#maybe i will pre-order some custom flats for mine then

[hislittleraincloud]

Wednesday's bed is located on the opposite side of the set that isn't depicted in the set, hence.

But you will take a kid's playset and sexualize it in the name of your ship, won't you.

LEGO said: there was only one bed

[mtfstuff]

Becoming Officer Bradley part 1

I was sitting alone in the room I'd rented for my special project. Some days ago I got pulled over and should have gotten a speeding ticket. Of course I did this intentionally. I looked out for the cop who was on oatrol that day and drove with 18mph over limit past him. He pulled me over and wanted to give me a speeding ticket. I excused myself that my child was sick and that I had to drive home fast. I gave him a card that he could get some free massages if he would let me go with a warning. Of course He didnt know that this was all a bait. He agreed.

Now waiting in this room I hoped that this hunk would enter. And he finally came.

It already got dark outside but I saw how his police car drove onto the driveway. As he entered with big steps I remembered why I chose him. Standing about 6"4, he was intimidating with his muscular physique, big biceps, broad shoulders, big hands, muscular calves,...

He had this cheeky but nice grin no one could resist. As he entered he looked around.

"Looks like you have nothing to do.", he said. His deep baritone voice made me shiver.

"My last customer left an hour ago.", I lied.

He pulled the card out of one of his vest pockets.

"I want to redeem this.", he said.

He holds it into the air. I acted as if I didnt recognise it from the start.

"Oh yeah, of course.", I answered. I gestured towards a massage bench. "Which ones do you want?" I handed him a card with multiple kind of massages. He sat down on the bench and reads the card. He chuckled at one point, looked at me and then read further. I bet he read my feet massage.

He handed the card back and looked at me, again with his cheeky smile.

"You know, after such a long day of work, my feet are really tired. And after that I'll take a back massage.", he said quiet cocky.

"Good choices. Do you want anything else? Maybe something to drink?", I said.

He laid down onto the bench, crossing his arms in front of his chest.

"I'll take a glass of water."

I went into a back room and mixed a sleeping pill into a glass of water and brought it to him. It would make the future process easier. He took and glass and a big sip out of it.

"Do you want me to straighten up the bench?", I asked. I hoped for a yes so he would see how I'd work on his feet until he was completely servant.

"Yeah, that'd be great.", he answered.

I pulled up the head part of the bench and sat down at his feet. They looked incredibly massive in those black combat boots. I could no other than letting out a gasp because of it. He chuckled.

"I know I have big feet.", he said. From this position he looked really nice. What a shame.

I took his left foot in my hand and searched for a zipper but it didnt have one so I untied his laces. It took some time as it was tied really tightly. As I finally managed to pull his first combat boot off by having one hand at the heel and one at the tip, his formerly tucked in pants fell onto his ankle. I wanted so bad to raise his boot to my noise but it had to wait as he was watching. I put it to the ground and as I turned to his ither boot I could finally smell his sweaty feet. It was a real turn on and I was happy that he couldnt see how my dick raised against my pants. I untied his second boot. This time I had to wiggle it a bit more to get it off. He finished his glass water and relaxed.

"Do you want me to keep your socks on?", I asked. I just wanted to see his bare feet.

"Ehh... keep 'em on.", he said. His face looked kind of confused.

"Alright. I always ask customers what they prefer.", I said. He nodded and leaned back again. I started to massage his left foot. I made sure to hit the spots to make him completely servant. He started to moan silently and closed his eyes. It looked like he enjoyed it. I finished his left foot and took on his right one. He must've liked it so much that he started to touch his dick beneath his good looking pants. Good, he's loaded there too. It showed that my technique started to work. As I finished I took both of his combat boots in my hands. Without opening his eyes he said:"If you're finished, you can put my boots back on."

"Well, there is this thing I always wanted to do.", I said.

He leaned forwards and opened his eyes. He looked incredibly tired. Another proof that it's working.

"What exactly do you want?", he asked not so nice anymore.

"It feels so wrong to bribe a cop.", I said holding a $50 bill. I made a pause. "I'd love to smell your boots and socks."

"Oh, you're one of those. I've heard of you guys. People who live to smell people's dirty feet.", he gestures to hand him the bill. I do so. "Go ahead. Knock yourself put.", he said, putting the bill away.

I raised his boot to my nose and took a deep breath. His smell overwhelmed me. Such a manly smell. I could imagine just by this smell what he did the whole day with his imposing, good looking body in this sexy uniform. I licked the inside of his boot and he didnt notice it. Next, I rolled up one of leg of his pants till I reached his knee. He wiggled his toes on the yellow tip of his sock. I ran my fingers down his leg until I reached the start of his black otc socks. I pulled it over his muscular calve to his feet and then off of it. I took a deep breath as he said:"Now put 'em back on."

"Well...", I pulled out another bill.

"Yeah?", he didnt seem to be turned off by me.

"Can I lick your sole?"

"Hmm... I'll do it for twice of that.", he pointed to the bill. I took out another and handed them over.

I let my tongue slide over his bare foot, from heel to his toes. I started to suck on each toe as his body started to twitch slightly. That was it. It was done.

I stood up, the young cop's eyes followed.

"Who are you?", I asked with my firmest voice.

"Police off... I-I'm your boy. Aiden Bradley.", the cop stammered.

"Good boy."

I pulled off my shoes and put his combat boots on. They were way too big for me but it still felt great and got my blood pumping through my dick. I tucked my cargo pants in and tied the laces. I walked around the bench so I could stand behind him. I took his police badge and waved it in front of his face. "Looks like you wont need them anymore."

I started to take off his heavy vest by opening the velcro and the zipper beneath it. I pulled both of his muscular arms out of the vest and put it next to me on the ground.

I opened his heavy equipment belt and put it to the ground. I unzipped his pants to pull his shirt out of it. I started to unbutton it slowly, feeling his chest muscles beneath the tight fitting shirt. I pushed him forwards to pull it off of him. I grabbed him by his breast muscles and pulled himself back towards me. I walked around the bench again.

I started to peel off his other sock. Next I grabbed him by the ankles and pulled him towards me, his calves now hanging in the air. I grabbed his uniform pants und pulled them off of him. I pushed the crotch area against my face and took a deep breath. The sweet smell of cum and sweat filled my nose. I dropped them to admire that beefcake in front of me. Aiden Was just sitting there wearing nothing but a small jockstrap, smiling at me.

"Who's the boss now?", I asked with a devilish grin.

"You are.", he answered.

"Stand up boy."

He got off of the bench and stood in front of me. He was towering over me by at least 8 inches. Even though I was wearing his boots and he didnt. I ran my fingers over his sweaty abs until I reached his jockstrap. With a quick pull it was laying on his feet. He stepped out of it.

"Now be close to me and strip me off my clothes.", I ordered and he followed.

He turned me around and pressed his hips and dick against my back. I felt how it pulsated and pre-cum dripped against my shirt. He carefully unbuttoned it with his massive hands. Standing there I could smell his manly sweat.I turned my head to smell his armpits. He pulled my shirt off and opened my belt pants. He turned me around again. His dick now touched my flat and pale belly and mine grazes his inner thigh. Only now being so close to him, I realised how tan he was. It definitely complemented his abs.

He bowed down to lift at first my left and then my right feet to untie and pull off his old boots and my socks. After that he pulled off my pants. He looked surprised that I didnt wear something beneath as my dick popped out of it right in front of his head.

While I bet that his beautiful lips would give an amazing blowjob I pulled him up on his feet and pushed him onto the bench again.

"Spread your legs boy!", I ordered. He lifted his massive legs to reveal his hole. I couldnt believe I was losing my viriginity to this beefcake.

[mhdiaries]

Monster Exchange Marisol Coxi Passport

06.01

There is only one place in all of Monster Picchu where I can buy shoes off the rack that fit me, and when I walked by it today, all the shoes were gone. I went inside and found out that the business is being sold. I clearly voiced my displeasure about this situation to the store’s owner, Señor G., who was cleaning out his back room. “I am sorry, señorita, but I am retiring to the coast in order to be closer to my grandchildren, and to go fishing every day.” I asked if the new owners would be selling shoes as well, but he said they are going to be selling CANDLES! Now I will be able to get all the bayscary-scented candles I can sniff, but now even one pair of anything in a size 42EEE! I was caught totally flat-footed by this news, and in my heart I was feeling very tiny. I could tell he felt bad for me, and as I was about to leave, he asked me to wait for a moment. He disappeared back into the stockroom and soon returned with a beautiful gold box. “Please to be seated,” he said. I sat down on the last bench left in the store as he knelt down and opened the box to reveal a pair of pumps and OHMYGHOUL! They were red and black and clawsome all over! I quickly drew my feet up and turned away. “Señorita, do you not wish to try them on?” I told him that, of course, I did, but I did not want to go for a test drive in something I could not afford to take home with me. He laughed. “Ah, but Señorita Coxi, these were meant to be displayed only, not to be sold. There is not even a price or size on them, but I think maybe they fit you. Besides, if I leave them, the new owners will probably just fill them with wax and turn them into candles.” Cautiously I slipped my toes into them, and THEY FIT! Almost like they had been made for me. I grabbed Señor G. and gave him a ginormous hug. He put the shoes back in the box for me and thanked me for being such a large part of his business over the years. We waved goodbye, and I practically skipped all the way home. When I got there I put the box on the kitchen table and ran upstairs to find Ma to tell her my story. We got down to the kitchen at the same time Pa got home from work, and I put the shoes on to show them both. Pa was looking at the box and pulled out a slip of paper. He looked at the slip and cleared his throat the way he does when he’s about to be angry. “Marisol Coxi! Did you pay this much money for these shoes?” He handed me the slip, which turned out to be some kind of invoice. I saw the price at the bottom, and for once in my unlife I was actually quiet. I told Pa the story exactly as it happened. He asked me what I wanted to do. I thought about it for a moment and then I boxed up the shoes and went back to return them. I knew that I could not keep such an expensive gift. It was too much. When I got to the store, the lights were off and the doors were locked. In the window was a sign that read “Gone Fishing.” As I was standing there wondering what I should do now, a shopkeeper from across the street came running over with something in his hand. It was a note from Señor G. 

Señorita Coxi, 

After you left, and I could not find the invoice for the shoes, I knew that I must have absentmindedly returned it to the box. They really were display models meant to be placed in the window to attract customers, but it just so happens they are a display model in your size. I had intended on leaving the shoes for you without the invoice, regardless, as they are too big for me to wear and to small for me to fish from; plus I really would have hated to see them turned into candles. Please to wear them loud and proud!

Sincerely yours,

Señor G.

06.05

I found out today that I have been accepted into the monster exchange program and that I’ll be attending MONSTER HIGH THIS FALL! I am afraid I may have startled the Head Mistress when she told me the news. I think I whooped rather loudly, and she disappeared for a moment. It is her first year at our school, and she is such a prim and proper spirit, that I am thinking she has never experienced a student who loves unlife as much as me. Once she returned, she congratulated me, and I told her that I would be sure to call her to give her updates on all my new experiences. I could tell that my gesture had touched her because I saw a small tear of ectoplasm roll down her cheek. She said, “How kind of you, but perhaps something less auditory, like an email, or even a handwritten letter would suffice in this situation.” I was going to give her a hug, but she suddenly remembered an appointment she had to keep and disappeared again. There is so much to do to get ready. I must start right away or maybe tomorrow. I think my writing is so loud, it is keeping Ma and Pa awake.

06.13

I wanted to get some more information on the school - wouldn’t want to get off on the wrong foot - so I talked to mi prima segunda Abbey on video chat tonight. We have not seen each other since our last family reunion, and it was good to catch up with her. Abbey is much quieter than myself, but we always have a good time hanging out together. I asked her about her family, she asked about mine, and then we started talking about Monster High. I’m not sure how much I ended up learning, though, since her answers to most of my questions were, “Is good”, “Is okay”, or “Abbey has no comment.” Because her answers were so vague, I finally had to ask her if she really liked the school or not. She got a very strange look on her face and said, “Is beast school in world, haven’t you been listening?” I guess if Abbey is this enthusiastic, it must be the beast school indeed.

06.18

Okay. Usually I like to do my own hair and nails because I think I intimidate most stylists. I am not being boastful, I am being truthful. They either go too subtle or too over the top, so I come out either looking like I did when I walked in or like a lost clown in search of a circus. So when Ma and I left the mountain for a day of shopping on the river down below, we made sure to leave some time so that we could visit our favorite salon. It is a little off the beaten tributary, but it is deadfinitely worth the trip. The main stylist is an encantada who dresses so plain that you wouldn’t think she would know hip from hop, but she is fierce with the styling of her clients. I told her that I was going to MH as an exchange monster and jokingly asked if I could take her with me. She said that she was such a home-monster that she could never imagine going that far away, but was excited for me. She also told me that she would make room in her schedule to get me in for a pre-flight check so that I could be at my big-haired best before I fly out on my big adventure. It was a great way to end a ghouls’ day out with Ma.

06.30

I got a personal email from Headless Headmistress Bloodgood with the contact information for another exchange student who is going to be at Monster High the same time as me. Her name is Lorna McNessie, and she lives in Rotland. I took a chance that she might be up and pinged her for a video chat. Ma and Pa were out for the evening, so I had the music cranked and I was doing my nails in a color so bright you could read by it. I wasn’t sitting in front of the screen when we connected, and I might have missed her if it hadn’t been in-between songs when I heard “Helloooh?” I popped back in front of my camera, and she must have accidently knocked hers over, because all I could see was the ceiling in her room and I heard her say something that sounded like “Strewth!” She straightened out her camera, and I saw red hair, freckles and a pair of eyes with some definite mischief behind them. I introduced myself and told her I would be coming to Monster High at the same time she was. After we got past the “accent barrier” and some problems with the volume on her end, which she kept having to adjust for some reason, we had a killer time. She really loved my nails and I thought the hat she was wearing was to die for. We talked for a long time, and by the time we were done I felt as if I had made a new friend. Now I will know two ghouls when I get to Monster High - which looks like the beginning of a beautiful party. 

[bdgthinks]

The Two Sides of “The Two Sides of Singapore, As Seen By A Food Delivery Rider”, As Seen By A Food Delivery Rider

https://medium.com/@bdgthinksShort pre-amble: Just as how the original Rice article is just the opinion of one writer, what I’m writing below is likewise, just the opinion of mine alone. Also, my opinions are based on my experience working with Deliveroo while Yusuf worked for Grab Food so there may be some differences between the pay structure, zone distances and other company-specific policies.

I was clicking past Instagram stories yesterday afternoon, about to take a nap, when I saw a friend share this recently posted Rice Media article. Part photo journal, part commentary on the gig economy, Singapore’s class divide, and how income inequality is growing more apparent as we adapt to the ever-evolving Covid-19 situation? Sign me the hell up. 

All images courtesy of Ricemedia.co, Yusuf Abdol Hamid, or myself

20 minutes, a few raised eyebrows, and many heated texts later – I reluctantly abandoned my plans to nap because I read some many things in this article (which I highly recommend you read first before reading on!) that I disagree with profoundly. 

Before I start, I want to offer my appreciation to Yusuf (the narrator), Boon Ping (the editor/author), and Rice Media for publishing this piece that will help many understand the oft-overlooked issue of social/income inequality in an engaging and accessible manner. My misgivings towards some of Yusuf’s opinions notwithstanding, the general sentiment towards this article is extremely positive and has done what I believe every great article should do, provoke thought and inspire critical thinking towards the status quo! 

A smattering of positive feedback to the original article 

What I appreciated most about the article is encapsulated by joce_zhang’s comment, that it’s an important reminder to be kinder to people – regardless. 

 However, I couldn’t help but find it slightly troubling that Yusuf and Boon Ping (the editor) seemed to have oversimplified these issues and reduced the stakeholders to caricatures: the rich as the Monopoly Man; and the tireless ‘seen by many as a dead-end job’ delivery couriers as a Dickensian orphan, counting pennies and agonizing over whether they ‘deserve’ a Zinger. 

I worry that one unintended consequence of this article is that some ways social inequality is highlighted may lead to reinforcement of the divide rather than dissolution. 

During my Summer holidays in 2018, I became attracted to the idea of working part-time as a food courier cyclist as in my mind I saw it as being paid to just cycle and listen to podcasts. Since then, I’ve been an on-off Deliveroo cyclist during the shorter holidays or whenever I needed a little bit of extra pocket money. 

In past the two years, I’ve earned exactly $4081.63 from making deliveries (inclusive of bonuses) and dividing it by a conservative $15/h rate, I’ve worked for around 272 hours or about 700 deliveries. split about 60/40 between private properties and HDB flats.

And I guess it’s also partly because of my different experience working in food couriering the past two years that made me feel so much discontent while reading Yusuf’s article. In these 400-odd deliveries to private residences (or heck, in any of my deliveries), I don’t recall having once been treated unnecessarily rudely, aggressively or dismissively by any of the stakeholders I interact with in the job – restaurant servers and managers, condo security management and customers alike. 

What I have experienced actually are customers that have tipped me for my efforts - especially ones who live in fairly inaccessible areas, and (during this circuit breaker period) offered me a snack or a cold drink to drop off their deliveries; security guards who ask me how my day was and if I’ve had my lunch or dinner; and restaurant staff who invite me to have a seat in the restaurant while I wait for my order. 

Some treats from kind customers 

Even when I had made a mess of the customer’s order from their order roiling around during a bumpy 15-minute bike ride (entirely my fault of course!), I’ve never heard anything more than an entirely deserved ‘tsk’ at the disappointment of having half of their pho soup ending up in the plastic bag instead of the bowl – and even then these tsk’s are far and few between! 

And it is (again, solely from my own personal experience) where I felt that Yusuf could have been cherry-picking the worst examples from his own experience to make a point. While service industry personnel are no doubt severely underappreciated and that should be improved as a whole, I feel that such blatant incidents are the exception rather than the rule. 

My point is: the world isn’t binary. Heck, even up to a year ago I was still echoing Yusuf’s entire argument and ranting rather colorfully about the injustice and discrimination of it all. Who are YOU to tell me which lift I can and cannot use? 

In the pursuit of delivering a commentary on some really important social issues, I feel that it fell short by over-emphasizing the ludicrousness of the elite and failing to consider the many other factors that contributes to this problem. 

For one, I thought that the annoyance projected to security guards seeing themselves as ‘a barrier between the riff-raff and their diamond-encrusted residents’ was a bit uncalled for – painting a picture of the fearsome guard – in employ of the up-in-the-air bourgeois hiding in their ivory tower, assailing an innocent courier who had the audacity to think that he had the right to take the same elevator as the residents? 

But then… when we consider that most lift lobbies are a good distance from the security guard posts where the guards are stationed, it doesn’t seem so unreasonable for a guard to have to raise his voice to get his point across, right? 

Being fortunate enough to live in a condo myself, I’ve sometimes felt unease in the duality that security guards experience every single day: faithful bastions in keeping residents safe, spending their days patrolling the lush, landscaped gardens and expansive feature infinity pools, but never once stepping foot into the houses they loyally guard.

And at the end of the day, clocking out to return home to an environment I assume is much less luxurious. 

So why then, do Yusuf and Boon Ping deign to foster an us vs them divide, arbitrarily placing one occupation on one side of the line and another on the opposite?

How about the incredulousness towards the guy who orders a stupid $11 Dal.komm latte every day, or the Grange Road resident who only orders a single scoop of Haagen-Dazs ice cream? 

Like I said, caricatures that highlight and reinforce the rich-poor divide.

Cherry-picking prevents the reader from seeing the single cups of coffee that I’ve delivered from Common Man Coffee Roasters to Tenteram Peak, the eight egg tarts from Whampoa Hawker Center to Toa Payoh. Or my dad, who lives a one-minute walk from the hawker center but still chooses to order through Grabfood because he paid for a subscription service that offers 50 free deliveries for just $10? 

All these customers lived in HDB units. 

As a courier, there’s nothing I appreciate more than collecting an order to find out I’m being paid $5 to cycle one block away, or reaching the restaurant to find out that a customer only ordered an easy-to-transport wrap instead of say, twelve packets of chicken rice – I’m getting paid the same amount anyway. 

So yes, they’re paying our salary, so thank you. 

Juxtaposition is also good and all for making a point, but is it truly accurate and representative? 

The word exclusive is used a lot by Yusuf - but are those who live in a smelly HDB with the pee smell in the corridor exclusively nice, and the expat who lives in the Ardmore Park condo with the super high ceiling exclusively mean? Is it wrong to live (or aspire to live) in an exclusive private property? These are questions to be stimulated, not answers to be given. 

There’s so much to pick apart, but my goal isn’t to say: I’m Right, You’re Wrong, it’s just that say that There Are Two Sides to Everything. 

A brief aside on ‘fulfillment’ 

While I love my part-time job – paying me upwards of $20 an hour to keep fit and listen to podcasts, I’m entirely cognizant that while I’m privileged that it’s a side-hustle, a side-gig, a part-time job to me; it’s also a livelihood to tens of thousands of hardworking people out there. 

Where I could turn off the app and head home when I decided I’ve earned enough in the week to eat at a new restaurant I’ve been eyeing or if it was too hot in the afternoon, most other people working my job can’t – if not, the lights may not turn on the next day. 

In a comment to an earlier draft of this piece, a friend shared that it’s a privilege to be able to separate your social identities. I think it’s also a privilege to have the choice of perspective. We exercise when we’re healthy, as a hobby, or a passion. Deliverymen don’t see it that way. There is no ‘good to do’, there is only ‘must do’. 

At the end of the day when the world starts to recover from Covid-19, you’re going to start getting photo and videography gigs and transition back to the white-collar world. 

As for the security guard and domestic helper at Ardmore Park, the server at the Grange Road Haagen-Dazs, and the tens of thousands of for-hire drivers and delivery couriers? There’s no ‘back to normal’ – this is their normal. 

In a discussion post on Yusuf’s article, a redditor referenced Maslow’s hierarchy of needs:

In the blue-collar normal, where every day is a struggle to meet the needs of financial safety and security, maybe fulfilment isn’t really an aspiration for most. In an article calling for empathy, I feel the quality slightly lacking in my reading. 

A few months back I began my education into inequality in Singapore with Teo You Yenn’s seminal This Is What Inequality Looks Like. In it, the title of one of her essays especially stood out to me: Dignity Is Like Clean Air. She describes, like Yusuf does, that many blue-collar workers in the service industry always feel invisible, that people don’t respect them, that it makes them feel small. I’d like to add on to** Dignity Is Like Clean Air** with the caveat: Segregation Is Not Necessarily Dirty. 

Going back to the ‘fucked up service lifts at the back for the smelly people, the non-residents and stuff’, how about we just call a spade a spade?

In restaurants, servers and chefs who have their meals there usually sit at tables near the kitchen (or even in the kitchen itself). 

In airplanes, consumers have the choice to pay a much higher premium for more leg room and a more gourmet selection of food. In fancy hotels, bellboys and concierge staff have to wear stiff suits – there’s usually a dress code for guests to enter certain areas. 

So, is it really that unfair, for someone who’s had the means to pay for the privilege of living in luxury, to not really want to share a lift with someone who might smell unpleasant from having spent hours cycling under the hot sun? 

The service lift provides the same functionality – no one’s saying that couriers are ‘lesser people’, we’re not being asked to walk up the stairs while the ‘masters’ take the magic moving box. It wasn’t created to separate the ‘undesirables’ from the ‘desirables’ like a pre-Rosa Parks bus, and it’ll be unhealthy to think of it as such – even worse to let it fester. 

To package my views into a neatly categorized box – When I’m Brandon the Deliveryman, it’s perfectly fine for a guard to request for me to take the service lift, but when I’m Brandon the Guest attending a dinner party at the same condo, no one is stopping me from taking the resident lift right? 

Different day, Different fit, Same me 

I still think that it’s incredibly fucked up that some employers make their helpers take a separate lift though. 

But in delivering the core message – is it more helpful to frame your reflection as ‘why do some people treat their subordinates with such contempt and how can we as society hope to change it’, or to just resent the fact that ‘rich people like that la’ – and laugh and pretend we’re friends. 

I guess what I’m most frustrated with about the article is that it had the potential to be so much more. It occasionally flirts with the possibility of going deeper into one issue or the other but ultimately ends up being a reflection of one privileged dude’s brief foray into an industry that many of us often take for granted. 

And because there are so many issues at play, people often fall into the trap of distilling extremely complicated issues into dangerous sweeping statements, which eventually does very little for the problem in question. 

Another frustration I often have towards the discourse towards social issues is that they often fail to carry a call-to-action. Okay, I’ve checked my privilege, I’ve understood that my successes in life is partly a byproduct of the wealthy family I was fortunate to being born into – now what? 

A good rule of thumb that I’ve been trying to implement into my life recently is to think about the net positive or net negative an action has onto society. And hence: 

To the fortunate: While it is important to understand your privilege and not take things for granted, you also don’t have to be ashamed of it. Every dollar you spend goes into the economy and is earned by someone else. So, what can you do to influence a net positive? 

Be kind to everyone, be kind to everyone, be kind to everyone. 

If you can, have the moral courage to call out undesirable behavior – especially if it’s someone close to you. But if you can’t – it’s okay too. Start with yourself. The world could do with less ‘you should do more’ and more ‘thank you for what you did’. 

This is not exclusive to tipping service staff or offering couriers a cold drink (although it is always really welcome!). Offer a kind word to anyone you interact with. Ask the office or school janitor if they’ve had their meal yet, wish your security guard a good morning/good evening when you pass them by, clear your tray when you’re at a fast food restaurant and smile and thank the servers if you pass them by. 

I promise you - these little acts of kindness will go a much longer way received than it takes you to give them. 

To our everyday heroes: Your intrinsic self worth is by no means defined by how an asshole treats you. You are so, so, so much more important.

You are somebody, you are somebody, you are somebody. 

In this essay, my intention is to extend the net positive that Yusuf and Rice has already generated while minimizing the net negatives it may unintentionally create by framing the issue as ‘us vs them’. 

I hope that it will be seen as an addendum to Yusuf’s original piece instead of a correction. To build up on the important issues that **each and every one of us **should acknowledge and then go one step further to see how we can resolve them. I hope that reading this has provoked more questions than it gives answers. I hope that we don’t see the world as black-and-white but how things can move to a more palatable shade of grey. 

Of course, my thoughts, beliefs, and assumptions here could be (and probably are) wildly ignorant and myopic, and I still have so much more to learn. So please confront me, dispute me and tell me where I’m wrong and what I don’t know. 

If I have to leave you with just one takeaway, I hope everyone remembers to be kinder to people – regardless.

(You can also find me at https://medium.com/@bdgthinks!)

[smolbeandrabbles]

Somethin’ I’m Good At - Gerry x Reader (Mississippi Grind)

@sufferthesea​ - Not the one I had in mind, but one none the less ❤

I want to call this a Pre-Sequel to Diligence. Because it is a sequel, but it’s not the one that ‘Reason Why’ is waiting for.

Author’s Note: I remember telling @mandy23b​ that Brett Eldredge songs were to be earned, but then I went to see him in concert on Friday and this one smacked me in the face. And here we are...!

That isn’t to say Gerry didn’t earn this

Somethin’ I’m Good At - Brett Eldredge 

Disclaimer: Mississippi Grind Characters not mine / lyrics not mine / gifs not mine / lyrical liberties taken.

Premise: Having dated for a few months, Gerry knows for sure, there could be one thing he’s good at...

Words: 2056

Warnings: Fluff, mostly.

______

I'm a real bad liar, I'm a burnt toast kinda guy Or if I try to build a fire I'll burn the woods I ain't a mover or a shaker, can't keep up with the pacer Never met a dancefloor that ever did me any good I got a poor sense of direction, sometimes too strong of affection For a whiskey made in Lynchburg, Tennessee If there's a hole in my boat son, you bet that's all she wrote I'm a Titanic sinking down into that deep blue sea I can't change the world, no I can't change a flat If you give me your heart, girl, well, you may never get it back You said you'd never smile again, but oh no, here it comes Would you look at that? I finally found somethin' I'm good at

---

It'd been a few months down the line since your little talk over hot chocolate. When you'd given him your number, and he'd waited two days to call you. When you enquired as to what had taken him so long, he'd simply told you he didn't want to bother you on your day off. And you thought that maybe he hadn't quite grasped the point of you handing your number over.

 Gerry still used the cafe like an office. It was well frequented, but had long periods of quiet where - to him at least - there was little difference between this and being in the estate agents. Besides, most of the time he also had you here. And now he knew that all those small looks and gentle smiles were for him. Really for him.

 You didn't think you'd been in a relationship quite like it. Gerry was, as his demeanour would suggest, just adorable. You'd thought that before just watching him - but now he got to be yours, and somehow he could up the ante on that. The little I saw this and thought of you - which happened fairly often. Or, if you or he wasn't working or...  At least in the cafe on any particular day the I was just thinking about you... messages you'd get on your phone. And each one was sweet - unlike texts along those lines you'd ever got before.

He was cute, and according to a lot of people who had commented more than once, the two of you together we're even cuter.

 He liked watching you work sometimes - but also just liked leaving you to it, and he loved when you'd walk passed and just brush gently against him, or lace your fingers just long enough for it to be considered holding hands, until his arm refused to stretch after you or bend back any further. Or on occasion you'd even reach out and run your hands through his hair - and if he was busy concentrating on his laptop that was your favourite time to do it. Gerry longed for those fleeting moments the most, and you liked that sound he emitted and that excitable shiver as his heavily fixed concentration switched from whatever he was reading to the sensation of your fingertips.

Sometimes you'd stop by because he wanted to show you something, and you'd lean your arms on his shoulders and your head on his, and on occasion kiss his hair - and for a moment things didn't get better for him. But you didn't stop by all the time, and he didn't want to hinder your work either. He just liked being surrounded by you. Even if you were super busy and all he got was the scent of your perfume as you ran back and forth between tables. He would still smile absentmindedly and get to think about you.

 But, if you ever had a break between the busier and quieter shifts, or you got a full lunch break you still liked sitting with him. Gerry might have told you about the way he hyperfixated on things... How his obsession, and addiction, to gambling had all culminated and been put on... you. But if it was supposed to induce pressure, you never felt it. And he was the only consistently calm thing in the room. You knew he'd slide his laptop and notes to one side and give you his full attention as you told him about your day, or picked his brain for advice. He knew when you came first. If you had an issue, and what hadn't he been through!?, he likely had some kind of solution. He just liked seeing you smile - and being the cause of such a beautiful thing. Gerry knew just when to make the right joke, or be gentle and easy going, or get excited about something... He'd watched you so long he knew your emotions, your expressions... Your body language. That was something he’d picked up from tables that he could be thankful for. Perhaps he knew you better than you knew yourself - and he was only getting more used to it now you were dating. And that obsession meant he wanted to know everything, and help in whatever way he could. You were still responsible for keeping him from tables, after all.

Sometimes he still felt like he was gambling with feelings... It wasn't like Gerry could possibly know where this was going to lead.

 Sometimes he'd drop by for a few hours and then leave and come back, the way he used to when you'd have his coffee order ready for him by the time he crossed the parking lot. Only this time the name Gerry was accompanied by a heart, and he got to kiss you over the counter as he picked up the cup and left. ‘See you later’ really meaning that, even if he didn't return to the cafe.

When he did return from his house viewings though, he was always happy, and all he wanted to show you were these houses. And Gerry didn't miss out on one single detail, because sometimes pictures couldn't do any justice to it. You gotta hear about this one, it has the works!! He didn't seem like the type to get so excited about houses - even if he was an estate agent. And, usually, Gerry would agree with you... That was simply what his job happened to be. And he was just pretty good at it. But, he wasn't thinking about the people he was showing around, or even the houses themselves. (Heck, not even the pay check and well it's a job!) But he was thinking about aspects of those houses, and you.

It always came back to you.

What would you like to live in? What sort of house would you walk into and say this is where I want to be. Would it be with him? That's obviously where his thought process was going. But Gerry knew it was far too early to start asking you questions like that - and he kept it quiet. But secretly he'd show you these houses and take note of what you liked. Or, what caught your interest when he described them. If he could build up that perfect picture in his mind - he knew eventually it would come onto the market... Even if it was only close enough; and he'd find it.

 Back when you'd first had a real discussion, you'd talked about being therapy for him. But you didn't talk like any therapist he'd ever known. And he thought you were doing better for him than any therapist ever could. And sometimes those conversations got intense - and you took a lot of Gerry's emotions and burdens on for yourself. So he would pull you to him and cuddle you and end up reversing the situation. He was as much a remedy for you.

The end goal was just to see you smile again - he didn't matter what kind or how small - he'd count it as a win if he saw one. Usually it didn't take long, the second you were wrapped in his arms and one of his extensive collection of jumpers, you were almost always good to go.

 But today you were having a tough one, and he could tell that the second you sat down. You had this cheerful service front you put on. But Gerry knew all about fronting situations - and yours was a real poker face - so he'd been worried from the moment he'd heard it. Your shoulders slumped and you placed your head in your hands - exhaling loudly. "What's up?" This time he closed the laptop as he slid it across the table - and leant forward on his elbows "Nothing." You looked up at him "It's okay." Well, he knew - or at least from what he'd heard - that it wasn't customers, so it must have been personal. "You know you can tell me anything." He reached for your hands, "And you also know that you won't get passed someone who spent a lot of his life at card tables with a face like that-!" He meant your fake little smile; the only one he wouldn't accept seeing. "I dunno, I don't want to bother you with it." He gave a shrug "You might as well, I'm going to worry anyway." "Well that's really the last thing I want." Your eyes met his, "Me too, so just tell me." "I dunno... Maybe it's all in my head." "Boy trouble?" He raised an eyebrow, and you laughed - and it was score 1 to Gerry because that was genuine. "No, you know, for the first time in my life I actually don't have boy trouble." His smile became playful, "Good - had me worried for maybe half a second..." You ran your hands across the tabletop to his, and let him hold you between his; large hands enveloping yours safely. "I guess… I just… Sometimes I guess, it just feels like my friends would be better off without me… Then there’s times you miss one thing and you just feel totally lost.” You gave a shrug, “I don't think it's conscious - I can't blame 'em. I don’t blame them. But… If you go quiet for a while what happens? Does it show they care if they don't bother you because they are respecting your space? Make you think they don't care if they don't check in? Maybe I'm just fragile. I'm certain some of it's in my head." You looked to him "You ever get that?" Given that his hands were in yours, Gerry tipped his head as he began thinking; "I'm sure everyone wants to give you their 5 cents on it." "For sure, but I'm asking you." "Friends? I ran out of a lot of them a long while ago when I was incredibly bad at paying people back. Enjoy the ones you have. Remove the ones you no longer enjoy. Not worth risking your own health if it keeps happening, huh?" He gave a gentle smile, "Ask me and my... Acquaintances!" You smiled gently; "I'm not so great at forgiveness either..." or maybe you just weren’t good with the right words, sometimes you felt you found them a little too late… "Forgive those worth forgiving. Unless the bridge is well and truly burned… But that’s not my decision to make – is it?" "But what if my reaction-!" His eyes narrowed; "Hey. Who do you think I care about more?" "Me." "You." He nodded in agreement "So, whose side am I always going to be on?" That smile continued to grow as you realised what he was getting at "Mine." "Yours." His smile continued to coax yours out of hiding. "I'm happy to talk it out with you, but I want you to realise that all I'm going to want at the end of it is you happy..." "Well that's all I want for you, too." "Me?" He tipped his head once more, gentle sparkle in his eyes "Whenever I'm with you I'm happy. So, of course..." He chuckled "Yeah. I'm... I'm happy." But then he pushed it right back where it belonged; "Are you?"

There was silence for a moment as you looked between his eyes, and that prolonged smile on his face. That you were just as responsible for as he was the one manifesting on your own. You realised that it was a longer discussion for another time - but you knew that by what he was saying he'd help you as far as he could... But the decision was yours. Still, it was a million-dollar decision, and he'd probably made a billion of those in his life. Probably not always called right, so hopefully he'd help you with the right call. Even if that would be all your own.

 "I'm happy." And there it was, a genuine, beautiful, full smile. Almost a beam, but there was a soft blush across your cheeks as you admitted it all out loud. And he knew it wouldn't be long until he got it there.

Gerry wasn't good at much, he knew. But he sure was good at that.

---

@dennismitchell @happyskywhale @wltz-bby​ @3134045126​ #MendoTagSquad.

[anchorsandadderall]

Potholes and Pumpkin Pie

Rating: G

Mechanic AU that begins with a flat tire and ends in a rousing argument about Thanksgiving desserts. For @gfdisterek because car troubles suck and I like to think that they end in something good sometimes.

It’s a quiet Wednesday at Derek’s shop. Days around a holiday usually are for mechanics. Beacon Hills is close to approximately nothing of note or interest, so incoming relatives are usually fetched from the airport by their loved ones. It’s that or risk spending precious pre-prep time out searching the back roads in the woods for them when they get lost. So, Derek is sitting behind the front desk, flipping through a copy of Top Gear from June and pondering the merits of ordering newer ones for the waiting room, when the bell above the door jingles to announce someone is coming it. They come in so hard that the bell smacks into the metal framing above the door, making a jarring clang.

Derek startles and looks up, scowling and prepared to tell someone to take it easy on his damn door. Standing there, though, is a guy who looks like he took a detour to Hell on his way to work. His light blue shirt is wrinkled and disheveled and has a wide swath of a dark brown coffee stain across the chest that even makes it down to his khakis. Half of his brown hair is gelled into an ‘artfully messy’ look. The other half is actually messy and slightly damp. When the guy braces his hands on the desk and almost collapses against it, his amber eyes are wild and kind of desperate. Derek decides not to push him any further.

“OhmygodI’msogladyou’reopen!” the guy says, all of the words leaving his mouth in one long rush.

“…Yeah, I’m open,” Derek says, keeping his voice carefully even. The last thing he needs is to excite this guy even more. “You need to breathe.”

The guy nods furiously and sucks in a hard breath. “Right. Breathe. I’m breathing.”

“Good.” Derek looks over the guy’s shoulder and sees a blue Jeep out front. It looks old, but it’s in one piece. So, his very wired customer probably didn’t just get into an accident. “What can I do for you?”

“I hit a pothole and I need a tire. Like, super quick. I’m late for work.”

Derek grabs a clipboard with an inspection sheet already clipped to it and stands up from his chair. “Let me take a look at it and see if I can patch it.”

The guy pushes off the desk and follows right on Derek’s heels to the door. “No, I’m pretty sure it’s gonna need a new tire. Right now.”

Derek opens his mouth to tell the guy that a shop this small doesn’t just stock tires, especially not ones big enough for a Jeep, but he stops in the door to the shop. He’s only vaguely aware that the guy runs into him (and that his shirt is still really wet).

“What… happened to your tire?” The tire is more shredded than anything Derek has ever seen before. And he’s seen branches and half-boulders do a lot of bad shit to cars. But this tire is in ribbons. Multiple ribbons of fat black rubber, hanging sad and limp from the rim, like one of those dogs with eyes always covered by their hair.

“Pothole.”

Derek looks over his shoulder at the guy. “Just how fast were you going?”

“I was late for work.”

It’s not an answer but it also kind of is. It’s like invoking the 5th amendment. “Right. Well, you’re right. You need a new tire.”

“Great. How long will that take? I’m late for work.”

“So you’ve said.” Derek heads outside and starts to write in the vehicle information on the form. Jeep. Blue. New tire needed. “I don’t have anything in stock that’s going to fit your car. I’ll need to order the tire.”

The guy makes a wounded sound. “When… will it get here? Soon?”

“Uh… maybe Friday? Nowhere is gonna be open tomorrow since it’s Thanksgiving.” Derek pauses on the form. The guy is tinting pink. “Hey. Breathe.”

The guy sucks in another breath. And then another one. “Okay. Okay, Friday. That’s fine. You have drop-off service, right?”

Derek has to look over his shoulder at his shop front just to make sure it didn’t suddenly get bigger or more impressive. Nope. Still his single little box of a shop with ‘Derek Hale- Mechanic’ stenciled on the window and in need of repainting. The red flip-around Open/Closed sign because the neon one went out and hell if he knows how to fix that thing.

“Does this place look like it has a drop-off service?”

“Yes?” The guy’s voice is a little shrill with desperate hope.

“No. I’m the only one here.”

“Why are you the only one here??” The guy gestures wildly at his Jeep. “Like… what if this was a different kind of broken and you could fix it? Who would be at the front desk for customers??”

“My front desk guy has the day off to go see family out of state,” Derek says, getting a little irritated that he apparently has to discuss his business planning with this idiot. “Should I ask you why you don’t have any friends you can call for a ride?”

The guy sighs out a defeated breath, slumping forward a little. “They’re all out of town to see family,” he admits. “Sorry. Okay, um… how late are you open? Can I bring this back by tonight?”

Derek looks at the leaning Jeep, then at the remains of the tire. “You joking, right? You can’t drive on this thing. You’ll damage the rim.”

The guy actually thinks for a minute about that, as if that’s not a really easy thing to decide is an awful idea. “How expensive would that be to fix?”

“Way more than a tire.” Derek opens the door of the Jeep and begins copying the VIN from the faded sticker inside the door. The Styrofoam coffee cup is in the cupholder, just a sad inch of cold coffee left in the bottom. The ceiling also managed to get hit, taking on a large, wet stain. Everything smells like pumpkin spice creamer. “What’s the big deal? You’re a wreck, you should probably just call in anyway. You smell like coffee and fear sweat.”

“Wow, excuse you!” The guy shoulders him aside, practically climbing over him to kneel on the driver’s seat and reach into the back. He gingerly lifts a cooler between the seats and shimmies back out of the car.

Derek has no idea what to make of the way the guy cradles the thing like it’s his kid or something. “Is… that an organ? Do they let you deliver organs in this thing? Are you even allowed to stop for coffee when you’re delivering those?”

The guy goggles at him. “What? No! It’s my pie.”

Derek waits, but that appears to be the entire explanation. “…Okay?”

“My pie. For the Thanksgiving cook-off at work.”

“You’re going to drive to work on your rim… because there’s a contest?” Derek says slowly.

“Someone has to beat Danny! He’s held the dessert spot for two years and he can’t be allowed to just sweep it this year! Someone has to keep him in check.” The guy opens the top of the cooler and makes a piteous whine. “Man, my whipped cream rosettes got smashed!”

Derek is pretty sure that this guy is crazy. Or has horribly skewed priorities. But he’s also a pretty sad sight and the roads are almost empty so…

“Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll take you to work. But you’re on your own for getting back.”

“Seriously?” The guy’s face lights up in a smile that makes Derek’s stomach do weird things. “Oh my god, you’re awesome! I’m gonna write you the most amazing review on Google!”

“Uh… thanks.” Derek has no idea if he’s on Google. He’ll ask Isaac on Monday.

 It takes twenty minutes to get all the information down and get the Jeep moved into the safety of the attached garage and to flip the sign to Closed on the door. Derek thinks that the guy (whose name is unpronounceable, but everyone calls him Stiles) might actually fidget right out of his skin. When he pulls his Camaro around the front of the shop, Stiles practically throws himself inside and pushes the cooler at Derek while he buckles his seat belt.

“So. You’re going to beat Danny.” Derek isn’t good at small talk, and the only thing he knows about Stiles is that he’s a panicky idiot and he really wants to beat someone called Danny.

“Damn right I am. No more watching him preen around the office.” Stiles grins and pats the cooler in his lap. “This baby is gonna be his undoing. I saw his Instagram this morning and he went way too fancy and made this weird pear almond-y tart thing.”

“What did you make?” Derek turns onto the main road and heads toward the business district.

“Pumpkin pie.”

Derek glances over for a second, then looks back at the road. “His sounds fancier.”

“So?” Derek can see Stiles puff himself out slightly in his periphery. “It’s not a fancy dessert contest. It’s about taste.”

Derek makes a doubtful sound. “Is it that hard to make a good pumpkin pie? Everyone makes pumpkin pie.”

“Mine is special!” Stiles snaps. “Are you a Michelin chef, Mr. Thanksgiving Critic?”

“…No. I don’t even do Thanksgiving.” Derek admits, glaring at the road.

“See? So you don’t get to talk.” Stiles glares ahead at the road.

“Shut up. It’s still just a boring pumpkin pie.”

“Uh, except it’s not.” Stiles lifts the lid of the cooler and shoves it under Derek’s nose, which makes him swerve the car slightly in surprise. “Smell that? That’s a gingersnap crust.”

“Stop that!” Derek pushes the cooler away. No wonder Stiles ripped his tire to hell on a damn pothole. “Who the hell uses cookies to make pie crust?”

“I do, and it’s delicious!”

“A pie is sweet enough on its own.” Derek pulls up in front of an office building that looks like all of the others in the carefully-matched business district. “Go to work.”

Stiles growls and shoves open the top to the cooler. “Gingersnaps are spicy! It adds layers!”

Derek cranes back when Stiles brings his hand out, holding a wedge of pie with a tuft of whipped cream that’s smashed down, only a few neatly piped ridges left. “Put that back.”

“No, taste it!” Stiles shoves the pie into Derek’s mouth when he tries to protest. “Tell me that’s not better than some stupid tart that’s probably on Pinterest.”

Derek sputters around a mouthful of pie. “Are you insa-”

Tap-tap-tap

Derek and Stiles both startle at the same time and look out of the passenger window to see a redhead in a crisp brown pencil skirt and white blouse. There’s also a guy with blond hair. And one with bronze skin. They all look equally horrified. But not, Derek notices, terribly surprised.

“Stilinski. Let’s go, we can’t eat until the stupid judging is over,” the blond calls.

Stiles shoves his door open. “He said my pie is gonna beat your tart, Danny,” he says, slamming down the lid of the cooler.

“No, I didn’t!”

“Shut up, Derek!” Stiles flails free of his seatbelt, foisting the cooler into the redhead’s hands. “You just need to taste it without the whipped cream being smashed.”

“I tasted it just fine!”

“No, you didn’t! Just come over tomorrow and taste it the right way!” Stiles snatches the cooler away and stalks up to the building, yanking on the door. The lock clangs at him and he scrambles at his hip for his badge.

Derek is left riled up, deeply confused, and holding half of a slice of pie in his hand. The two men followed Stiles, but the redhead is still standing on the curb, writing on the back of a business card. “…Did he just invite me over for Thanksgiving?”

“Dinner is at 4.” The redhead reaches in and neatly tucks the card into the tuft of whipped cream on the wedge of pie. There’s an address scribbled on the back of it. “And if you marry him, I’m going to tell this story at your wedding.”

[yellowcatcassette]

How to Become a Hitman

You know that question you’ve always been asked as a child? It goes something like, “What do you want to be when you grow up?”

When I was a child, at first I didn't know that whenever you are asked that question, you are suppose to answer what kind of career or job you want to have. When someone asked me just what I wanted to be, my answer was simple. I wanted to be me, Satiné, forever. Sure, if I ever marry someone, if I love someone enough, if I ever find someone I love that much, I would let them change my last name. But as I child, I resolved to always be Satiné.

And they made me change my answer. Because apparently, just being me wasn't good enough. No one cares about who you are when you’re an adult. It's all about what job you have and how you make a living. That's what supposedly defines an adult. Either that or my answer was rejected because I couldn't pronounce my own name right when I was younger. Yeah, it wouldn't have been right to let a child go around saying, “I wanna be Satan when I grow up.” 

But Matthias had an acceptable answer. I’m the older sibling, yet whatever he says is always the right thing. Not that I am jealous or anything. His answer back then was just as good as mine.

When he was a child, Matthias wanted to be a hitman.

And of course that was the better answer. Matthias didn't want to be just Matthias when he grew up. He wanted to be dad.

Matthew Dauch, the best hitman in the business. About a hundred or so lives were taken by him. It wasn't just his way of putting food on the table. It was his passion. He was wholeheartedly devoted to serving his clients with unexpected death. And fervor just makes half the hitman. His skill and expertise made the old standards skyrocket. Even the most clean freak hitman cannot manage to leave without the smell of blood and torn flesh lingering. But dad, he left absolutely nothing behind. No one ever heard his targets scream when he attacked. But in most cases, somehow everyone knew it was him. A death scene left so spotless could not be the work of any other. People theorized that he wasn't even human and simply swallowed his targets in one gulp. But I can assure you that's not true. Dad was just that good at disposing of people. 

Before I was nine, all the kids would know me as Satiné Dauch, the daughter of the ultra-cool Matthew Dauch, a hero to all. Mess with her and you'll mess with Matthew Dauch. If he’s cool and better than everyone else, then so must she be.

When my dad was killed, however, then I become known as Satiné Dauch, daughter of the ultra-lame Harlem Dauch, the quiet, ugly widow who runs the boring thread shop. Mess with her and you'll- well, actually, no one ever comes to mom’s shop anymore. So I suppose charging an extra 15% on your purchase of plastic needles isn't as threatening as losing your life. It doesn't matter, mom would never do anything even like that. She’s too soft. Too mom.

Speaking of mom, she was the one thing dad would give up being a hitman for. I don't know what someone like him ever saw in mom, but it was enough to make him quit his career, help take care of her tiny shop, and raise two docile children. In other words, she made him weak and vulnerable. Even so, dad’s legacy lived on after his retirement, as did the jealousy of his rivals. So one day, years after dad “settled down,” as mom calls it, bullets shattered the shop window and dad’s rival hitmen (who, when you were as famous and successful as the great Matthew Dauch, was pretty much every hitman out there) tore his body to untidy shreds. Understandably, common hitman sense justified the kill and none of the involved assassins faced charges.

Sounds traumatic, right? What a harsh reality a child must suffer, they said behind my back. But me, I didn't cry. If anything, I consider having such bloodthirsty enemies like dad had to be an honor. But of course, mom, being mom, cries even today.

Matthias told me a year after the incident occurred and when he finally learned how to speak that he knew about the conspiracy against dad before he was killed. Apparently, he heard it from one of his teacher aids who was dating a nameless hitman and couldn't keep her mouth shut. How unfortunate- the only member of the family who knew of dad’s impending death couldn't talk until he was seven.

But let's move on from my dad. I've boasted about him enough. This is Matthias’ legend. Well, it will become a legend one day. For now, it’s a tale only I can start.

Becoming a hitman was just the beginning, because Matthias wanted to be exactly like dad. And he needed to, because there was no way mom could also play the father of the Dauch family. Problem is, as a child, Matthias was nothing like dad. Dad was confident, poised, graceful, and clever. Matthias was timid, clumsy, and took decades to understand a simple pun. And now that that Matthias has grown up, he is pretty much the same Matthias. Since Mom became even more pathetic after dad was killed, she provides lousy support for Matthias’ hitman dreams. Looks like it's up to me to make this kid a proper hitman.

So how does one set himself up in the hitman industry, you ask? Well, allow me, Satiné Dauch, a member of the soon to be Dauch Hitman Dynasty to describe the process in a few easy steps.

First things first, you have to pick your hook. You need a theme, something that makes you stand out among the hundred other hitmen out there. Pick a stage name if you need that extra boost.

Dad’s thing, shadow manipulation, will never be topped. Imagine this: you're sitting at home watching Saturday Night Live and are on your third slice of cheesecake. It occurs to you that the shadows cast by your recliner, your flat screen, and your coffee table seem to be engulfing your own shadow. Suddenly the silhouette of Matthew Dauch appears on your vomit colored carpet and the real Matthew Dauch appears behind you. The last thing you see is a shadow puppet show on the floor depicting the gory fate you're about to meet. Dad’s stage name was, in fact, Puppeteer in the early years of his career. Soon enough, after becoming so well known, he went by his own name, and by doing so his ordinary name suddenly held more weight and power.

Matthias is all around just as boring as mom, so we had trouble trying to figure out what his hitman motif should be. We were sitting in mom’s shop one afternoon when Matthias picked up a spool of red thread and suggested he could be a sewing themed hitman. At first I thought that was a stupid idea. But in an attempt to persuade me, he picked up a metal sewing needle and pointed it at me in a jabbing motion. At that gesture his vision clicked in my mind. I then dared him to stab me, just for the fun of inflicting pain. Matthias chickened out. By that point I could tell I had more work to do than I expected.

So we went through with Matthias’ needle and thread theme after all. Mom, who use to work as a seamstress, actually became useful during this part of the process. Matthias was able to coax her out of her slump to make him a hitman costume. Her end result is a hooded trench coat with a frenetic stitched pattern and loose satin draped across the waist and shoulders. I think the costume looks too fancy to be the intimidating garb of a killer, but I let Matthias keep it. Maybe “pretty boy hitman” could also be his thing. Besides, mom put a lot of effort into making the coat and I have to admit, it is of excellent quality. But just for an extra touch, I make Matthias wear dad’s old black wispy scarf.

The next step to become an official hitman is to find clients. Back in dad’s day, there were about twenty well known hitmen in the metropolitan area, and in our borough there were three including dad himself. But today there are hundreds of hitmen, each well known and skilled to varying degrees. That being said, it's much harder for a no-name hitman to receive even his first client.

Matthias is not entirely a no-name hitman though. Instead of using whatever cheesy stage name Matthias would have come up with, I decided using his real name would be best. Like I said, the name Dauch has a lot of power thanks to dad. So I thought Matthias would have a multitude of clients on his first day.

But nope, of course it wouldn't have been that easy. Maybe people are scared to contact Matthias because of the controversy surrounding dad’s death. Many of his former rivals are still active today. I suppose it’s been assumed that anyone who hires Matthias would become some other hitman’s victim. If that really is a big reason, I think that's ridiculous. After all, a hitman wouldn't dare kill a normal civilian not on a hit list. That would just be murder. No, hitmen are much more organized and professional.

The other reason I theorize for Matthias’ slow business is that no one believes he could do the job as well as dad did. And yeah, they’re right, but somebody has to give him a chance. A year and a half has passed since Matthias’ profile on Hitman.org went public. The number of “assignments” Matthias has discarded technically remains a big fat zero.

I use the word “technically” because in actuality Matthias has committed half a thousand hitman jobs, and they were all for the same client and target each time.

There is no good way to sugar coat this, so I will just say it as it is: Matthias’ number one and only customer is me, Satiné Dauch. I gave Matthias orders to kill the same victim over and over. Five hundred and forty-seven times to be exact.

Matthias’ rate is the same as dad’s: $10,000 per victim, an additional $1500 for a double speed kill, an additional $1200 for extra customizable torture methods deployed during the kill, an additional $1000 for each pre-kill paranoia attack, and a $12,000 combo deal. 

Now I’m a freelance artist who only works in the black market of doll implantation. For the old farts out there, doll implants is a hot trend among the tweens and teens and in betweens these days. It seems that the only skill I have is, lo and behold, sewing. Thanks a lot, mom. Fortunately, kids think it’s cute to have their consciousness uploaded into dolls. I stitch and sew the dolls according to whatever design customers pick, be it a stuffed dinosaur, the newest Disney princess, a blob like creature with centipede arms, whatever. Like a good ink tattoo, doll implantation is permanent, yet due to certain illegal reasons my commissions earn me just above minimum wage. 

So, no, of course I didn’t invest $5,470,000 in hitman kills. Although whenever the day felt lacking, I added in some of those extra benefits, but at no pecuniary cost.

I force Matthias to give me a family discount; in other words, he does hitman jobs for me free of charge. That takes care of the money problem. I convinced Matthias that these freebie kills will pay off in the end, because soon he’ll have real clients buying that $12,000 combo deal.

You should be wondering who my selected victim is if you are not already. Again, ditching the sugar coating, it’s me, Satiné Dauch. Matthias has killed me five hundred and forty-seven times, and tonight will mark the five hundred and forty-eighth.

Hear me out, this makes sense.

Here’s something the media does not always cover: anyone can sue the client of a hitman on behalf of the victim killed. It was normal for dad’s clients to be taken into court by his victim’s loved ones. Fortunately, the hitman and his rights are always protected under law during such a case.

I could easily pick any oblivious stranger who passes by the shop window as a target for Matthias. But if that random stranger’s friends or family learn that I am the client (and today there are many methods of tracking down clients), then even though Matthias is otherwise safe, I will be brought to court. If the court rules that my reasons for targeting so-and-so are unfair, and in my case, that would be most likely, then I’d face charges for murder.

I’m the only person I know who has no one else who would sue on my behalf. Matthias suing me would be stupid, and he doesn’t have the guts to do that anyway. Mom? Is mom even alive anymore, who knows? Who cares?  I don’t care. She won’t do it.

Yet every daughter of a dead retired hitman is fully aware that once someone is dead, that’s it. He can’t be killed twice. The first time Matthias killed me, Satiné Dauch was technically dead, just like her father. Her corpse was found suspended in her bedroom by a web of red thread, needles impaled in every direction. That day Matthias’ body count meter online officially went up by one.

Keep up now, this is my favorite part of Matthias’ story. Like I said, I’m a freelance doll implant artist. Before the first kill, I simply uploaded myself into one of my commissions, a doll that was a cross between a fish and a waffle, before Matthias killed Satiné the human, who by then was in a vegetative state. From there, everything became simple.

I figure that once people see Matthias’ kill count rising, they will all assume that everyone is either hiring Matthias or being killed by him, therefore making him a popular and successful hitman. As for me, all I have to do is sew myself a new doll body, download my soul into it, and wait for Matthias to arrive at the newest location we agreed on, and watch as he kills who I was before.

It’s a swell life, really. By day, I create a new doll to become, and the only daily concern I have is to give my upcoming body at least two appendages to sew with for the next day. I don’t experience hunger or fatigue. The only pain I feel is at night when Matthias destroys my last vessel.

See, the thing with soul transactions is that even if you’re not in your old body, that old body is still a part of you. From the death of my original body and through the destruction of the last five hundred forty-seven dolls, I felt everything. Every stab of the needle, every pull and burn of the thread, I’ve never grown numb to it. It reassures me that when dad died, at least he had one last thrill before he was gone. If you ever have the chance to feel such discomfort, I recommend it. Really clears up the sinuses and sorrow, you know?

Every now and then, Matthias begs me to let him quit. Even though he’s a legal adult now, he still bawls like a baby at every kill. I keep reminding him that if he won’t shut up his blubbering, a passersby will hear and his yet to exist reputation will never recover from that.

I think back to when I was a child often, when dad was still alive, and when I thought I brilliantly answered that certain question inquiring who I wanted to grow up to be. Of course I certainly never answered with something like, “I want to be a new doll each day before my brother brutally kills me.”

The irony is that after five hundred forty-seven deaths, I am no longer Satiné Dauch, who I once was so hell-bent to be. Nope, Satiné Dauch is dead and forgotten. I am nothing but statistics in Matthias’ hitman record. Likewise, Matthias is still a ways away from achieving his childhood ambition. Maybe after five hundred more deaths Matthias will become just like dad. Maybe after one thousand. One million. A trillion, if Matthias is more pathetic than I think.

Doesn’t matter. Nothing has mattered after dad died. But once Matthias and I resurrect the legendary hitman Matthew Dauch, everything will all mean something once more.