad as Trump he's a severe dick he's really bad and her son is Sean's cake got along most of the time he said it's just like the family once a year we have a blowout nothing to worry about I hope he said no I said good she do some fun stuff so we don't forget he said that's cool so you started doing events and stuff and you're bringing Sean along and he's noticing that you're kind of protecting him and he started to feel odd how come this guy is protecting me and he's all alone and he noticed something else he's forced to do the work. So you have a good time and Hera was with you and she messed with you on purpose and she has a plan and says it too he planned my life I'm planning his and it's working and she's got a lot of ideas all he wants to know is what kind of cabinets in the kitchen cuz he can't figure it out and she said you put Cherry over that belongs in the living room and she's saying not white not Brown and not blue so she's going to think of it Ash no redwood probably not not pine stainless steel maybe LOL she likes it cuz it can clean easy so he says we can advance it and boss emboss it cuz she says okay why not just say stamp it so she's going to try and figure out how to stamp it and he says you can make a mold of something really hard like concrete and then make a mold of the mold and you can line them up and jam them together but you have to press them something like that and she gets it too and that's how you can do it I'm moving on the same thing I might not do it either okay I'll see you see make a mold or something and then you press it into the mirror image of the mold that's what you meant that's what you meant so she thinks it's funny cuz that's how it is and so she's going to try and do it and she says what do I press it with and he says you have to be real careful not to hurt yourself but you just stack weights up on it and then you can try and hit it with a rubber mallet just a little vibration you know it's going to take a lot of weight though on stainless steel so you trying on a piece she says she doesn't have anything to experiment on oh come on well you have to try a little piece she's going to do that she wouldn't have time for you either she doesn't have concrete I have an epoxy no epoxy glue maybe. Requires a lot of weight with stainless. So she gets that so she's going to wait for it and hopefully someone can get it that kind of stuff and she understands that so I'd like to go for a bike ride see how hard it is on my ass. There's a whole bunch of things happening and she's happy we're talking to her and you told you it would you're happy she's came she came by.

-30% of evacuated that were here two days ago and that's more lock in general that's all more luck and that's out of the total population of them in Florida. 10% more are going to probably evacuate tonight that's a lot they are contemplating leaving early others are seeing that they're leaving and we'll join them these people have areas that are weakening they're not in the midwest those people are mostly left or close to their head guys are out and the others are an assignment and it's not the upper Midwest areas of the world we're talking about South America and areas like the Middle East car caucuses southern Asia and even the islands they're leaving because New Zealand is almost out and Australia is 35% out and people who are ruling there are trying to find areas to be the South and the West are full no they're going there and developing and getting things going they know about the crabs and they wanted your ships but they'll probably can't and they have to come up with a strategy to try and make it work actually in South America is evacuating yes they're losing there and with them comes these pseudo empire. Right now if you think about it the only areas that are left will be a smaller portion of Russia southern Europe Europe Asia India Pakistan and that's about it now northern Europe they're pretty much not there the cock caucuses there emptying out now and the Middle East they're going to try and stay there and it's a nightmare everyday Northern Africa there's a horde of them attacking everyday and Northern South America so they're attacking and they'll probably get beat Asia they have not as many as he used to it's still a bunch of people I mean they're really not doing that well in the United States they have some areas they have the South and the West and they're holding like 90% of it but Australia is still stronger but still I'm more of the warlock will evacuate tonight 10% more that'll be 40% and there are other areas falling on New Zealand tonight may go down to 35% so another 5% might evacuate in Australia might go down to 60% and that would make 10%, it really that is awful and there's some things going on in Russia they're going to these ship sites and they do have information from the clones and they are fighting the clones they'll be gone soon all of them they're coming out of the ships and they're going to fight they're going after the clones and with gusto and in Russia. And there are about five ships there and two of them are about a thousand miles and they can't resist and they can't resist thinking that his clans there and all that stuff and they're moving out and they're going to be out of there in a couple days or less and we'll have them out of Europe the ships there are superb and high tech and they know it some of them and Northern Europe same thing the caucuses there is a few big ones they're 500s they're about 10 and they're all solid and they're part of the Phoenix project. And in Asia there are several really big ones I don't think they do they don't know how to open it but they're going after the clones we think the Eastern hemisphere will be clear of them in a few days because they are smaller they only have 12% off Island of the population and that's the macro lock Mac morlock and they're taking like 2% a day but now it's up to about 4 or 5% and then that's right in a couple days it's going to be over we going to get to some stuff but we're going to post

Thor Freya

Olympus

[theresa-of-liechtenstein]

tell me a dudebro is waiting for me to feed him something he should be able to analyze himself without telling me he is waiting for me to feed him something he should be able to analyze himself

[kitkat1003]

The End

‘The final episode has aired.  The movie has been filmed. They’re done.  And Yakko has never been more terrified.

(Or, the author thinks about the implications of the word “reanimated”, the use of a grave in the new intro as a place for the Warners to pop out of, the fact that the Warners had 0 clue about the last 22 years, and the abrupt nature of the 1993 show’s finale)

@asilcorner the ending got me shook

Quick note, uh, I don’t usually put trigger warnings, but this a pretty distressing fic, I think moreso than my usual?  So like....buckle up.

They’re running as the slideshow rolls, as the other characters disappear one by one.  The studio isn’t expecting the side characters to come back, so they can go on with their lives, however boring they are without filming, but them?  The Warners are, evidently, too chaotic and unpredictable to be allowed to stick around.  And since keeping them locked up in the water tower didn’t really work, and the idea of a reboot or even a continuation seems slim to none, they’re being....

What did the executives say?  Oh, right.  Put down.

“C’mon, c’mon!” Yakko yells behind him.  He has longer legs, so he can run faster, and his siblings are lagging.  He can hear the guards coming closer-it’s been outsourced, it’s not Ralph or Dr.Scratchansniff or Hello Nurse, it’s large men in scary outfits and nets and tasers and batons-and so he slows down, grabs his siblings by the scruffs of their necks, and keeps running.

“They’re gonna kill us!” Dot all but shrieks, and he can feel her terror, and he’s just as scared.  He doesn’t know how this whole suspended animation thing goes, but it sounds a lot like death and he doesn’t like it one bit.

“Not on my watch,” he replies, hoping he sounds braver and more sure than he is.

Wakko tosses a few sticks of dynamite over his shoulder to slow their chasers down, and they weave through the studio towards the exit and out into the city.  If they lay low for a few days, they can sneak back into their tower and hole up there for as long as they need.  They’ve gotten used to it.  It’s home.  They can stay.  It’ll be fine.

Wakko whimpers, quietly.  He’s curled up as tight as he can, knees hidden in his sweater as Yakko holds him close.  Dot is much the same.  Her flower has lost its petals in the mad dash to escape, but she doesn’t bother to complain.

Yakko can hardly breathe, he’s been running so fast, but adrenaline keeps him going.  He can’t let them get his siblings, he can’t let his siblings get taken, get hurt.  He’s their big brother.

“It’s gonna be okay,” He gasps out between breaths, between strides.  “We got ‘em beat.  They’ve never messed with the Warners before, they can’t handle us,” The world can’t, that’s why they’re being thrown away, permanently.

“Uh, I don’t think the dynamite worked,” Wakko pipes up, and Yakko hazards a look behind him and nearly trips in terror.  They’re so close!  

“Try some more!  I can’t reach into my hammerspace right now!” Wakko throws road tacks, the ones that stop cars, and he throws oil and a match, and grease, but the apparent task force hired just gets through obstacle after obstacle as if it were nothing.

Yakko gives them the what for, ducking around a corner at the last second to look like he was going towards another corner, and he doesn’t even allow himself to breathe, so quiet it’s chilling, but he hears a shuffle from the side away from the street they were running on.

“Gotcha,” He hears, and Dot screams, and they’re somehow in the alleyway, and he runs across the street with utter abandon, too scared to think, and suddenly they’re at a dead end.

“Shoot-uh-I-,” He can see the men running across the street after them, and so he jumps, aiming for the rooftop.

He gets yanked down by his tail, and lets out a cry of pain, kicking the hand off of him as all three of them tumble to the asphalt and he loses purchase of his sibs.  He scrambles to his feet, pushing Wakko and Dot behind him and facing the monsters that have been hired to hurt his family with a growl.  His tail aches.  

Yakko isn’t a fighter, not by a mile.  He isn’t that strong, isn’t that talented, in that regard.  He has his words, but that isn’t useful right now.  

He pulls out a mallet, the largest one he can muster, and holds it up high.

“Stay back,” he can feel Dot and Wakko trembling, they’re clinging to his legs.  The men are wreathed in shadows so he can’t see their faces, and it adds to the mounting fear and helplessness.  “Or-Or I’ll use this!”

They come closer.  Yakko’s hands shake.

“I’m warning you!” He shouts, stronger than he feels.  “Not one more step!” 

They come closer.  He swings.

An a cuff clicks around his wrist, and the mallet vanishes.

“What-,” and he’s yanked forward, held back as they close in on Wakko and Dot.  “No!  Let go!” He kicks and writhes, but he can’t get anything to appear.  The cuff on his wrist hums a noxious green, and he stares at it for a second before continuing to struggle.

“Toon power cancelling cuffs,” The apparent leader says, from behind him.  “We don’t use em too often because they don’t work for forever, since you can’t really stop a toon from being a toon for too long, but they’ll work long enough for this job.”

“NO!” Yakko screams.  Wakko is swinging a bat around, pushing Dot behind him despite her protests.  She pulls out a weapon too, her mace, and holds it in trembling hands.

“Don’t take them-just take me!  I’ll go quiet, they can hide out in the water tower!  They’ll be good, please, no one will know!  You can say you lost them, you can-please-don’t!” He’s begging.  He can’t let this happen to them.  It doesn’t matter if it’s him, they’re what matters.  He needs them to be safe.

“Yakko, shut up!” Dot shouts back, and she sounds furious.  Her glare softens with fear as she glances between the many adults looming over them.

They’re outnumbered.  Their eldest has been caught.  Wakko keeps swinging.

The men trip grab the bat in one hand and yank Wakko forward, and he stumbles and falls.  They pick him up by his ears and slap a cuff on him, and while Wakko continues to kick and squirm but not being able to access your toon powers is draining.  Yakko is tired, but he refuses to quit now.

“Dot, run!” He shouts, but she looks like a deer in the headlights, frozen and surrounded. She swings the mace and lets go, jumping up as the men stumble back from it, but halfway up they hit her with something.  A rubber bullet?  For a moment, he thinks she was actually shot, but there’s no blood even when she screams and drops to the ground.

“Stop!” Yakko and Wakko shout, but they cuff her before she even has a chance to get up, and they throw her over their shoulder.

“We got them,” Someone says into a walkie talkie.  Yakko kicks them where it hurts, and scrambles to grab his sibs again, biting and scratching.  “Permission to terminate?”

Something in Yakko snaps, and suddenly he can’t think.  The thoughts and world have gone into slow motion, images like flashes that he doesn’t have the time to decipher.  He’s moving fast, but it feels so slow.

He doesn’t hear the answer.  He’s running towards blue and red, and pink, and there’s a hand on his shoulder and he’s screaming their names and they’re all crying and there’s a pinch on his neck as something pierces through skin and then-

Nothing.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

He wakes up with a scream on his lips and is enveloped into a hug before he’s fully conscious.

“It’s okay, I’m so sorry, it’s okay,” He knows that voice.  Clarity is slow coming, but Yakko can sparse that out.

“Spielberg?” he manages.  His mouth feels like it’s filled with cotton balls, and his vision comes into focus on a much older Steven Spielberg.

“Yakko, I’m sorry,” he says.  “I wanted them to keep you in the tower, but they were resolute.  The best I could get was suspended animation,” He gestures to the room they’re in, and Yakko sees two toon sized tubes filled with some kind of liquid, with his siblings in them.  They look different.  Remodeled.  He looks down at himself.  The art style has changed.  They’ve changed.  How?

“What...?” He can’t find the words.  Not yet.  They’re coming back to him slowly.

“It’s death...but not quite.  I was hoping for a reboot.  You guys are getting your show back!” he smiles at Yakko, like he expects Yakko to be overjoyed, but Yakko just stares.

Suspended Animation.  Death, but not quite.

He let his siblings get this.

“I’m telling you, because I figured these two would take it better from you than me,” Spielberg points a thumb at Wakko and Dot.  “I’ll wake them up now for your reunion.”

And Yakko wants to cry.  He wants to rage.  He wants to tell Steven, the execs, everyone, to stick it where the sun don’t shine  Like Hell is he doing their stupid reboot, he hates them.

He doesn’t hate often, but he’s certain here.

“Will they remember...?” Will they remember dying like I do, he doesn’t say.  Spielberg shrugs.

“Don’t know.”

They will.  Wakko is going to cry and Dot won’t be able to sleep for a week, and Yakko will hold them close and apologize a million times, and he’ll have to stop them from tearing the studio apart because he knows it’ll bring them right back here.  

They’ll remember.

But he doesn’t know that yet, so instead he says.

“So, how’s the reboot working?” As Spielberg turns on the machine to let Wakko and Dot out, and he pretends to listen as the director replies.

[snappedsky]

Fanatics 81.3

Round One: Fight!

*Links to previous and next chapters in reblog*

--

Reawakening Part 3

           Johnny charges Zoli, the blades of his knives clashing against her scythe. She shoves him back and swings at him. He slams his foot onto the blade, driving it into the ground, and charges again. Letting go of her scythe, Zoli grabs both of his arms, just barely keeping his blades away from her face. Locked in this position, they snarl and glare at each other. Then Zoli smiles.

           Nightmare tendrils burst out of her back. Johnny gasps with surprise and, unable to escape Zoli’s grip, they smack into him, knocking him back. He skids across the ground and before he barely has a chance to look up, the tendrils knock him aside.

           He cries out in pain and shock as he slams onto his back. The tendrils quickly wrap around his ankles and he tries to cut them off with his knife, but there’s too many. They pick him up, swing him through the air, and smash him into the surrounding buildings. Each time, Johnny cries out in a little more agony.

           Finally, the tendrils drop him about six feet from the ground. He hits it hard, groaning painfully. As he struggle to stand up, covered in bruises, cuts, and gashes, Zoli stands over him, grinning.

           Crouching beside him, she grips his hair to lift his head. But he snarls and swipes at her with his hand. She barely dodges, stumbling back and laughing.

           “Lookit you,” she remarks as he glares at her, his eyes narrowed and frightening. “Beaten to a pulp and still you’re a terrifying beast. You really are one of a kind.”

           “But you’re still just a human,” she adds.

           Johnny spits out a glob of blood as he slowly rises to his feet. He prepares to charge but before he can take a step, Zoli’s tendrils lash out and pin him to the wall. He roars and exclaims angrily as he tries to push them off, but they’re just too strong.

           “Wanna know a secret, Nny?” Zoli purrs into his ear. “All those times you thought you beat me fair and square, I was holding back.”

           Johnny freezes, his eyes widening.

           “That’s right,” she grins, “do you know why? Because the Nightmare always wanted you alive to feed off you. A corpse doesn’t have an imagination. But you don’t really have an imagination anymore either, do you? But do you know who does?”

           “Squee.”

           Johnny’s right arm suddenly rips through the tendrils and swipes at Zoli, scratching her cheek. She stumbles back for just a second before a larger mass of Nightmare appendages burst out and slam into Johnny, wrapping around his arm and face and pressing him harder into the stone wall.    

           Zoli chuckles as she faces him, wiping dark red blood from her face. “You got nothing, Nny. You are nothing. Which means…I don’t have to hold back anymore. Goodbye, Johnny C.”

           The tendrils pick him up off the wall and continuously slam him against it again and again until he smashes through it. They let him go as he slumps to the floor within the building, the surrounding walls crumbling around him. His eyes crack open just enough to hopelessly watch as the ceiling crashes down on top of him.

           Meanwhile, across the city, Eff swings his knives at Jimmy who narrowly dodges. Sickness tries to kick Dillon who barely sidesteps her powerful legs. Reverend Meat punches at Krik who runs away from the large fists. And D-boy glares at Edgar.

           “Aw, how come I get stuck with the boring, old man?” he groans, “can you even fight?”            “I have been recently forced to take it up,” Edgar replies.            

           “Wow, sounds threatening,” D-boy remarks sarcastically. “Well, on the plus side, this’ll be easy.”

           He brandishes his mallet and swings for Edgar. But before the hammer can connect, Nightmare tendrils erupt from the side of Edgar’s head, catching it.

           “What-!” D-boy starts to exclaim when the appendages smack him away.

           At the same time, more tendrils emerge from Jimmy’s chest, Krik’s stomach, and Dillon’s arms. They lash out at the other Night Terrors, taking them by surprise and knocking them away. They all land in a heap next to D-boy.

           “New tricks, indeed,” Eff groans as they get up.

           Reverend Meat spots Tess nearby, rubbing her hands as she watches them.

           “Tess did the same thing,” he points out.

           “Yeah, we should’ve seen it coming,” Sickness grunts.

           “Whatever,” D-boy snaps, “it’s nothing we can’t handle.”

           “Think so, huh?” Jimmy smirks as the zombies stand before them, the Nightmare tendrils agitating around them.

           “We fought off the actual Nightmare before,” Eff scoffs, “you little puppets are nothing.”            “We’re not puppets. We’re the ones in control,” Jimmy sneers and all the appendages lash out.

           The Nightmares quickly leap backwards. They try to fight off the tentacles but there’s so many, it’s like a forest of wriggling blackness. The tendrils wrap around them, smack them, and push them down, crushing them like ants. And the zombies watch and laugh- except for Edgar who mostly just watches.

           To finish off the assault, the tendrils lift up the Night Terrors and smash them into the road, creating a small crater, before slithering off them. The zombies stand over them as they lie in the dirt, groaning painfully.

           “You guys are pathetic,” Jimmy scoffs, “you may have ‘special powers’ and be more durable or whatever, but now you’re just humans. And humans can’t beat monsters.”

           “Monsters, huh,” Reverend Meat sighs, “is that what you think you are?”

           “Uh, duh,” Dillon snorts.

           “You’re not monsters,” Eff argues.

           “You’re just a monster’s puppet,” Sickness adds.

           “You want monsters?” D-boy challenges as he sits up. “We’ll give you monsters.”

           He grabs his face, his fingers digging under the flesh, and rips it off like a rubber mask. When he looks up, his smile is unnaturally long and his eyes are big and purple with black swirls in them.

           “What the-!” Jimmy exclaims, all the zombies taken aback.

           As he stands up, Eff also rips off his face. He has the same unsettling smile but his eyes are just big, red orbs.

           Sickness doubles over, grunting in exertion as her stockings and boots are ripped away by her legs transforming into razor sharp blades. And when she looks up, her eyes have been replaced by screws.

           The zombies stumble back as the Night Terrors jump out of the hole, Reverend Meat in the lead, hanging his head.

           “You wanted monsters?” he asks as he looks up, his eyes now big, white orbs. “You got them.”

           Meanwhile, the Epic flies across the city carrying Zim, Dib, Gaz, Tak, and Pepito. They’re quiet, tense as they wait to arrive at Squee’s house.          

           About halfway there, something smashes into the underside of the car.

           “What the hell was that?” Gaz cries as they swerve to and fro.

           “I don’t know!” Zim exclaims as he struggles to retain control. “We can’t stay in the air! Brace yourselves!”

           He brings the Epic down, landing hard on the wheels and skidding to a stop. Everyone takes a second to catch their breath before getting out.

           “What hit us?” Dib asks.

           “I don’t know,” Zim replies as he examines the bottom of the car. “But we’re not gonna be able to fly now.”            “Guys,” Pepito says. Everyone looks up and spots a woman with very long, black hair. She’s wearing a brown trench coat over a dark green tank top, matching shorts, and knee high black boots, and has a large scythe leaning against her shoulder. Her eyes are dark red and her unsettling smile is full of fangs.

           The kids glare at her suspiciously as she stops in front of them.

           “Ah, the Battalion,” she sighs, “gee, it sure is swell to finally meet his other friends.”

           “You’re Zoli,” Pepito states.

           She snickers, her smile growing. “That’s right. And you’re the last obstacle in my way.”

           The Battalion quickly draw their weapons and prepare for battle.

           “Aw, how cute,” Zoli coos and pats her scythe. “This should be fun.”

[flrecracker]

starter for @rvcketboy​​

setting: fourth of july festival, pre elaine’s disappearance

domino lead mads into the arcade as she quickly approached a whack-a-mole game. with a smirk tugging at their chapstick glossed lips, she turned to him. “wanna play?” dom grabbed the rubber mallet before playfully hitting his shoulder, “I challenge you, mattias king, to a whack-a-mole face off!” they exclaimed in a posh british accent. she handed him his rubber mallet, “if i win, you have to buy me fried oreos. if you win, i’ll buy you them instead – or whatever you want, really... as long as it’s something at this carnival and not a fucking rolls royce.” they chuckled, before resting their finger against the start button. “ready?” as soon as the game began she came out swinging, putting all of their strength into hitting those god damn moles for some fried oreos. after about thirty seconds, the game stopped.  “dammit! i was so close to hitting that last one.” she exclaimed in an annoyed tone, “my score’s 140, what about you?” dom asked before peeking over at his score.

[believerindaydreams]

crude, lewd, and gentlemanly

in which Lister pines for a roadside assistance lady. yes I am writing slash for an advert. crack played straight

well, sort of straight. not actually that porny, tragically, but I had a lot of fun anyway 

"Sir. Sir, I don't know that you want to hear this..."

"Feel free to leave off then," Lister says, not looking up. The keen and eager gaze currently being devoted to a copy of Big Easy Read Ganymede is one, Kryten can't help noting with alarm, one usually reserved for only the most pungent vindaloos and the music video of "Five Hundred and One Fun Things to Do In Liverpool When It's Raining (Which is None)" by the Spice Anti-Assigned-Sex-But-With-Female-Presenting-Nipples (ASSBUT).

In short, it is one doozy of a gaze.

"Well, it's a very small matter, sir. Possibly none of my concern, but.... well, we all can't help noticing that in the last week, you've managed to involve yourself in no less than fourteen major crashes."

"Uh huh?"

"To say nothing of the minor ones."

"Uh-huh."

"Ah. Well. Glad to see you've noticed," Kryten says, with a highly characteristic combination of hasty relief and mildly hesitant irritation.

Lister sighs, puts down the atlas. "You know what rule one is of picking up girls, Krytes? Don't do it when they're on the clock."

"As I recall, the last time you told me rule one, it was to never confuse the whipped cream bottle with the lubricant-"

"Forget all that," Lister says. "You've got eyes- okay, you have sensory diodes or whatever they are, I've got eyes. And what my eyes see is the most beautiful woman since- since- well since that time I fucked myself from a parallel universe, okay? Heh. I am such a good lay."

"What about Kochanski?"

"Maybe it's different for robots, Krytes, but humans tend to go off a woman when it turns out she's your mother."

"Or Holly?"

"...sorry? You think Holly, hello-I've-got-computer-senility, oops-that-black-hole-is-actually-a-carbon-smear, is more attractive than that dazzling star who can strip a photon drive inside of four minutes flat?"

"It depends on your point of view, sir. One of the snack machines on Level Nine confided in me once, that the right set of electro-fibres could just get them just so gnarly in the morning-"

"...Kryten, love to hear about the coffee dispenser's unrequited love some other time, not now. But you get the problem, yeah? She's got an AA time-hopper that locks on to the scene of an accident, as soon as she gets us fixed up it yanks her back three million years again, what's the point even asking for her phone number? All I can do is keep getting into accidents while playing the smoothest jazz in my collection, and just- hope for the best."

"We are running out of operable Starbugs, sir."

"Oh, don't worry about that," Lister says, fondling a set of jumper cables with something approaching rapture. "I can always crash Red Dwarf instead. Considering everything she's survived, the ship can handle a few knocks."

Something, Kryten decides, is really going to have to be done about this.

*******

"...his wingman?" the AA lady says.

"That's me!"

He is, the Cat reflects, looking smooth. More than smooth. These grandiose, sequined shoulder pads stretch out miles.

"Literally, I take it." She hits a computer module with a rubber mallet. "So if he wants to take me out for a little zero-gravity exploration while this sat-nav patch finishes downloading, why doesn't he just ask? The way he pilots, he hasn't exactly been short of opportunities."

The Cat screws up his face, thoughtfully. "Oh. Old Box Head said something about waking up to be told your whole species is dead causes psychodrama, blah blah blah, - now I’ve been there, and I can say, I wouldn't be like that! If I wanted you, I'd be all, hey gorgeous, aren't you one wozie hum-dinger of a flyer, what say we go and have ourselves a little fun...."

"But you're not doing that?" the AA lady asks after a moment.

"Lady," the Cat says, almost sentimentally, "you wear overalls. You think a fine looking specimen of a Cat like me is going to be caught dead waltzing the two step with you? All I can say is, keep on dreaming baby, cause dreaming is all you're going to get."

"...while Lister, I take it, has no objection to my fashion sense." Her mouth's twitching.

"Nope! What can you expect of a guy who thinks curry stains are a fashion accessory- so hey, you two are pretty well matched. That's one good reason for you to pair off. And another one is that it'll annoy Rimmer-"

"Will it?"

"Oh, sure," the Cat says breezily. "It'll get right up those hologrammed nostrils."

The AA lady whips the door open.

Somewhere, not terribly far distant, somebody is playing "Penny Lane" on a guitar.  

"Hey, Listy! Interested in a good fuck?"

The guitar music stops. "Thought you'd never ask!"

******

"You know, I really didn't think that approach would work. So much for plans B through W," Kryten says, stuffing down twenty feet of computer ribbon down a recycling chute. 

"Are you kidding? You just have to look at old HoloHead and pow! Hatred of him is a force stronger than gravity or those little packets of Martian sriracha," the Cat says, fiddling with the volume control. The sound of heavy breathing and a Liverpudian lilt whispering sweet nothings intensifies.

"I'm still not sure it's polite for you to be doing that," Kryten fusses. "Just because they're enjoying the ship's Exhibitionist, Squash And Frilly Umbrellas spa facilities, doesn't mean they necessarily expected anyone to watch-"

"Then be of good cheer, Kryten, because nothing untoward is going to happen." Rimmer's stride is firm, his holo-uniform freshly reprogrammed with gold braid and the E-Spacebay Blue Peter badge. "At least, not with her."

"Now Mr Rimmer, I really think-"

"It's time that Lister gave way to the inevitable," Rimmer says. "The man he's quite literally spent half his life with."

"...you mean me?" the Cat says, his tone veering somewhere between polite interest and general disgust.

"I mean me! The one who Holly decided was his perfect life's companion, out of all the possibilities on this ship. The Morecambe to his Wise, the automatic sprocket attachment to his...whatever it is sprockets attach to, I suppose. My god, we were roommates."

"Just saying? Between you and Mr Vacuum Groin over here, I'd pick the vacuum first," the Cat says.

Rimmer ignores him. "It's time I faced up to my destiny, too. Reached out and grasped the man right in front of my nose, this fried egg and chutney sandwich out of which I must take my first, mellow, unstinting bite-"

"Guys, you do realise you left the intercom on both ways," Lister calls.

Rimmer jumps. 

Falters. 

Looks at the microphone with nervous determination. 

"Lister? I think you should know. That faced with the prospect of- actually, genuinely, losing you, I've decided it's time to be brave. To say out loud, no takebacks, that I love you."

There's a pause. "Rimmer, that is just about the nicest thing you've ever said in your life."

"Wasn't it?"

"But if you think I'm gonna stop halfway through the windup for the best fuck I've had in years, just because you've finally wised up and decided that you're queer now, you need a reboot and a lie down in a quiet room somewhere."

"...does that mean, you're telling me no?"

"Course not! I'll get to you, I'll get to you- but first come first served. So we’re starting with- uh- what was your name again, sweetheart?"

"Thought you'd never ask," the AA lady says, rather coyly. "It's-"

Rimmer reaches out and switches off the feed. "Well, damn. How inconsiderate can you get? How? I ask you-"

"It's just possible, sir, that your sense of timing's off," Kryten says. Almost humming with contentment.

With two humans, a hologram, and possibly-or-not a sequin-shedding cat to get in on the action, it’s just occurred to him there’s bound to be all sorts of exciting new messes to clean up soon...

[nowitsdarkfic]

chapter seventeen (”...serum..”)

There’s the sound of a machine beeping right behind my head. I’m waking up to the clean smell of a hospital again, but there’s something else here. Something different.

I roll my head over the surface of the pillow to find there’s a silvery metal table of scalpels and a hefty glass syringe right next to me; underneath that is a big smooth gray block. A computer, maybe? There are little lights along the side and it’s making a quiet hum. My head aches me, such that it feels like someone hit me in the back with a hatchet or at least something sharp.

I try to lift up my arm to massage my temples, but I can’t. Something’s holding me down.

I take a look down to find I’ve been strapped down to a hospital bed. Actually no, it’s an operating table, complete with those tough, heavy brown leather belts. Someone also took my clothes and my boots, and gave me a hospital gown instead.

What the hell?

I blink several times so my eyes adjust to the pale yellow light casting over me. And then I catch the sound of a door opening to my right. I roll my head over again to find old man Mike Morlente, the curmudgeon down the street from Brick’s house, and the creepy old white-haired guy striding into the room. Surely this is just a bad dream.

The old guy sneers at me as he stands to my right. The curmudgeon is down by my feet. Mike rounds my head to meet up with me on the left side of the bed.

“Well, well, well,” he says to me. I swallow--I don’t know how long I’ve been laying here, but apparently I’ve been laying here long enough to have a sore throat.

“I should’ve known it was you who’s been trying to uncover everything that’s been going on with my company and my daughter. I was wondering what happened to those placebos, too--that little bitch.”

“No, you don’t understand--” I start, feeling my heart hammer inside of my chest.

“I think I do!” he snaps at me. “You met Maya one day and got curious, didn’t you? That’s what Walter’s grandfather tried to do with me, but now he’s pushing up daisies. Just like you’ll be doing soon enough. Joseph Bellardini. Former lead singer of Anthrax. Don’t think I don’t know.”

“What’d you do with Brick?” I demand.

“Nothing. But he’s living on borrowed time. So is your old band.” I want to know where Lars, Chris, and Nancy are, that is if they are in fact nearby. I don’t even know where I am!

“We tried to warn you in the church,” says the old man.

“Warn me?” I lift my head to look at him. “Warn me of what?”

“Don’t dig too deep, young man--you’ll hit the aquifer and get taken down with it.”

That line from the first copy of After the Watershed, the exact one about digging too deep down and drowning. Maya coming to a church. Of course.

“I’m Reverend Victor Newberry,” the old man continues, setting his hands down on the table on either side of my feet. “Maya and her sister came to my congregation with Michael here. You can just say we put the fear of the Lord into them when they were younger.”

I gape at him. Suddenly it makes sense. Maya duped me in Seattle... but she was making a cry for help, though. She knew I’d come back because I’ve been trying to help her. She saw herself in me. She believed in me.

“You disgusting sack of shit,” I blurt out; something I don’t say often because it’s easy for me to forgive people.

“That’s right,” he whispers to me.

“Just like what we’re gonna do to you,” the curmudgeon adds with a sneer on his face. “I’d like to take all of this curly black hair and make wigs for all of my kids.”

“And then smash his poor little cock with an old Bible!” Reverend Newberry adds.

“Remember, a dusty old Bible means a dirty life,” old man Morlente points out as he’s putting on latex gloves. “But first, I’m gonna stick this syringe of cybernetic serum right into his vocal cords--”

He picks up the syringe closest to me, the one with neon blue fluid inside of the chamber. Neon blue that’s glowing underneath the pale yellow light like it’s radioactive. It’s not a placebo, but the real deal. The same shit injected into Maya and Brick and Anthrax. The same shit that’s killing them all very slowly and very painfully. Moreover, the end of the needle is massive, like one of those needles used in bone marrow transfusions. 

“--stick it right into his vocal cords and take that obnoxious voice of his.”

“You sure you wanna stick that big fat needle into his neck?” the curmudgeon stops him. “It’s pretty big.”

“I’ve performed delicate surgery on Maya and Candace so neither of them would wonder too far from home,” old man Morlente assures him. That explains the scar on Maya’s forehead! Yes!

“Yeah, but you’re using a huge needle, though. Shouldn’t you use something a little smaller?”

“Now why would I do that? This shit is going to kill him anyways. It’s pretty much our equivalent of the lethal injection.”

“The same reason why you put a controller chip inside of Maya’s brain? You didn’t want to keep track of her--you want to control her.”

“Wait, what?” I ask him.

“Yeah. You didn’t figure that one out?” the curmudgeon chuckles at me. Old man Morlente chews on his bottom lip at the curmudgeon. And then he turns to Reverend Newberry.

“Get him out of here,” he orders in a terse tone. I look over at the sight of that white haired scumbag guiding the curmudgeon out of the operating room. Old man Morlente then holds onto my chin and tilts my head back so he can see what he’s doing.

He doesn’t put iodine or anything on the skin. He’s just going to do it. He’s just going to put a needle right into me and inject the serum into me!

I snap my eyes shut. Oh God.

Death, here I come again. But for real this time.

There’s a loud thud! outside of the operating room. I feel the tip of the needle come within a hair’s width of my skin when old man Morlente loosens his grip on my chin.

“What the hell--?” he mutters. I open my eyes and look at the syringe in his hand. Still full of that fluid. He didn’t inject it.

But the door to the right swings open and Lars and Hiro burst into the room, holding a rubber mallet and a brick, and that burlap sack in that respective order. Lars is also wearing my checkerboard shirt over his actual shirt. He leaps over me and tackles old man Morlente down onto the floor, knocking the table over and all the while brandishing that mallet.

“Get Joey out of there! Quick!” he orders Hiro. He hangs next to me, rummaging through the sack.

“Thank you,” I tell him in a broken voice.

“Chris called me and Kim from one of the payphones in the City,” he explains, taking out one of the magnets. “And there was a wormhole opened up for us in Seattle so we boogied here as fast as we could.” He holds the slender black magnet over the buckles fastening the belts down on the table. There’s a little clank! next to me and the one holding me down at the chest comes undone. Low tech belts, high tech buckles.

He follows suit on the other belts holding down my wrist, my hips, my thighs, and my ankles; meanwhile, I hear Lars and old man Morlente struggling on the floor, probably swinging the mallet around in hopes to knock him out. I sit up in time to see old man Morlente on top with the tip of the needle pointed right at Lars’ neck.

I reach into the burlap sack at the end of the table for the rubber hose and come up behind old man Morlente with it. I put it around his neck and tighten it. He gasps, and throws the syringe on the floor, hard enough such that it shatters. Lars closes his eyes so nothing gets into his eyes. I linger close to old man Morlente’s ear as he’s struggling to breathe.

“Tell me what you did with Brick and Anthrax,” I whisper to him, loosening my grip. “Tell me what you did or I’ll give you a war like you won’t believe. Tell me.”

“They’re--” he gasps for air. “They’re en route to Seattle!”

“Are you being sincere?” I demand.

“Yes!”

“They’re going to bloody Seattle!” Lars shrieks, sitting upright. There’s whole manner of beeps and screeches from the tower next to us. Little glimmers of pure white electricity shoot out from the sides. Lars looks down at the shirt, my shirt that he’s wearing. The computer is going haywire from the checkerboard pattern.

“Yes! That’s it!” he declares. I let go of old man Morlente so he can stand to his feet and run out of there, probably to look for Reverend Newberry and the curmudgeon.

I don’t where I am, and I don’t know if Brick and Anthrax are even here right now. But I help Lars to his feet and we put the mallet and the hose back into the burlap sack. Even though I’m still wearing this hospital gown, one thing’s for certain and that’s I’m getting the hell out of here.

[lake-lyn]

EW’s exclusive excerpt of The Tyrant’s Tomb by Rick Riordan (2/2)

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Dude, this isn’t cool

Dude just tried to eat my dude

That’s my dead dude, dude

I like flying cars. I prefer it when the car is actually capable of flight, however.

As the hearse achieved zero gravity, I had a few microseconds to appreciate the scenery below—a lovely little lake edged with eucalyptus trees and walking trails, a small beach on the far shore, where a cluster of evening picnickers relaxed on blankets.

Oh, good, some small part of my brain thought. Maybe we’ll at least land in the water.

Then we dropped—not toward the lake, but toward the trees.

A sound like Luciano Pavarotti’s high C in Don Giovanni issued from my throat. My hands glued themselves to the wheel.

As we plunged into the eucalypti, the ghoul disappeared from our roof—almost as if the tree branches had purposefully swatted him away. Other branches seemed to bend around the hearse, slowing our fall, dropping us from one leafy cough-drop-scented bough to another, until we hit the ground on all four wheels with a jarring thud. Too late to do any good, the airbags deployed, shoving my head against the backrest.

Yellow amoebas danced in my eyes. The taste of blood stung my throat. I clawed for the door handle, squeezed my way out between the airbag and the seat, and tumbled onto a bed of cool soft grass.

“Blergh,” I said.

I heard Meg retching somewhere nearby. At least that meant she was still alive. About ten feet to my left, water lapped at the shore of the lake. Directly above me, near the top of the largest eucalyptus tree, our ghoulish blueblack friend was snarling and writhing, trapped in a cage of branches.

I struggled to sit up. My nose throbbed. My sinuses felt like they were packed with menthol rub. “Meg?”

She staggered into view around the front of the hearse. Ring-shaped bruises were forming around her eyes—no doubt courtesy of the passenger-side airbag. Her glasses were intact but askew. “You suck at swerving.”

“Oh, my gods!” I protested. “You ordered me to—” My brain faltered. “Wait. How are we alive? Was that you who bent the tree branches?”

“Duh.” She flicked her hands, and her twin golden scimitars flashed into existence. Meg used them like ski poles to steady herself. “They won’t hold that monster much longer. Get ready.”

“What?” I yelped. “Wait. No. Not ready!”

I pulled myself to my feet with the driver’s-side door.

Across the lake, the picnickers had risen from their blankets. I suppose a hearse falling from the sky had gotten their attention. My vision was blurry, but something seemed odd about the group. . . . Was one of them wearing armor? Did another have goat legs?

Even if they were friendly, they were much too far away to help.

I limped to the hearse and yanked open the backseat door. Jason’s coffin appeared safe and secure in the rear bay. I grabbed my bow and quiver. My ukulele had vanished somewhere underneath the inflated airbags. I would have to do without it.

Above, the creature howled, thrashing in its branch cage.

Meg stumbled. Her forehead was beaded with sweat. Then the ghoul broke free and hurtled downward, landing only a few yards away. I hoped the creature’s legs might have broken on impact, but no such luck. It took a few steps, its feet punching wet craters in the grass, before it straightened and snarled, its pointy white teeth like tiny mirror-image picket fences.

“KILL AND EAT!” it screamed.

What a lovely singing voice. The ghoul could’ve fronted any number of Norwegian death metal groups.

“Wait!” My voice was shrill. “I—I know you.” I wagged my finger, as if that might crank-start my memory. Clutched in my other hand, my bow shook. The arrows rattled in my quiver. “H-hold on, it’ll come to me!”

The ghoul hesitated. I’ve always believed that most sentient creatures like to be recognized. Whether we are gods, people, or slavering ghouls in vulture-feather loincloths, we enjoy others knowing who we are, speaking our names, appreciating that we exist.

Of course, I was just trying to buy time. I hoped Meg would catch her breath, charge the creature, and slice it into putrid ghoul pappardelle. At the moment, though, it didn’t seem that she was capable of using her swords for anything but crutches. I supposed controlling gigantic trees could be tiring, but honestly, couldn’t she have waited to run out of steam until after she killed Vulture Diaper?

Wait. Vulture diaper . . . I took another look at the ghoul: its strange mottled blue-and-black hide, its milky eyes, its oversize mouth and tiny nostril slits. It smelled of rancid meat. It wore the feathers of a carrion eater . . .

“I do know you,” I realized. “You’re a eurynomos.”

I dare you to try saying you’re a eurynomos when your tongue is leaden, your body is shaking from terror, and you’ve just been punched in the face by a hearse’s airbag.

The ghoul’s lips curled. Silvery strands of saliva dripped from his chin. “YES! FOOD SAID MY NAME!”

“B-but you’re a corpse-eater!” I protested. “You’re supposed to be in the Underworld, working for Hades!”

The ghoul tilted its head as if trying to remember the words Underworld and Hades. It didn’t seem to like them as much as kill and eat.

“HADES GAVE ME OLD DEAD!” it shouted. “THE MASTER GIVES ME FRESH!”

“The master?”

“THE MASTER!”

I really wished Vulture Diaper wouldn’t scream. It didn’t have any visible ears, so perhaps it had poor volume control. Or maybe it just wanted to spray that gross saliva over as large a radius as possible.

“If you mean Caligula,” I ventured, “I’m sure he’s made you all sorts of promises, but I can tell you, Caligula is not—”

“HA! STUPID FOOD! CALIGULA IS NOT THE MASTER!”

“Not the master?”

“NOT THE MASTER!”

“MEG!” I shouted. Ugh. Now I was doing it.

“Yeah?” Meg wheezed. She looked fierce and warlike as she granny-walked toward me with her sword-crutches. “Gimme. Minute.”

It was clear she would not be taking the lead in this particular fight. If I let Vulture Diaper anywhere near her, it would kill her, and I found that idea 95 percent unacceptable.

“Well, eurynomos,” I said, “whoever your master is, you’re not killing and eating anyone today!”

I whipped an arrow from my quiver. I nocked it in my bow and took aim, as I had done literally millions of times before, but it wasn’t quite as impressive with my hands shaking and my knees wobbling.

Why do mortals tremble when they’re scared, anyway? It seems so counterproductive. If I had created humans, I would have given them steely determination and superhuman strength during moments of terror.

The ghoul hissed, spraying spit.

“SOON THE MASTER’S ARMIES WILL RISE AGAIN!” it bellowed. “WE WILL FINISH THE JOB! I WILL SHRED FOOD TO THE BONE, AND FOOD

WILL JOIN US!”

Food will join us? My stomach experienced a sudden loss of cabin pressure. I remembered why Hades loved these eurynomoi so much. The slightest cut from their claws caused a wasting disease in mortals. And when those mortals died, they rose again as what the Greeks called vrykolakas—or, in TV parlance, zombies.

That wasn’t the worst of it. If a eurynomos managed to devour the flesh from a corpse, right down to the bones, that skeleton would reanimate as the fiercest, toughest kind of undead warrior. Many of them served as Hades’s elite palace guards, which was a job I did not want to apply for.

“Meg?” I kept my arrow trained on the ghoul’s chest. “Back away. Do not let this thing scratch you.”

“But—”

“Please,” I begged. “For once, trust me.”

Vulture Diaper growled. “FOOD TALKS TOO MUCH! HUNGRY!”

It charged me.

I shot.

The arrow found its mark—the middle of the ghoul’s chest—but it bounced off like a rubber mallet against metal. The Celestial-bronze point must have hurt, at least. The ghoul yelped and stopped in its tracks, a steaming puckered wound on its sternum. But the monster was still very much alive. Perhaps if I managed twenty or thirty shots at that exact same spot, I could do some real damage.

With trembling hands, I nocked another arrow. “Th-that was just a warning!” I bluffed. “The next one will kill!”

Vulture Diaper made a gurgling noise deep in its throat. I hoped it was a delayed death rattle. Then I realized it was only laughing. “WANT ME TO EAT DIFFERENT FOOD FIRST? SAVE YOU FOR DESSERT?”

It uncurled its claws, gesturing toward the hearse.

I didn’t understand. I refused to understand. Did it want to eat the airbags? The upholstery?

Meg got it before I did. She screamed in rage.

The creature was an eater of the dead. We were driving

a hearse.

“NO!” Meg shouted. “Leave him alone!”

She lumbered forward, raising her swords, but she was in no shape to face the ghoul. I shouldered her aside, putting myself between her and the creature, and fired my arrows again and again.

They sparked off the creature’s blue-black hide, leaving steaming, annoyingly nonlethal wounds. Vulture Diaper staggered toward me, snarling in pain, its body twitching from the impact of each hit.

It was five feet away.

Two feet away, its claws splayed to shred my face.

Somewhere behind me, a female voice shouted, “HEY!”

The sound distracted Vulture Diaper just long enough for me to fall courageously on my butt. I scrambled away from the ghoul’s claws.

Vulture Diaper blinked, confused by its new audience. About ten feet away, a ragtag assortment of fauns and dryads, perhaps a dozen total, were all attempting to hide behind one gangly pink-haired young woman in Roman legionnaire armor.

The girl fumbled with some sort of projectile weapon. Oh, dear. A manubalista. A Roman heavy crossbow. Those things were awful. Slow. Powerful. Notoriously unreliable. The bolt was set. She cranked the handle, her hands shaking as badly as mine.

Meanwhile, to my left, Meg groaned in the grass, trying to get back on her feet. “You pushed me,” she complained, by which I’m sure she meant Thank you, Apollo, for saving my life.

The pink-haired girl raised her manubalista. With her long, wobbly legs, she reminded me of a baby giraffe. “G-get away from them,” she ordered the ghoul.

Vulture Diaper treated her to its trademarked hissing and spitting. “MORE FOOD! YOU WILL ALL JOIN THE KING’S DEAD!”

“Dude.” One of the fauns nervously scratched his belly under his PEOPLE’S REPUBLIC OF BERKELEY T-shirt. “That’s not cool.”

“Not cool,” several of his friends echoed.

“YOU CANNOT OPPOSE ME, ROMAN!” the ghoul snarled. “I HAVE ALREADY TASTED THE FLESH OF YOUR COMRADES! AT THE BLOOD MOON, YOU WILL JOIN THEM—”

THWUNK.

An Imperial gold crossbow bolt materialized in the center of Vulture Diaper’s chest. The ghoul’s milky eyes widened in surprise. The Roman legionnaire looked just as stunned.

“Dude, you hit it,” said one of the fauns, as if this offended his sensibilities.

The ghoul crumbled into dust and vulture feathers. The bolt clunked to the ground.

Meg limped to my side. “See? That’s how you’re supposed to kill it.”

“Oh, shut up,” I grumbled.

We faced our unlikely savior.

The pink-haired girl frowned at the pile of dust, her chin quivering as if she might cry. She muttered, “I hate those things.”

“Y-you’ve fought them before?” I asked.

She looked at me like this was an insultingly stupid question.

One of the fauns nudged her. “Lavinia, dude, ask who these guys are.”

“Um, right.” Lavinia cleared her throat. “Who are you?”

I struggled to my feet, trying to regain some composure. “I am Apollo. This is Meg. Thank you for saving us.”

Lavinia stared. “Apollo, as in—”

“It’s a long story. We’re transporting the body of our friend, Jason Grace, to Camp Jupiter for burial. Can you help us?”

Lavinia’s mouth hung open. “Jason Grace . . . is dead?”

Before I could answer, from somewhere across Highway 24 came a wail of rage and anguish.

“Um, hey,” said one of the fauns, “don’t those ghoul things usually hunt in pairs?”

Lavinia gulped. “Yeah. Let’s get you guys to camp. Then we can talk about”—she gestured uneasily at the hearse—“who is dead, and why.”