#mickey mantel

[quietwingsinthesky]

i have many many thoughts about rose & tentoo and how their relationship would evolve in this verse. about how you can't just take the love you have for one person and put it on someone else. not even a clone, a regeneration, a metacrisis. about how that doesn't mean you can't love them, or that you can't fall in love with them the same way, but that love has to be for them.

[wheelsgoroundincircles]

The Two Most Iconic Wheel Standers of All Time.

Hurst Hemi Under Glass

Hurst Hemi Under Glass is the name given to a series of exhibition drag racing cars campaigned by Hurst Performance between 1965 and 1970 across North America and ended with the '68 model year.

Each wheelstander was based on the current Plymouth Barracuda for the corresponding model year. The car was so named because the fuel injected Chrysler Hemi engine was placed under the Barracuda's exceptionally large rear window. The result of the rearward weight transfer was a "wheelie" down the length of the drag strip.

The Hemi Under Glass was developed by Hurst Corporation to showcase their products in the A/FX class - precursor to funny cars. In 1965, George Hurst hired Wild Bill Shrewsberry of Mansfield, OH, an accomplished drag racer who had raced for both Mickey Thompson and Jack Chrisman. After helping to pioneer it into the first wheelstanding exhibition car, Shrewsberry left at the end of the season to pursue his own project.

For the 1966 season, Bob Riggle, who was also from Mansfield, OH and was involved with Hurst as a mechanic and fabricator became the second driver of the Hurst Hemi Under Glass car and campaigned the cars with Hurst as the sponsor until later years when the Hurst Company was sold to Sunbeam. At that point, the car ran without the Hurst logo and was simply known as the "Hemi Under Glass." Riggle's career ended in 1975 with a devastating accident at US 30 Dragway in Gary, Indiana.

Popular model kits of the car were produced in 1/32 scale by Aurora Plastics Corporation and in 1/25 scale by Model Products Corporation. A limited edition 1/18 scale diecast model of the 1966 car is currently available from Highway 61.[1]

Riggle returned to exhibition racing in 1992 with a 1966 injected version of the car and a 1968 supercharged version of the car.[2] The original 1965 car was stripped for its power train and parts in 1967 for the new Barracuda chassis/body style and no longer exists.[3][4]

While taping the June 26, 2016 episode of Jay Leno's Garage, Riggle, with Leno riding in the passenger seat, rolled a newly constructed '69 version of the Hemi Under Glass after turning sharply at the end of a wheelie run. Neither of the men were hurt, but the car sustained significant damage.[5] Leno was riding along to fulfill another item on his 'Bucket List.'

July, 2016, Mike Mantel of New Braunfels, TX was named as the new driver of the Hemi Under Glass. Mantel took over the '68 car which has the longest performing history of any Hemi Under Glass ever constructed and becomes the third official driver in the brand's 50+ year history.[6] Mantel was only 6 years old when the Hemi Under Glass first took to the track. He has a wide range of driving experience from drag cars, road race, and movie cars. Mantel's original hometown is the city of Hawthorne, CA.

Billy Lawrence Golden (December 31, 1933 – September 14, 2015),[1] nicknamed "Maverick", was an American drag racer. He is probably best known for driving the Little Red Wagon A/FX wheelstander pickup exhibition racer.

Little Red Wagon

Born in Shawnee Township, Illinois, Golden joined the US Marines and first became interested in drag racing while at Camp Pendleton.

Golden was given his "Maverick" nickname in the late 1950s by an announcer at a Southern California dragstrip, because he chose to drive an unconventional 361 cu in (5,920 cc)-powered Dodge Custom Royal. He started racing in AHRA Super Stock, driving Dodges for several years. He was one of the first drivers in AHRA S/S to successfully run an automatic transmission. In 1960, Chrysler offered to provide him parts, when he was driving a Dodge Phoenix, powered by a 330 hp (250 kW) 330 cu in (5.4 L) with twin Carter carburetors and cross-ram intake manifold; the car was capable of quarter-mile times of 13.7 seconds.

By 1962, he was a factory driver, driving an S/SA Dodge. At the 1962 AHRA Winternationals, driving his bright yellow hemi "Taxi Cab" Dodge 330, he scored a "stunning" victory over "Dyno Don" Nicholson's 409 cu in (6,700 cc) factory Chevrolet at Fontana Drag City, to take the Stock Eliminator title, Chrysler's only Nationals win for 1962.

In 1963, Golden worked with Jim Nelson of Dragmasters to improve the car, and won seven Super Stock races out of eight events, taking the Midwest Championship.

At the end of the 1964 season, Chrysler proposed Golden drive the Little Red Wagon A/FX pickup. which became drag racing's first wheelstanding truck.

Little Red Wagon's first outing, at the AHRA Grand American event at Lions Drag Strip, was an 11 second pass at 120 mph (190 km/h). The crowd's very enthusiastic reaction prompted Golden to turn the A/FX truck into a wheelstanding exhibition racer, which he developed a steering mechanism for himself, relying on experience from his day job at Douglas Aircraft Corporation. The wheelstander was wrecked in 1969, 1971, and 1975; the third crash was nearly fatal to Golden.

Golden retired in 2003. He died on September 14, 2015.[3]

[stood-onthecliffside]

dream of mickey mantel by bleachers // fresh out the slammer by taylor swift

[taehyungfirst]

My opinion is that there is no way is there a lady in Taehyung’s life because ass dining chairs, boxing figurines and Mickey Mouse on the mantel. Is this too obvious?

I’M CRYINGGGGGG

That huge spider-looking monument he got in his living room 😭 The shark man too… yeah a queer man decorated that house.

[seanpultz]

Three Wiseguys in The Haunted Mansion

If the Ghostbusters, Abbott and Costello and The Three Stooges exploring The Haunted Mansion isn't enough, How about three wiseguys from Tony Soprano's outfit taking a little spook's tour.

WARNING: This contains strong language

Paulie Walnuts squinted up at the towering edifice, a grin playing on his weathered lips. "Lookit this shit, Chris. This place is like someone took the Rathbone mansion and slapped a Mickey Mouse sticker on it."

Christopher Moltisanti, his eyes wide with a mix of skepticism and childlike excitement, shot back, "You're full of it, Paulie. This is Disney, not some mobster's summer home. But I gotta admit, it's got that same spooky vibe."

Silvio Manfred Dante, ever the cool head, lit a cigarette and took a long drag, the smoke curling. "Looks like we're in for a real taste of the high life now, huh?" he said with a smirk. "But keep it down, will ya? We're supposed to be on vacation, not scaring off the tourists."

Paulie, Chris, and Silvio shuffled along the winding queuing path, their eyes darting from the toppled birdbath to the eerie hearse. "What the fuck is this, a haunted junkyard?" Paulie quipped, nudging Chris with his elbow.

"I dunno, Paulie," Chris replied, trying to peer through the gloom. "But if I see one of those seven dwarfs trying to sell me a magic mirror, I'm outta here."

Silvio chuckled, flicking his cigarette butt into a bush. "Keep your cool, guys. It's all just props for the kiddies. Ain't no real spooks in this place."

But as they approached the mansion's entrance, the laughter died in their throats. A gust of wind howled through the trees, carrying with it the distant sound of organ music and a faint, ghostly wail. The air grew colder, and even Silvio's smirk faltered. "Well, shit," he murmured. "Maybe this ain't gonna be such a walk in the park after all."

"Look at these fuckin' faces," Paulie exclaimed, pointing at the busts as they shuffled closer. "They're staring at us like we owe 'em money. What kind of welcome is that?"

Chris leaned in, squinting at the nameplate beneath a particularly grim-looking bust. "Captain Culpepper Clyne? Sounds like a dick I knew back in the day."

Silvio rolled his eyes. "Keep it classy, Chris. This is supposed to be a family park."

The path grew narrower, lined with crypts and headstones that seemed to lean in as if whispering secrets. The mournful toll of a bell echoed through the air, and a sudden chill sent a shiver down their spines. "Ah, Christ," Paulie muttered. "Now I'm getting the willies."

"You're gonna love this, Paulie," Chris said, grinning. "Looks like we're going in through the servant's entrance. Just like home, right?"

Silvio chuckled, slapping Paulie on the back. "You've got that right, kid. Now, let's see if Mickey Mouse has any real surprises for us inside."

As they stepped into the dimly lit hallway, the three men squinted to make out the details in the flickering shadows. The musty smell of old wood and dust hung in the air, and the creaks and groans of the ancient floorboards seemed to be speaking in a language of their own. "Reminds me of my Uncle Vinny's place," Chris whispered. "Except Uncle Vinny didn't have a pet ghost."

Paulie chuckled nervously, his eyes adjusting to the gloom. "Yeah, but did Uncle Vinny's place have a fireplace like this?" He gestured to the foyer ahead, where a crackling fire cast a warm glow on the left side.

Silvio took a step closer to the picture above the mantel. "Who's the pretty boy?" he said, eyeing the handsome, young man in the portrait.

"Probably the guy who lost his fortune betting on the wrong horse," Chris quipped.

Paulie nodded in agreement. "Or maybe he's the one who's supposed to jump out and go 'Boo!' at us."

Suddenly a voice boomed out from the darkness: "When hinges creak in doorless chambers. When strange and frightening sounds echo through the halls. Whenever candlelights flicker when the air is deathly still… That is the time when ghosts are present, practicing their terror with ghoulish delight."

"The fuck was that?" Paulie whispered, his hand reflexively reaching for his non-existent gun.

Chris leaned in, squinting at the portrait. "Look, Sil, the guy's getting older. This is like watching a time-lapse of someone's life going to shit."

Silvio chuckled, his nerves slightly calmed by the familiar banter. "Yeah, or like watching you after a night out with the guys."

The portrait's subject grew haggard, his smile fading into a grimace, until the final image was of an old man, surrounded by cobwebs and decay. Just as the transformation was complete, the wall beside it swung open with a dramatic creak, revealing a hidden octagonal chamber. The light from the fireplace danced on the dusty surfaces, illuminating a single, unblinking eye staring back at them from the shadows.

"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch," Silvio murmured. "I think Mickey Mouse just told us to get our asses in gear."

Paulie swallowed hard, his grin gone. "Alright, let's go. But if we bump into Goofy with a knife, I'm holding you two responsible."

The trio cautiously entered the octagonal chamber, their eyes immediately drawn to the four portraits adorning the walls. A bearded gentleman in the first painting held a document with the pompous air of a mayor, while the young lady in the second seemed to flirt with her parasol, despite the grim setting. The old woman with the rose had a knowing smile that sent an eerie shiver down Paulie's spine, and the man in the bowler hat in the last portrait looked like he was about to tip it to them in greeting. "This is some weird shit," Paulie murmured, swiping a bead of sweat from his brow.

"Look, they're all watching us," Chris whispered, his gaze darting from one painting to the next.

Silvio, ever unflappable, took a closer look at the gargoyles. "Candles in their hands, huh? Maybe they're just the welcoming committee."

"Or maybe they're gonna drop 'em on our heads," Chris said, eyeing the flickering flames warily.

Paulie scoffed. "It's all tricks and mirrors, right? Nothing to worry about." But even as he spoke, the eyes of the man in the bowler hat seemed to follow him, and he couldn't shake the feeling that they weren't alone.

"Welcome, foolish mortals, to the Haunted Mansion." The voice said. "I am your host, your ghost host. Our tour begins here in this gallery. Here, where you see paintings of some of our guests as they appeared in their corruptible, mortal state. Kindly step all the way in please, and make room for everyone. There’s no turning back now."

The door slammed shut with an ominous finality, the sound echoing through the chamber like a tomb sealing them in. Paulie's heart skipped a beat, and he turned to Silvio, his grin now a nervous twitch. "Well, shit. Didn't expect that."

"Look" Cristopher said, pointing at the walls.

Paulie's eyes bulged as the room stretched upwards, the paintings morphing into bizarre, macabre tableaus. "What the actual fuck?" he sputtered, pointing at the bearded man. "Is he about to blow his own balls off?"

Chris chuckled darkly. "Looks like he's got his hands full, doesn't he?"

Silvio's gaze shifted to the young lady on the tightrope. "And this broad, trying to be a circus act with a mouthful of teeth?"

"Your cadaverous pallor betrays an aura of foreboding, almost as though you sense a disquieting metamorphosis." The Ghost Host continued. "Is this haunted room actually stretching? Or is it your imagination — hmm? And consider this dismaying observation: this chamber has no windows and no doors… which offers you this chilling challenge: to find a way out!" Paulie, Christopher and Silvio are staring upward towards the ceiling as a bone chilling laugh fills the room. But then The Ghost Host added, "Of course, there’s always my way."

The lights winked out, plunging the chamber into a sudden abyss of darkness. A deafening crack of thunder rattled the mansion's bones, and a jagged bolt of lightning sliced through the night sky above them, illuminating the grisly sight of the Ghost Host's skeletal form, dangling from the rafters. "Oh, mother of God!" Paulie yelped, his voice cracking with fear. The ceiling had vanished, replaced by a view of the mansion's cupola, where the specter swayed eerily. A shrill, bloodcurdling scream pierced the silence, followed by the sickening crunch of bones shattering.

The lights flickered back on, and the skeletal figure of the Ghost Host disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. The trio blinked, their hearts racing, as they took in the seemingly normal ceiling once more. The walls of the chamber had returned to their original state, the paintings once again serene and still. With a collective sigh of relief, they stepped through the newly revealed exit, into a short hallway lined with more cryptic artwork. "Christ, that was some next-level shit," Chris murmured, wiping his palms on his pants.

"Oh, I didn’t mean to frighten you prematurely," The Ghost Host said apologetically with a slight touch of mirth. "The real chills come later. Now, as they say, “look alive,” and we’ll continue our little tour. And let’s all stay together, please."

Paulie chuckled nervously, his eyes scanning the surroundings. "Yeah, they're really going all out here."

Silvio, ever the cool customer, took a moment to regain his composure before speaking. "Let's keep moving, guys. No sense in sticking around to see if they've got more tricks up their sleeves."

As they approached the end of the hallway, the sound of a creaking gate grew louder, and before they knew it, the wall in front of them split open, revealing a grand portrait gallery. The air grew thick with anticipation as they stepped into the spacious room, their eyes drawn to the line of doombuggies that stretched before them.

"And now, a carriage approaches to carry you into the boundless realm of the supernatural." The Ghost Host said. "Once on board, remain safely seated with your hands, arms, feet, and legs inside. And watch your children, please."

"Looks like we're riding this ghost train to the nuthouse," Silvio said, trying to lighten the mood.

Paulie's gaze lingered on the moving seats. "I dunno, Sil. This might be the only way out of here."

Chris's eyes widened. "Let's just get on, I don't wanna walk through this shit."

The three men climbed into the nearest doombuggy, the ride's mechanical click-clacking setting a rhythm of unease in their chests. As they began their descent into the bowels of the Haunted Mansion, they couldn't help but wonder if the ghosts they'd encountered so far were mere illusions, or if they were about to embark on a journey through the realm of the dead themselves.

"Do not pull down on the safety bar, please." The Ghost Host continued. "I will lower it for you. And heed this warning: the spirits will materialize only if you remain quietly seated at all times."

The safty bar is lowered keeping them in place.

The doombuggy lurched forward into the stairwell, and despite the safety bar, the three men gripped the sides tightly as they angled downward. The flickering light from the floating candelabra above cast eerie shadows on their faces, making them look like ghosts themselves. As they passed beneath the landing, the candelabra swayed precariously, sending a cascade of wax droplets down onto their heads. "Jesus!" Chris cursed, brushing the hot wax off his shoulder.

They emerged into the hallway, their eyes drawn to the left where the white sheer drapes billowed with the tempest outside. Each flash of lightning painted the ghostly scenes across the fabric, briefly revealing the horrors lurking beyond the glass. On the right, the quartet of paintings taunted them with their transformation, the images morphing with each bolt of light. The woman on the daybed now lay in the jaws of a snarling tiger, the sloop was a ghostly wreck amidst the waves, the knight had become a skeletal rider, and Medusa glared at them with her stone gaze.

"Look at that shit," Paulie murmured, a mix of amazement and dread in his voice. "They're changing like a chameleon in a fucking paint factory."

Silvio nodded, his eyes fixed on the paintings. "I've seen some wild things in my life, but this… this is something else."

Chris leaned back, trying to put some space between himself and the shifting images. "Yeah, well, I've had enough art for one day. Let's get to the part where we get our money's worth and some actual screams."

"Oh yes, and no flash pictures, please." The Ghost Host said. "We spirits are frightfully sensitive to bright lights."

The doombuggy's journey continued into the dimly lit library, where the scent of aged paper and leather filled their nostrils. The walls were lined with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the tomes within seemingly alive as they shivered and danced in the flickering candlelight. Invisible hands plucked at the books, sending them tumbling to the ground in a cacophony of thumps and whispers. A rolling ladder rattled back and forth, as if ridden by a ghostly librarian in a hurry. The chair by the fireplace rocked ominously, and the pages of a book on a side-table flipped with a sinister grace. The marble busts in their alcoves seemed to track their movement with cold, unblinking stares. "This place is giving me the creeps," Paulie murmured, his grip tightening on the safety bar.

Silvio nodded, his eyes flicking from book to bust. "I don't know what kind of books they got here, but I'm guessing 'How to Whack a Rat' isn't on the bestseller list."

Chris snickered. "More like 'The Art of Haunting for Dummies.'"

The Ghost Host's voice filled the chamber, seemingly coming from all around them. "Our library is well-stocked with priceless first editions — only ghost stories, of course — and marble busts of the greatest ghost writers the literary world has ever known."

The doombuggy glided into the opulent Music Room, the sound of Rachmaninoff's haunting melody swelling around them, played with a ghostly finesse on the grand piano. Despite the lack of a musician, the keys danced and leaped as if tickled by invisible fingers. The shadow of the phantom pianist stretched and contorted on the floor, a silent symphony of shadows. To the right, the deep resonance of a bass guitar seemed to pluck at their very souls, while the violin on the left chair swayed in an unseen breeze, its bow gliding across the strings with a mournful cry. "Who knew the afterlife had talent?" Silvio quipped, his voice a shade too loud in the unsettling quiet.

"Keep your eyes peeled," Chris whispered, leaning forward in his seat. "This is the kind of place you'd hide a body and make it look like a decoration."

Paulie's gaze darted around the room, taking in the grandeur with a mix of awe and suspicion. "Yeah, but who'd want to hide anything here? Place is like a fucking mausoleum."

"They have all retired here, to the Haunted Mansion." The Ghost Host continued. "Actually, we have 999 happy haunts here. But there’s room for 1,000. Any volunteers?"

They ascended the grand staircase, their doombuggy seemingly defying gravity as it climbed the impossible stairs that twisted in every conceivable direction. The air grew colder, the light dimmer, as they ventured into the heart of the mansion. The spectral footprints of the mansion's otherworldly inhabitants danced around them, a silent testament to the chaotic waltz of the supernatural beings that called this place home. "Look at this shit," Paulie murmured, his eyes wide. "It's like we're in a funhouse designed by a mad monk."

"Or a bad trip," Chris whispered, his voice tight with nerves.

Silvio leaned back in his seat, his eyes narrowed. "I've seen some weird shit in my day, but this takes the cake."

"Well, if you should decide to join us, final arrangements may be made at the end of the tour." The Ghost Host continued. "A charming "ghostess" will be on hand to take your application."

As the doombuggy descended into the inky blackness of the next chamber, the walls around them began to pulse with a ghostly glow. Twin rows of eyes blinked into existence, following their every movement with an unsettling curiosity. "You guys feel like we're being watched?" Paulie asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Chris nodded, his eyes darting around the room. "Yeah, it's like someone's got a pet roomful of Cheshire Cats."

Silvio twitched in the gloom. "I don't know about you two, but I'm starting to feel like the cheese in this mouse trap."

"We find it delightfully unlivable here in this ghostly retreat." The Ghost Host said. "Every room has wall-to-wall creeps, and hot and cold running chills."

The trio's doombuggy drifted past the second floor passageway, and the sight of the endless corridor sent a shiver down their spines. The solitary candelabra hovered in the middle, casting a flickering, ghostly glow that stretched the shadows of the doors into menacing fingers. To their left, the suit of armor shifted almost imperceptibly, as if it were alive and watching their every move. On the right, the armchair's "face" leered at them, its wooden features twisted into a silent, mocking grin. "What the fuck is up with that chair?" Paulie hissed, his eyes glued to the disturbing sight.

Chris leaned in, whispering, "Looks like someone's idea of a good time went bad. Like they tried to carve a jack-o'-lantern but forgot to stop at the pumpkin."

Silvio's eyes narrowed. "I think I've sat in that chair at Uncle June's place. Except it didn't have the teeth."

"Shhh, listen!" The Ghost Host hissed.

A keening sounding like a banshee is heard.

Paulie's eyes widened as the doombuggy slowed before the conservatory's grim display. "Jesus, Mary, and Joseph," he whispered, his voice shaking. "What the fuck is in that box?"

Chris leaned in, his heart racing. "Looks like someone's trying to RSVP for their own funeral," he said, his attempt at humor falling flat in the face of the macabre scene.

Silvio's gaze was fixed on the struggling skeleton. "That's gotta be a record for worst escape artist," he murmured, his voice a mix of awe and horror.

The doombuggy lurched backward, sending their stomachs into their throats as they descended the eerie corridor. The walls closed in around them, the doors seeming to pulse with a malevolent life force. "What the fuck is going on here?" Paulie exclaimed, his eyes darting from door to door as the muffled sounds grew more frantic. The doorknockers clacked in a staccato rhythm, as if eager to join the cacophony of horrors. The "family portraits" on the walls were a ghastly array of twisted, leering faces, the subjects' lifeless eyes following their every move. Chris leaned back, his hands gripping the safety bar. "I've seen some messed-up shit, but this is like a fucking family reunion from hell." Silvio's eyes narrowed, his expression grim. "Keep your cool, guys. This is just the warm-up act."

The doombuggy rolled to a halt before the grandiose grandfather clock, its pendulum swinging erratically. The numbers on its face spun in reverse, the chime striking 13 with a gong that seemed to echo through the very fabric of the mansion. The shadow of a clawed hand darted across the clock face, and for a brief moment, the room grew colder than the grave. Silvio's eyes narrowed, his gaze flicking to the shadows beyond the clock. "You don't see that every day," he murmured, trying to keep the tremor from his voice.

The doombuggy rolled into the heart of the shadowy Séance Circle, the air thick with the scent of incense and a palpable anticipation. The trio stared in awe at the large table in the center, surrounded by a whirl of spectral lights. The high-backed chair, with its raven sentinel, seemed to beckon them closer, the crystal ball atop it pulsing with a ghostly glow. The image of a floating head, the spirit of Madame Leota, appeared within the ball, her eyes locked on theirs. Her haunting chant grew louder, the words sending a shiver down their spines.

"Serpents and spiders, tail of a rat, call in the spirits, wherever they’re at! Rap on a table — it’s time to respond. Send us a message from somewhere beyond…Goblins and ghoulies from last Halloween, awaken the spirits with your tambourine! Creepies and crawlies, toads in a pond, let there be music from regions beyond! Wizards and witches, wherever you dwell, give us a hint, by ringing a bell!"

Paulie leaned over to Silvio. "What's with the raven?" he whispered.

Silvio's eyes never left the crystal. "It's probably her pet spy," he murmured. "Making sure we don't mess with the merchandise."

Chris snickered nervously. "Merchandise? Like, the dead guys we're supposed to be scared of?"

Suddenly The Ghost Host spoke: "The happy haunts have received your sympathetic vibrations and are beginning to materialize. They’re assembling for a swinging wake, and they’ll be expecting me… I’ll see you all a little later."

Paulie's jaw hung open as they cruised along the balcony, the Grand Hall sprawling before them. "Look at these party animals," he murmured, his eyes wide. "They're throwing a shindig that'd make the Sopranos' Christmas bash look like a tea party."

Chris leaned over the railing, watching the spectral partygoers with a mix of fascination and horror. "And who's the birthday boy with the fireproof hair?"

Silvio chuckled, nodding towards the table. "Probably the kind of guy who thinks 'going out with a bang' is a good way to go."

The trio couldn't help but stare as the ghosts danced and played, their transparent forms weaving through the air like misty shadows. The rocking chair old woman was giving them a show, popping in and out of existence with a grace that belied her years. "I guess when you're dead, you've got all the time in the world to perfect your disappearing act," Silvio said, a hint of admiration in his voice.

As the doombuggy descended closer to the action, the duelists in their paintings caught their eye. The clang of their pistols echoed through the hall, each shot a silent reminder of the drama unfolding in the flickering candlelight. "Those two are really packing some heat," Paulie quipped, his voice betraying his nerves.

"And look at that," Chris whispered, pointing to the organ. "It's like the ghost of Elton John went full Beetlejuice."

Paulie's eyes widened as he took in the grand ballroom, the air thick with the ethereal glow of the ghostly dancers. "Look at these broads," he murmured to Silvio. "They're throwing a hoedown in the afterlife."

Silvio nodded, his gaze lingering on the spectral figures as they waltzed and twirled. "They've got more moves than John Travolta at a disco."

The doombuggy drifted closer to the dance floor, the music swelling around them. The dancers' laughter was like the tinkling of chimes in the wind, and their grace was both mesmerizing and unsettling. "I bet none of 'em step on your toes," Chris said, his voice a mix of envy and dread.

The three men watched in silent awe as the party unfolded before them, the living and the dead sharing a space in a dance that seemed to have no end. Despite the chills that danced up their spines, there was something undeniably enchanting about the sight.

Leaving the Grand Hall, the trio's doombuggy ventured into the attic, a place where the air was thick with dust and the smell of forgotten memories. The sound of a mournful piano playing "The Wedding March" grew louder, the notes weaving through the shadows like a ghostly serenade. The room was cluttered with remnants of a life once lived, and the eerie glow of a swinging chandelier cast flickering lights across the bric-a-brac. Amidst the chaos, five paintings of a bride with a chilling smile caught their attention. The grooms, however, had a less consistent presence, their heads vanishing and reappearing as if playing a macabre game of peek-a-boo. "Look at this shit," Paulie murmured, his eyes narrowing at the grisly display. "This chick's got more exes than a Vegas marriage chapel."

Silvio nodded, his gaze fixed on the spectral pianist's shadow. "Yeah, and she's got a taste for 'til death do us part' alright."

Chris leaned in, his voice a hushed whisper. "And what's with the hatchet?"

Paulie grunted. "Probably for the grooms who couldn't keep up with the alimony."

As they approached the final portrait, the ghostly visage of the bride, Constance, emerged from the canvas, her eyes gleaming with a madness that sent a chill down their spines. She recited her twisted vows with a laugh that seemed to echo through the very rafters. "As long as we both shall live," she cackled, a spectral hatchet appearing and disappearing in her hands.

"Fuck that!" the three men exclaimed in unison, their laughter a nervous release of the tension building in their chests. The doombuggy lurched forward, carrying them away from the bride's chilling presence and deeper into the mansion's secrets.

The doombuggy squeaked to a stop on the balcony, the Attic's horrors behind them, but the eerie party had only just begun. As they peered over the edge, the graveyard sprawled before them, a sea of spectral figures rising from the ground. The raven on the branch cawed a greeting, its eyes gleaming with mischief. The caretaker and his trembling mutt looked up, their fear palpable in the chilly air. The sound of music filled the night, a cacophony of instruments that seemed to come from every direction, setting their teeth on edge. To their left, the graveyard band played a tune that seemed to shake the very bones of the dead, while the living statues of a King, Queen, and Duchess cavorted among the tombstones, their movements as unnatural as their existence. The skeletal wolf's howl pierced the darkness, sending a shiver down their spines. On the right, the five Singing Busts serenaded them with a tune that was equal parts jovial and eerie, their faces alight with an otherworldly glow. The trio exchanged nervous glances as the ghosts grew denser, their laughter and chatter a reminder that they were far from alone in this haunted realm. The Mummy's futile attempts to converse with the deaf spirit had them all snickering, while the Phantoms of the Opera belted out their tune with enough passion to stir the very souls of the dead. The Beheaded Knight and his companions sang a macabre trio, their heads floating in the air as if in a ghostly game of catch. The ride's final act was playing out before them, and it was clear that the Haunted Mansion's residents were ready to keep the party going all night long. "Well, shit," Silvio murmured. "Looks like we're not the only ones who know how to throw a bash."

Paulie's hand tightened on the safety bar as the doombuggy rolled into the Mausoleum, the final act of their chilling journey. The raven perched above the door cawed a greeting that sounded suspiciously like a warning. "You think this bird's got any good gambling tips?" he quipped, his voice a shaky attempt at bravado.

Chris leaned in, eyeing the raven warily. "I don't think he's the type to share the wealth, Paulie."

Silvio nodded in agreement. "More likely to steal your wallet than give you the winning lotto numbers."

Then a familiar voice is heard, "Ah, there you are!" It was The Ghost Host. "And just in time… there’s a little matter I forgot to mention."

"Beware of Hitchhiking Ghosts!"

Paulie's eyes bulged as he took in the three hitchhiking spirits: a grinning Traveler, a cackling Skeleton, and a ghostly Prisoner with a knapsack full of mischief. "Ah, what the fuck is this?" he exclaimed, reaching over to swat at the apparitions. But his hand passed right through them, leaving him feeling like he'd just slapped at a cloud of smoke. The doombuggy rolled through the wall of mirrors, and suddenly their new companions were right beside them, reflected in every pane. "Looks like we've got some stowaways," Silvio said, his voice calm despite the sudden turn of events.

Chris's eyes widened as he saw the Hitchhikers in the mirrors. "Shit, they're everywhere!"

Paulie's panic grew as he watched the Traveler lean in, his ethereal hand reaching for the steering wheel. "Get the fuck out of here!" he shouted, swiping at the spirit with all his might. But his hand met only cold air.

Silvio chuckled, his eyes on the mirrors. "Don't bother, Paulie. They're just along for the ride."

The Skeleton's laugh echoed around them, and the Prisoner's hand shot out of the mirror, giving them a thumbs up. Paulie's heart raced as he realized the Hitchhikers were indeed in their doombuggy. "Christ almighty, we're gonna have to split a fare with these freaks!"

"They have selected you to fill our quota, and they’ll haunt you until you return!" The Ghost Host stated.

As the doombuggy rolled through the Mausoleum, a ghostly figure caught their eye on a stone ledge high above. It was Little Leota, the Ghostess, her tiny form shrouded in a hooded dress that made her appear almost bridal. Her long, blue hair cascaded over her shoulders, and her skin glowed an eerie pale blue in the moonlight. In her hand, she clutched a bouquet of what looked like dried herbs. "What the hell is that?" Paulie whispered, his eyes darting up to the spectral figure.

"Looks like the bride's got some backup," Chris murmured, his voice filled with a mix of awe and unease.

Silvio leaned back, watching Little Leota with a careful eye. "Keep moving, guys. Don't let her give us the stink eye."

The doombuggy passed beneath her, and she leaned over the edge, her eyes following them as if she had a message only they could hear. "Hurry back," she whispered, her voice faint and haunting, carried on a breeze that seemed to come from nowhere. "Hurry back. Be sure to bring your death certificate, if you decide to join us. Make final arrangements now! We've been dying… to have you…"

Paulie shivered, his hand gripping the safety bar even tighter. "That's it," he said, his voice gruff. "I'm not getting married anytime soon."

"Now I will raise the safety bar, and a ghost will follow you home!" Laughed The Ghost Host.

The safety bar lifted with a metallic groan, and without a second thought, the trio bolted out of the doombuggy, their laughter replaced by frantic gasps. They sprinted through the Mausoleum, their feet pounding against the stone floor. The Hitchhikers' laughter grew fainter as they put distance between themselves and the spectral partygoers. "Keep running, you fucks!" Silvio shouted over his shoulder, his breath coming in ragged bursts. They burst through the mansion's doors, the night air a welcome reprieve from the chilling grip of the Haunted Mansion. They didn't stop until they were clear of the graveyard, the lights of the park twinkling like a beacon of safety in the distance. Paulie leaned against a lamppost, panting heavily. "Well, that was… something else," he managed to get out between gasps.

Chris looked over his shoulder, his eyes wide. "You think they're still with us?"

Silvio straightened his tie. "Nah, we're in the clear."

But as they turned to walk away, a faint cackle echoed through the night, and the flicker of three ghostly thumbs-ups reflected in the window of a nearby souvenir shop. The trio exchanged a look that said it all: they'd just become part of the Haunted Mansion's eternal guest list.

[walaw717]

Tradition makes foolish, unreasonable demands because it aims not at our comfort but at our divinization.

Over Christmas break I have binge watched “The Crown”.  When I started it really did not seem my type of thing to watch, I am devotedly American and  anti celebrity.

However, even though this is a fictionalized account of the Royals it clarified for me something I have vaguely understood for years. 

When I was a boy Mickey Mantle and Sandy Kofax were my boyhood heroes. I was an adult before I found out that Mantle was a stone cold alcoholic and Kofax had feet of clay.  In public they presented with a quiet dignity  and created an image that I as a boy tried hard to emulate.  

Much later the NBA superstar, Charles Barkley, stated, “I am not a role model. I’m not paid to be a role model. I’m paid to wreak havoc on the basketball court. Parents should be role models. Just because I dunk a basketball, doesn’t mean I should raise your kids.”  

Athletes now do not understand that, like it or not, role models are important not just to children but to  adults.  As was pointed out to Princess Margaret  by the family photographer  in one episode of the Crown, the person living a life of struggle  needs to be able to open a magazine and for one moment see beyond the difficult existence of their daily life to something mythical. 

Instead celebrities and media moguls have allowed Celebrities in all areas of media to give us the ideals of greed, crassness and a lack of responsibility with out any sense of  the myth of a higher standard. They call it merely entertainment.

No one in their right mind would set out to be a celebrity let alone a King or Queen yet once it occurs there is a duty and responsibility that comes with it. Even the most stout hearted among us needs a mentor to look up to and emulate. 

This point was made to me my final year of High School when the guidance counselor pointed out to me that there were younger students who looked up to me. In the brokenness of my own interior castle I could not fathom why  or that it was true but I watched the ones she had pointed out and saw it was true. For a time I started to behave more discreetly and responsibly - knowing that I was setting an example for younger people. Later, as I lost myself in the masses of a large university campus  and became a number instead of a person, I lost that awareness of that for a while. I did however have my own mentors and  heroes  in academia. Later in life, as I realized as a counselor how difficult life really is for all of us,  I began to understand the power of seeing  my brother and father and grand fathers and many of my family in a more heroic light. 

I have come to understand that the foundation of maturity is to not only see that heroism in others but to display it in one’s self. Role modeling and its responsibilities  is a concept were really need to re value in western society. 

Rampant individualism rarely serves anyone but itself. And yes being a role model creates constraints.

A friend pointed out that in this portrait of Major Speed, Academy Adjutant of the Scots Guards at RMA Sandhurst. 

He, (my friend)  like every Officer and Non Com in the military, understands this concept quiet well.

   Media moguls and celebrities live in failure to understand that their celebrity and wealth  does not free them from social responsibility but lifts them to a higher social responsibility toward the people who generated their wealth and position. 

I am glad I did not know Micky Mantle was a drunk until I was an adult. Part of me realized  that it did not matter because he gave me a role model to strive toward that was dignified and larger than my life as a boy. This is something that the Charles Barkley’s and Kardashians and the media in general really need to understand. The lack of that understanding is what has brought our politics to a low ebb and our mutual respect to be non existent. 

[heymrspatel]

my submission for @gallacrafts theme 3: choose your own adventure - cozy fall! 🛋☕️🕯

✨additional little details✨:

mickey's mug says "🖕🏼fuck off" he found it hysterical and bought it for himself

ian's mug has a little happy drawing of a beet and says "you make my heart beet". mickey bought it for him, he picked it up with a fond sigh and mumbled "he's going to lose his shit" before making his way to the register

their framed wedding photo was a gift from fiona

ian framed the drawing from franny, he couldn't stop giggling at the way she drew mickey's scowl and spikey hair

the "little orange thing" (the pumpkin) ian got as a gift in my last drawing is up there on the mantel 🥺🥺

ian really loves candles that makes their home smell like nature, the one on their side table is called “cabin in the woods” and it has a crackling wick

mickey is drinking hot cocoa and ian is drinking a chai latte - a new favorite!

they've been making their way through childhood favorite halloween movies, on today's list: beetlejuice, the addams family, and casper (they're not planning on leaving the couch) while watching casper ian being ian, looked at mickey and whispered "can i keep you?" and mickey being mickey grumbled "🙄🙄 you're 🙂🙂 fucking 😌😌 ridiculous, man 🥰🥰🥰"

[arrowflier]

Thank you for brightening my day with your stories. I always look forward to checking out your blog. Here's a prompt for you: S10 and 11, but Fiona is there and never left Chicago. How does the story change? Does she calm things down or cause more chaos? How does she get along with newer characters Tami (who she only knew a little) and Sandy? How does she react to Frank's dementia and death? Does she use her landlord skills and make Lip sign a damn lease before renting on a handshake deal?!

There's so much potential with this, but I just picked a few short scenes from season 11 to try and get a vibe!

--

“He can’t just kick you guys out,” Fiona insisted, following Lip through the house. He skirted the edge of the sofa on his way to the kitchen, and she almost ran into it. Only years of muscle memory and navigating her home in the dark—unpaid electric bills, drunken stupors, trying not to wake up the kids—kept her from banging her hip against the arm.

“He can,” Lip argued, passing through to the next room, “and he did.” He opened the fridge, looked at the beer cans inside. Closed it again, and got a glass of water from the tap instead.

“Sold it right out from under us,” he said bitterly into the glass. “New owners want us out before they close.

Fiona watched him take a sip, make a face and swallow it. Then she slapped the back of his head, hard, and grabbed the water before he could drop it.

“Listen to me,” she ordered as he scowled, rubbing the injury. She leaned down to get on the same level, face to disgruntled face. “I was a landlord, remember?”

“Not a very good one,” Lip muttered, and flinched back when she raised her hand again. She lowered it when he put his own up in surrender.

“I was a landlord,” she repeated, then paused, lips twisting. “And one of the reasons I’m not anymore is cause of a family of squatters I couldn’t get rid of.”

“And?” Lip asked, eyebrows raised. “The fuck’s that got to do with anything?”

Fiona rolled her eyes.

“Thought you were supposed to be the smart one,” she said dryly, then, “If it was that easy to kick somebody out, don’t you think I would’ve done it?”

Lip frowned.

“I mean, sure,” he said slowly, working through the thought. “But we don’t even have a lease.”

“Neither did they, that’s for damn sure,” Fiona grumbled. She turned to lean back against the counter next to him, shoulder to broad shoulder. Both had held enough wait for a lifetime.

“Doesn’t matter,” she told him. “That you don’t have a lease, I mean.”

She turned her head, looked at him.

“The eviction process isn’t as quick as people think.”

Lip’s brow furrowed as he glanced up at her.

“Are you…” Lip trailed off, started again. “Are you telling me to make him take us to court?”

Fiona smiled.

I’m telling you you might as well fight for it,” she said. “You’re broke anyway; what have you got to lose?”

---

“Can you believe her?” Debbie spit out, slamming the cabinet door shut. She stood, holding a box of cake mix, and set it down so hard on the counter that Fiona’s drink almost tipped over.

“Believe what?” Fiona asked, scooting back just in case. “That she left?”

Debbie glared.

“No, not that,” she said. “I told her to leave, remember?”

“What then?” Fiona took a sip of her beer, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the counter once she deemed it safe again.

“That she just abandoned her kid,” Debbie said. “Left him all alone, no mother, no nothing, just so she could go live a little.”

Oh. Fiona frowned.

“Debs…” she stared, swirling the dregs of beer left in the bottom of the bottle. She looked back up at her sister, down again to shield herself from the heat Debbie let off.

“I don’t think that’s what happened.”

“How can you say that?” Debbie asked, loud, angry. “You of all people know what it’s like to be…to be abandoned!”

Debbie bent down to grab a heavy metal bowl, slammed that down, too. The sound echoed, ringing through the quiet room. By the time it faded, she had too.

“It’s not the same, is it?” Debbie asked quietly, and Fiona shook her head.

“No,” she answered, just as soft. “No, it’s not.”

“Guess I should talk to her,” Debbie whispered, flat. Defeated.

“Probably,” Fiona agreed, then stood.

“Spend some time with Franny, first,” she suggested on her way toward the stairs, looking back in time to meet Debbie’s eyes as she lifted them.

“You’ve done a good job with her, you know,” Fiona said, and smiled. “I’m really proud of you”

And then she walked up the steps, and left Debbie to her thoughts.

---

“What—Mickey?” Fiona asked, passing her brother’s husband in the doorway. He was scowling, shoulders squared, stomping through the door and outside.

“You’re brother’s an asshole,” he answered shortly, and then he was gone.

Fiona watched him go. Then she went straight through the house, and out the back door, to where she knew Ian waited.

Sure enough, the door opened onto his stiff back, and she slipped out without a word. Sat down next to him, there on the stairs, and stole the cigarette from his hand.

“Thought you were trying to be healthier,” she asked, taking a long drag.

He reached for it, and she passed it back, their fingers brushing.

“Yeah, well,” he said, just staring at the glowing end of the stick. “Not much point in that if I can’t even afford to pay the bills next month.”

That again. Fiona sighed.

“We’ll be okay, you know,” she tried, but Ian waved her off before she could finish.

“We’d be better if he’d get a damn job.”

Fiona nodded.

“Sure,” she said, “we might be.” The filter of the cigarette was burning low, close to Ian’s fingers, so she took it again and threw it under her shoe.

“But are you willing to give everything up on a maybe?”

Ian looked at her.

“What do you mean?”

She shrugged, leaned into him. He was as tall as her, now, and her head slotted perfectly onto his shoulder.

“You’ve got the closest thing to happiness any of us have ever seen,” she said, looking out over the yard. She picked absently at the step she sat on, prying up thin splinters and smoothing them back down again.

“Maybe you should just let yourself have it, for a while.”

Ian was silent. But he reached an arm up around her back, let her in closer. Rested his chin on her head.

“You think so?” he finally asked, so quiet she barely heard it.

She rested a hand on his knee, squeezed it. Breathed out.

“I really do.”

---

“Oh my god, Liam, where have you been?”

Fiona was on him the moment he got through the door, long arms scooping him into a hug so tight she grunted with the effort.

“I was so worried,” she said, pulling back, hands gently but firm as they found his face. “You can’t just disappear like that, Liam, I sent everyone out to look for you hours ago!”

“You noticed?” Liam asked, his young face scrunched, and Fiona shook him, then folded him back into her arms.

“Of course I noticed, you little asshole,” she muttered into his hair, pressing her cheek against springy strands. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Liam shrugged, his shoulders barely moving in her tight embrace.

“Everybody is so busy,” he said. “Trying to figure stuff out.”

“So?” Fiona asked, still holding him, hands smoothing down the back of his hand-me-down shirt. “Why does that mean you get to wander off without telling me?”

“Gotta figure out my stuff too, don’t I?” he answered, quiet, sad, and Fiona let go of him to crouch down. She looked him in the eyes, brushing a hand over his soft hair, and forced him to meet her gaze.

“You’re a kid,” she said firmly. “What do you need to figure out that you can’t come to me for?”

“Where to live, for one,” Liam said, looking away, and Fiona frowned.

“What do you mean?” she asked. “You’ll come live with me.”

His eyes widened, and she hesitated.

“Do you…” She paused, swallowed. “Do you not want that?”

Liam just blinked. Then smiled, bright and relieved, and buried his head down on her shoulder in all the answer she needed.

---

“Hey, You okay?” Fiona asked, coming up behind Carl where he stood staring at Frank’s ashes on the mantel. She put a hand up on his shoulder, rubbed once, twice.

“Course I am,” Carl answered, all swagger and false confidence. “Frank was an asshole.”

Fiona hummed.

“He was,” she agreed. “But he was our asshole. And I know you two used to be close.”

“Nobody was close to Frank,” Carl muttered bitterly. “They just thought they were.”

A beat passed, tense, quiet. Then Carl’s shoulders sagged.

“Not like he was the same Frank anymore, anyway,” he said softly.

Fiona stepped closer, a warm presence at his side.

“Does that make it easier?” she asked. “Or harder?”

Carl shrugged.

“Neither, I don’t think,” he answered, then his face scrunched, the way it used to when his brothers made him think to hard. “Just feel like it’s wrong to still be mad at him, you know? He didn’t even remember all the shit he did, at the end.”

Fiona looked at him, and smiled sadly.

“That’s okay,” she said simply. “I’m still mad, too.”

After another moment, she leaned in, kissed the side of his head.

“Time to get to work though,” she said, “we can be as maudlin as you like when you get back.”

“What’s that mean?” Carl asked, following her into the kitchen, and she laughed as she dug his packed lunch out from the back of the fridge.

“I’ll tell you later,” she said, “but right now, work mister!”

Carl accepted the answer, and his lunch. Then, as Fiona grabbed her keys off the counter, the ones to her new SUV, he said, “I’m thinking of quitting, you know.”

Fiona didn’t hesitate, shoving him toward the door.

“That’s fine,” she said, slamming it shut behind them. “But until them, no brother of mine is going to be late!”

[gardenerian]

hi hi! i hope you’re doing well <3 it’s so lovely to see you be so uplifting and positive to everyone on here it truly feels like a safe space from all the negativity that you can sometimes stumble on to on this app <33

i also enjoy reading everything you write sm the garden fic was such a treat!! if you’re still taking prompts i’d love to see anything about these pictures 😭❤️❤️. maybe the boys reminiscing about the past/how long they’ve been together, the fact that they’re each other’s first loves (!!) etc etc? 💗💗💗💗

hey there kre! you are so sweet, i’m glad my goofy little blog makes you smile! and thank you so much for sending this prompt! i put a bit of a spin on it... hope you like 💕

Mickey’s lounging on the couch, blissed out from an afternoon spent playing xbox and eating pizza rolls while Ian worked on the Gallagher house with Lip. Sleep is just about to pull him under when -

Ian chooses this moment to burst through the door, struggling over the threshold with a comically large box. Mickey sits up, rubbing the would-be sleep from his eyes and smirking as he watches Ian maneuver it into the apartment.

"No, don't get up, Mick," he calls sarcastically, "I got it. Didn't struggle to get this up here at all."

"You made it this far and all," Mickey teases. "Didn't wanna deprive you of your victory lap."

"You're - so generous," Ian pants, dropping the box unceremoniously on the floor and throwing himself on the couch beside Mickey. He tosses an arm over his face like he's just flopped over on a fainting sofa.

"Are you not going to tell me what's in this giant fuckin' box?"

"Shit from the house," Ian explains, voice muffled by his arm. "Lip packed up what no one else wanted, I thought we'd take a look."

"Oh great, I'll be sure to thank Lip for all the trash he saved for us."

Ian just chuckles and hauls himself upright, pulling the box closer and popping it open. Together they poke around in the remains of a life in the Gallagher house.

A hand mixer with only one beater.

A bag of aquarium rocks.

Old textbooks, passed down from sister to brother and onward.

And stacked between them: a photo album, thin and worn. Ian frowns as he picks it up.

"I don't recognize this," he says, laying it in his lap and running his fingers over the cover. He opens it gently and gasps at the first photo that greets him.

Mickey never met her, never got more than a glimpse of her as she tore through the neighborhood, but he knows Monica Gallagher by the crinkles of her face as she smiles up at him.

She beams at the camera, holding a baby in her arms - and Mickey knows without reading the notes scribbled underneath that it's Ian.

"Wow," Ian breathes, tracing Monica's face with his fingers. Mickey reaches a hand forward, lightly touching baby Ian's head. There he is.

There are only a few photos in the album - mostly combinations of Lip and Fiona holding Ian. They don't look at the camera; their gazes remain firmly on Ian.

There aren't any photos after this day. The shine must have worn off on the domestic bliss after that.

"No one wanted to keep this?" Mickey asks, suddenly sad that Lip had tossed these moments in a box of garbage. Ian's first day alive.

"They probably didn't see it," Ian guesses. "Family photos are few and far between. You know how it is. Not like now, where we all have hundreds of Franny or Fred pictures on our phones."

Mickey does know how it is.

Did anyone capture his first day in the world? He tries to conjure images of Iggy's chubby fingers reaching to hold him, of his mother smiling down at him. Birthday parties, first days of school. Did his first steps go unnoticed? Did anyone clap?

"I don't remember anyone even taking my picture until -"

Until Ian.

He thinks his mother must have, at least in those early days, maybe on some disposable camera. Maybe he just wants to think that. And if she did, that was all. They never made it to a frame. He never saw his younger self grinning down at him from the mantel.

But with Ian, he remembers.

During that summer before everything went to shit, he remembers Ian watching him. Then he'd surreptitiously hold up his phone, trying to snap candids of Mickey as they roamed around the neighborhood, drank beers at the dugouts, or lounged at the Milkovich house.

Mickey noticed him every time, but chose to let Ian have it. Chose to let himself be watched and seen. Sometimes he acquiesced to a fucking selfie, screwing up his face and pressing in close to Ian.

Those photos are mostly gone now, another victim of those lost years. There weren't any real photos of them together until they'd left prison. Ten years of history, existing only in the minds of those who lived it.

"I wish there were more," Ian says a little sadly. "Pictures of you. Of us. As kids."

"They'd be shitty, man," Mickey tries to joke. It comes out flat and bitter. "We'd have black eyes and dirty fuckin' faces in most of them. Don't need pictures of that."

"What do you think our photo album would have been," Ian asks, "if we'd grown up in a normal place? With normal parents?"

"I dunno," Mickey answers. He doesn't really like to think this way: what's done is done. But he indulges Ian a little. "Prom photos?"

"You never would have gone to prom," he laughs. "Parties, though. We would have gone to parties together. Costume parties, maybe?"

"Pool parties, eh? Fuckin' tailgates, or those lame high school house parties? With the red cups and shit."

"Graduation parties."

"Yeah, maybe."

"We would have had a lot of fun," Ian sighs.

"We did have a lot fun."

Ian leans over and kisses him swiftly, soundly.

"You're right," he says, still hovering by Mickey's lips. "I do wish I had pictures of us. Young, silly - safe. But I'm glad things are how they are."

"Yeah?" He leans in for another kiss, then pulls Ian into his side.

"Yeah," Ian tells him. "I don't need the pictures. I remember it. The Kash and Grab, the bleachers. I remember all of it."

Mickey hums happily, warmth spreading to his toes. "Me, too."

They're quiet for a moment, until:

"We have wedding photos," Ian says, clearly on the cusp of a very earnest train of thought.

"We do," Mickey agrees.

"That's - that's really special, Mick. And it's kinda the start, right? We have family photos now. We could start making albums of our own."

"You wanna stuff a bunch of photos in a book you'll probably never look at again?"

"Fine," Ian relents, "but we should start framing some, hang them up."

Mickey stills for a moment, considering. Photos of him, his life, on the walls of his home. The permanence of it settles warmly in his belly.

"Yeah," he says, kissing the top of Ian's head. "We should."

[hometoursandotherstuff]

Lonika & Theo’s family cottage in West London makes the case for cozy. She introduced wainscoting to the sitting room off the entry, and the formerly boarded-up fireplace now has a mantel of her own design. Now, this little room is cozy.

They wanted to recapture some of the cottage’s original character, but they didn’t want it to feel quaint. 

The nook under the stairs has a window seat with storage.

A farmhouse table extends across the kitchen, which the previous owners enlarged and opened to the back garden.

The kitchen cabinets are a Shaker design.  The counter is Carrara marble. The antique hook-lined shelf over the sink was made for hanging game. (I never knew that’s what it was for.)

Lonika’s mother painted the tropical fruit tableau in the center of the dining area, and the watercolor of quinces is by her grandmother.

Shades of turmeric are one of Lonika’s specialties.

The bathroom is newly lined with beadboard paneling and accessorized with a vintage spool table and shelves. The tub is painted a “neutral red.”

The baby’s room until recently was Lonika’s office. It’s papered in an Alice in Wonderland design. Mickey is as high as a kite.

https://www.remodelista.com/posts/case-cozy-designer-lonika-chandes-family-cottage-london/

[oliviagordonwrites]

Are you still taking numbers? I choose 5

Thank you!

For five.....probably I'm Ready To Move On/Mickey Mantel Reprise by Bleachers!

Put a number in my ask box and I'll

[bettyrightnow]

∞

dreams of mickey mantel- all the hope i had when i was young, i hope i wasn’t wrong

[yikeswtfmate]

Could you do 38 from the list please with Ray??

hi babes! this took an interesting turn so imma give a warning: sexual themes!

38. If you move from that spot, so help me, I will tie you down.

main masterlist

Y/N is restless – which to be completely honest, that’s none other than Ray’s problem. He’s promised her they’ll go out for dinner tonight, right after he’s done with business for the day. It’s been an hour already, and he still has three more calls to make and a check in with Mickey, but Y/N’s already moved from the couch (where she’s been laying with her feet propped in his lap), then offered him some quiet when she went upstairs to change and put make up on, came back (looking like a moonlit dream) and twirled around in her new dress through the entire kitchen, until she’s poured herself a glass of champagne and settled on the armchair next to him.

Ray doesn’t want to snap at her, yet he’s tracing a very important deal and all the fussing around is distracting him too much for his liking. He’s also extremely aware that she’s wearing those bloody stockings that he likes so much – the black ones that end in red lace, just a palm above her knee. So when he’s just about to pick up his phone to call the first contact point, he can see Y/N straightening in the armchair. She’s eyeing the mahogany box above the mantel, where his best stash is hidden, and he already knows that there’s no way he could put up with her if she dives into it.

“If you move from that spot, so help me, I will tie you down.” He growls.

Startled, she turns to him, but her confusion is quickly replaced by a wide grin. She taps the flute with one finger and one of her legs slowly rises up, until it rests on his thigh. Her dress rides up, but not enough to confirm whether her knickers are also red lace – although Ray knows her too well to wonder. His hand grabs her calf, fingers absently stroking the nylon and that’s all it takes to make her purr.

Placing the glass on the table, Y/N stands up and slowly straddles Ray, legs by each side of him, giving him time to entirely process exactly what she’s doing. Her mouth lingers on his collarbones, her fingers running through the sandy strands, until she cups his jaw with one of her hands, forcing him to look right into her eyes.

“Is that what you want to do to me, love? You wanna tie me down?”

Ray smirks and with his own hand to the back of her head, a fist full of her hair, he crushes his lips to hers. The moan she lets out is bloody fantastic, and he supposes it’s time to show her he always keeps his word. His free hand travels up one of her legs, up on her thigh, past the lace, and fuck, she’s wearing a suspender belt as well.  

[elizabethan-memes]

Look, I take the mickey out of Philippa Gregory and Hilary Mantel but I will also do a writing bingo for my writing style. Not because I’m trying to compare myself/humblebrag/fish for compliments, but it’s only fair that I don’t act like I have the writing high ground. I should be ready to take the mickey out of myself just as much if not more

[dtpchronometer]

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[starbuck09256]

A picture in the sand

Episode Fic

Unruhe

Pictures in the Sand

Author: @starbuck09256

For: Kasey Slippin Mickeys

Rating: Teen (I did use the f word not sorry)

First a huge Shot Out to @gaycrouton for putting this goodie together. Girl you are fantastic. I can’t wait to read your fic and everyone else's! 

My prompt was Unruhe and that it should take place in Traverse City with another woman goes missing. I followed it mostly. I rewatched the episode about 9 times, which isn’t bad I like the ep anyway. Here is my angsty (as requested) interpretation.

Not gonna lie, I’m really terrible at procrastinating so this is very much not Beta’d I apologize for spelling and grammar errors. Just happy to barely make the deadline. 

6am Dana Scully's Apartment

She wheels her suitcase next to the end table. Not paying attention she swings it to far and the picture frame on top falls and shatters to the newly stained wood flooring. “Shit” Scully mutters before moving her suitcase to find all the shards of broken glass. She picks up the frame staring at a picture of her and Melissa at a family picnic at the beach from a few years ago. Melissa’s glowing smile staring back at her, she traces the pattern of Melissa’s dress remembering Melissa spinning them around in the sand, letting the tiny pebbles crush against their toes. Like they used to do in San Diego.  Melissa had been galavanting around the world and had just gotten back her smile to be with family, the lightest Dana had seen her in the last few years.  Scully thought it was just because Melissa had finally gone to all the places she talked about endlessly in the dark confines of their shared room. Scully sighs, she remembers that dress Melissa wore in a different context too, one where she is helping their mom pack it away in a donation bin. Melissa so much taller than Scully, it didn’t make sense for Scully to keep it in the back of her closet as a reminder of the women who embodied the bright color and flowy design. The picture inside the jagged frame not scratched and torn right on the side of Melissa dress. The irony isn’t lost as she sits there on the floor where Melissa bled out in between the wood slates a bullet meant for Scully, a life meant for Melissa. She can’t help feeling that the last two years have been so unfair, she is no closer to justice for her sister, no closer to finding the answers of where Duane Berry took her. Now as the nightmares have increased she thinks of the women in Allentown all dying slowly, she wonders if she is next in line. If this picture of her and her sister will find its home on her moms mantle along with catholic candles that flicker in and out of all the lives tragically cut short by senseless violence. Scully presses the picture into the front pouch of her suitcase. Vowing to find a new frame to hold the precious photo right when she gets back from their new case in Michigan. 

She’s only been to Michigan a couple of times. The only real fact about the state that she loved is no matter where you are you are within 7 miles of water. The water calls to her, always has, from years of watching her father navigate it’s depths to summers spent at camps with giant lakes that at night made you feel like you might as well be in the middle of the ocean.  She remembers briefly staying once and seeing the shores of the great lake as it extended out for miles. From her seat at the window she looks out to the expanse of trees and meadows the clouds just above the horizon. Mulder shifts against her. His head resting in her lap on his coat. It’s been a weird few months between bounty hunters and his moms stroke he is more restless than normal. The case brought to them because of the weird photo of a girl seemingly screaming into the camera. Mulder ever elusive with his information he likes to dangle clues and hints to her but never the full story. It use to be fun, this game they play him trying to get her to open her mind to the fantastic to make connections and leaps with scraps of information. Now though it just gets on her nerves. Why not just tell her the facts? Does he think she is so closed minded that she will refuse to go? She wants to refuse. Start standing up for herself more, part of her is tired of seeing these women taken, beaten, lives destroyed in the end does it even matter the how? Is the why so important? What about stopping it? Lately she feels like they are only there for the aftermath, taken to a point so far outside of plausible. She’s getting tired of being taken herself. He mumbles in his sleep and shifts closer to her. That’s the real problem she thinks, how close they are and yet not at all. While they spend endless hours together, eating, sleeping in crappy motel rooms, driving miles and miles of road and for what? to be put in danger constantly?

The larger part of her though finds it still so thrilling. The challenge the way his eyes light up when he gets a new case and they go back and forth it's why he dangles clues and hints. He loves seeing her mind work, and in truth she loves the challenge.  She looks at the photo again, the edging is distorted the colors blending together. She isn’t sure how you would capture an image like this, how the abductor took such a photo. She presses her finger down on the edge looking at the long lines on the side, a face to the far right what is that? A reflection? She wonders what the image is trying to say. She thinks of the photos of her and Melissa torn and stuffed into her roller bag under the seat. She thinks back to all the photos she has taken over the years the others that grace her mantel in tiny rows. Her brothers photo with his new wife how he blames her openly for Melissa's death. As if she didn't already blame herself. She thinks of those women in Allentown how they said they are all dying, the photos they showed her of others like them that have passed on. She has an appointment in 3 months for more scans. She joined the mufon group and has been getting emails of members passing away one by one. Leaving children and husbands behind. She would only leave behind sad plants and half finished articles for medical journals and Mulder. How would he do with a new partner, she thinks back to Jerry whom he just described as a colleague. Is that all she would be to him in the end? A colleague a good friend? There have been moments when she thought they would be more. Melissa certainly thought they would be. Melissa's’ constant insistence that Mulder was the compliment to Scully's stubborn soul. Scully wonders if this is going to be the end will he be her last? She's never missed having a lover. But lately she wishes her bed wasn't so lonely. Now as Melissa has pointed out she has in fact put everything and everyone on hold for this search of theirs, to find answers for him and now for her. In the past she has found men who are obsessed with things it seems. The latest one resting in her lap. She swallows hard, sleeping with Mulder would be a terrible idea, but if there weren't consequences because she would be gone in a few months? She tries to clear her conscience about it all, her recent scans were fine but the emails of more and more members with the same type of cancer in exactly the same spot are more than scaring her. Mulder is scared too, she now stops mentioning when another one has been laid to rest. She’s seen his fear shining into her eyes when she gets even a cold. Imagine what cancer from a lover would do to the man?  She would never do that to him. If the dedication he has for his annoyingly little sister is anything. The rabbit hole he would fall down if they were more and she was taken by the disease from her abduction would kill him. 

She thinks about her mother and father, how after his death the strong capable of anything Margaret Scully faltered. At first her mom said she could pretend for a few minutes in the morning that he was still at sea, that his smile would grace her eyes soon as he would sweep her into a deep hug that warmed her bones. Then she would remember, remember that time was short. Missy's death certainly didn't help. Losing a child is something that no parent should ever bare. She had asked Dana to give her antidepressants, and while it scared Scully to the core it renewed her mother's faith in God. That that was the only way she could keep going, knowing that her Ahab would be there waiting for a life eternal and her sweet daughter's spirit would be free. But Melissa's death had done the opposite for Scully, she has scene so much injustice so many things that make her doubt God's word that now she has become skeptical and even cynical  in so many ways. Mulder has seen it in her and while she wears her cross everyday part of it is just because it reminds her of Melissa. It reminds her to try and fight. She will fight till the bitter end. Even if that is sooner than she wants to believe. Mulder shifts slightly again and she moves the picture through her fingers. Tries to put that skepticalness to the side. Tries to think like Mulder would. Why would the killer leave it at the scene? How did he get it beforehand? Was he stalking her? She taps on the photo again and moves back to the case file, shifting just slightly careful to not disturb Mulder. 

She reads the report over and over until her eyes want to water at the dry dead air of the cabin. The sun is seeping through the light onto Mulders hair now, his features almost boyish in sleep. She is usually the one sleeping against him even if flying isn’t her favorite thing. She squirms in her seat a bit wishing secretly that Mulder would wake up so she can lay against his shoulder and catch a few minutes of sleep herself. She moves her hand, fingers brushing through his hair. She knows he doesn’t mind, though he still teases her a little when she does it in doctor mode. She sees his small smile and he starts to move. She gives him a soft smile back as he rubs his eyes looking at her with the translucent clouds shading the sun as it shines dimly on her hair. He reaches up and touches her cheek to sweep a stray strand off her face. “Your turn” it’s almost a whisper. She smiles gratefully as he moves and positions his jacket against his shoulder for her to rest against. She sighs as she snuggles into the warm fabric. Mulder pulls the shade down against the morning dawn as they continue to soar through the air. 

2 hours later

She wakes dimly to the voice of the captain letting them know they are starting their dissent into Grand Rapids. Traverse city looms another 2 hours away along the lake coast. It’s interesting the rules they have made through the years. They never discuss a case on a flight and so that time has been devoted to them reading books sometimes playing cards. Arguing over which mythical creature is the most likely to exist. Or more often than not it’s like this morning's flight snuggled against each other asleep. She hears Mulders soft snores against her head. The last few months she has been more worried about his sleeping habits especially after she told him what she found in Allentown. More often he comes in with dark circles and the extra coffee through the day has not gone unnoticed. She can’t complain though, because despite all of this he still is there in the morning to greet her, with a steaming cup to chase away her own night terrors. Places like planes offer a few moments of peace that the other one is safe, and that they are together. She tries not to analyze it too much. Tries to rationalize the fact that they have been through some truly horrible things and are bound to have some strong ptsd and codependency issues. She doesn’t want to love him that way. She likes them just being friends. She wants a bit more out of life, especially if there is less available to her, seeing all of these things over the years she is wondering what she is really fighting for anymore if not for Melissa maybe she would have already left. Is it to be flying off to save women from abductions? Is she trying to find validity in her choice to prove to herself that giving up medicine to become an FBI agent was really the best decision? Is she now leading herself down a path to have another Jack or even worse another Daniel? 

She knows that Mulder is in love with her. She knows that he has become just as dependent on her as she has on him. She doesn’t want that, she doesn’t want a world where the two of them can only exist with the other. She has become consumed by this quest of his and paid so dearly, and now here they are chasing a lead on a case they really have no business on. She knows that it’s about the picture. He sees something or knows something she doesn’t. She’ll have to wait for the drive into town to find out.

As they reach the drugstore she is lost in the sea that is the investigation, while she looks at expired film heating beneath it parts of the edging make sense, if the film is expired and the heat has distorted the edges. But the screaming that is odd, when she points these things out to Mulder he finally explains his theory. She sees a photo booth in the drugstore small and yet she wonders if the film has been tampered here too. Mulder must think something similar as he grabs her hand just as she finishes her questions to the owner.  “This film shouldn’t have the same distortion if my theory is correct.” he mutters pulling her into the small intimate photo booth. She sighs “Mulder,” she starts but he pulls her down and she is sitting right next to him and he’s smiling and pointing to the camera. She gives him the look, the one that shows she is not amused, but he wraps his arm around her leans forward to start the series of 5 photographs of them. He tries to do bunny ears and the camera catches her laughing at it. She sticks out her tongue in the next and so does he.  The third picture is just them stern and serious. The fourth a soft smile from both of them. The fifth begins to click and he makes a kissy face and her grin lights up the tiny booth. Its short lived and while she thinks the exercise is pointless the film proves to be unaffected. She waits for Mulder to throw the pictures away but he doesn’t he pulls out his wallet and tucks them in with a 20 dollar bill and 2 ones. She shakes her head, he asks the owner if they can take a few more photos with the same film. “I think the picture is the key to this Scully,” he leaves and she follows him out. 

They drive to the girls house, pictures on the fridge of a normal couple. Lost in moments together, traveling, and laughing. She wonders if they will find this girl alive, if these will be the last time she smiles. She thinks of moments when her and Mulder where sure that it was the end. She thinks of the pictures of them in his wallet. What a stranger would think. What she thinks of this closeness that has grown between them. 

He takes the camera “Watch out scully it’s loaded,” and he points it right at her but the picture that comes out is of the girl distorted again and she looks up at him confused. He starts to tell her more about his growing theory, how these pictures are the key  Psychic photography. She hates this, she hates looking at cases and having him come up with something so crazy she has to try and wrap her mind around it. She always gives him the benefit of the doubt listens to his theories, but sometimes she just wants a simple explanation. Maybe she is just burned out. It happens to everyone with all the things that have happened to them she hasn’t had a chance to take a break. She wants to talk about this more but as always he is already getting ready to leave. “He was here I think he stalked her.” As they step out into the bright sunshine her phone starts to ring, letting them know that Mary has been found wandering and disoriented.  

At the hospital Scully is faced with looking in the hollow eyes of the woman on the fridge, one that won’t be smiling again as pain and inevitable death beacon her near. The scans don’t lie, Mary is facing a very difficult road of recovery if that is even possible. As Scully stares at the scans as Mulder goes to grab them something resembling coffee she thinks of Betsy in Allentown, about those women with tumors at the same spot as Marys unfortunate lobotomy. Mulder has sense Scully's distance and luckily has chosen to back off, leaving her with the time she needs to figure things out. Scully is deep in thought when Mulder returns he sets down the coffee letting the steam rise up and wafted into her nose. It’s a beautiful smell coffee, seems the fine people of Traverse City understand its importance. Mulder touches her shoulder gently a sad smile across his lips as he stars at the scans once more. Just as the uniform officer comes in and tells them another woman has been taken. Anger boils through Scully, whomever this guy is he has no idea what he is doing and unless they find him soon she is afraid of another poor woman facing the same fate. Mulder throws the rental keys to her knowing that right now he needs time to look over the details from the officer, starting working up a profile right away. Precious time is ticking fast as she presses her foot down on the pedal. This is her strength driving fast and a little more reckless than Mulder ever has. It annoys him, how much she speeds and whips into places. It’s why he drives most of the time in reality. Because she got tired of hearing him complain about her going to fast, but time is of the essence.  They are following a patrol car the blue and red lights flash into the fading sun. As they race around the corner. Mulder finally looks up at her his voice catches in his throat. “Mary will never be the same will she?” Scully shakes her head in sadness. “We need to find this person, and fast” She nods and throws the car into park, throwing her seatbelt off dashing to the scene. They need a clue, a hint, and hopefully something more than a screaming girl in a fucking polariod.  

Just as they get there they realize that the rush wasn’t necessary, Scully needs to review the file as Mulder heads right inside to assist.  Another man dead another woman taken and nothing to go on. Mulder doesn’t find any cameras or film, in the car as he was thinking through the profile he wonders about the word Unruhe, a place? A thing? A person? It sounds like it’s a word. He asks one of the officers to use the computer quickly typing the word into a search box as he continues shuffling through 1040s and spreadsheets. Scully walks in the file in her hand, a killer like this she thinks might have been there might have been at the scene. As they argue again over the photograph she feels the frustration of the day, of the inevitable failure that might await them if they can’t find something quickly.  Mulder is ready to head back to Washington, to find the clues that have eluded them so that she can save the next victim. Both of them know that time is limited and Alice doesn’t have long, while she thinks him going back to Washington is a mistake, it’s really not that long of a flight and the bureau does have some fantastic resources. She sighs hangs her head and works her connection. It seems that for them, when they go their separate ways they form a complete picture in the end. 

 She watches as he races out leaving her the keys to the rental car as he hitches a ride back again. She works through the evening and well into the night in a small motel with a view of Grand Traverse Bay on Lake Michigan. She opens the window and listens to the water softly kissing the sand while the moonlight shines off the lakes black opals and into the darkness. Mulder calls her lets her know his planes has landed and he has been able to get a forensic photographer to help him first thing in the morning. She lets him know that Mary Lefont died and she fears that the same will be true for Alice if the construction owner has hired men off the books. Mulder sighs, “You caught that Scully, you found us a tangible lead as soon as I find something out with this photo I’ll call you it should help you refine it” She hums in response right now she is looking at a list of 300 people in the apartments next to the latest abduction. She sighs and says she is tired before hanging up. She knows that sleep will be hard fought tonight, it’s already almost 3am. She walks out of the hotel towards the Bay listens to the waves as they crash against the shore with a dullness. While the stars shine brightly out beyond the black depths of the lake she thinks of Mary, about those pictures of her smiling in those photos on the fridge. Her toes are in the rough sand from the lake, not like the sand that she and Melissa danced to in the photo. She wonders of Alice's family will have similar photos on their mantel of another woman taken in her 30s. She hopes that the station can pull up something on the construction workers, they need this lead. Regardless of the success Mulder thinks he will find she needs the tangible investigative skills of the mortal realm. She walks back to her room, letting the moonlight chase her form across the soft swirls of the water. She falling into a lifeless deep sleep while the dull ticking of Alice's life lingers in the background. 

In the morning after she wrestles Gerry to the ground. She thinks back about the pictures she has of Ahab of the two of them at her medical school graduation, her white coat and his proud smile. She wonders after all the terrible things that have happened to her would he still be so proud? Or would his smile have dimmed like that glossy paper it was printed on. Would her own eyes shine as brightly as they did that day ever again? Or had the 3 months she missed, the sister she mourned be evident through the lense. She knew the risks was aware of the horror she would face. Lately she feels as if she is facing a far more looming nightmare. Another birthday another lonely night with no prospects of changing. Mulder and her might be pushing that line in the sand between acceptable partnerly behavior but it’s a not a road she is ready to take, nor is she sure she wants too. She loves him, she knows this after so many dangerous situations, hours and days spent together how could she not. She thinks of the other pictures she knows he keeps in his wallet. The one of him and Sam, sometimes she thinks she still sees that young innocent kid staring back at her. His devilish grin when he shows her the fantastic. The way his face lights up just a little when she pulls out his favorite sunflower seeds when he was sure they were out. Does he see it in her? Does he see the young agent who was new to the field but prepared for the boys club? Does he see the same smile and young ambition she once was so consumed with that she let the rest of her life slip away? She’s getting older her birthday just passing and she thinks about the fact that now she is as old as Melissa was when she died. She thinks about the pictures they won’t take, about the people now missing from the Christmas dinners, the Sunday brunch, the nephews birthday parties. Her phone rings and it’s Mulder he booked the first flight back and is already on his way to the precinct. She wants to know where Alice Bryant is she wants them to win one for once. Mulder wants her to wait until they can interrogate Gerry together. They are so good together, she knows. The two of them play off each other so well with suspects. Mulder seems crazy and she seems scary and she loves it. She loves the power it gives her. She loves seeing justice and fear mingle together in the room. She hopes they are scared, hopes that the suspects feel even the small degree of fear that they cause their victims to feel. It is that feeling that has kept her with the FBI, she loves being the one to find the evidence and then confront the suspect with her findings. Mulder is in a way the perfect partner for her. He steps back lets her take the lead, knows that if anyone will find something tangible to hang a case on it’ll be her. 

Gerry gives them a location, and as they race to find her, she can’t help but be angry at Gerry seeing her as troubled. She isn’t troubled is she? Conflicted? Scared? Maybe. She doesn’t want to overthink a psychopaths words. She learned long ago from Mulders profiles how they use words and gestures to gain trust. Luther Lee Boggs being a prime example for them both. 

Scully races up the hill hoping and praying that they can find Alice alive, and hopefully not as damaged as Mary, but as she makes it to the top, Alices still form crushes her thoughts. She touches Alices’ cold skin, her cheeks. Watches as the CS tech starts to take photos of the scene. More photos, more death, and now another body. At least Gerry is in custody. At least they saved the future woman that he might have tortured and killed.  Mulder meets her at the car, her anger rolls off her in waves like the lake shore. Maybe tonight she will sit on the shore and cry, no one would be able to hear her sobs over the water. She wants to leave to go home and fix her broken frame try to not think of photos and sand and lives that could have been. She can’t drive and though she wanted to be in control she hands the keys to Mulder so they can drive back to their hotel and clean up. She needs to wash the failure she feels down the drain. It doesn’t work that way, Gerry shot the police officer that was processing him, they put out an APB but her mind can only race about possible new victims he already might be on his way to take. 

They look at the photo of the officer on the paperwork, Mulder is right the photos are probably the key. God who else did Gerry take a photo of? Who else is going to deal with a madman telling them they are troubled and killing them to fix it? 

Apparently the benefit of Traverse City being smaller than most major metropolitan areas is when you need to steal something you pick the same drugstore you stalked your victims. Gerry has assaulted the owner and taken more film. They walk through the drugstore one more time, she thinks of the apartment complexes on each side and tells Mulder as such as he once again puts money into the photo machine. She looks at him in curiosity, last time they went in this time he is letting it roll without them. HIs theory has developed and isn’t ready to share just yet, she knows he will explain in the car. She wants to get going, he tosses her the keys and she walks out into the bright sun. 

She doesn’t remember much she remembers her foot hurting from the injection remembers the struggle as she tries to get her gun. She wakes strapped to a chair with Gerry in the dark corner as her eyes try to adjust to the light. Her arms taped down roughly the large sheetrock tool on the shiny metal table. She wants to plead in a responsible way. Gerry knows that this is the end, she can’t let him think that she will be part of his prize. She doesn’t remember much of her German important phrases and it takes her a few moments to come up with what to say to him. Especially since conversational german was the only class she ever got a B in. Luckily the words are there, as if her mind knows to channel the knowledge buried so deep. Gerry gets up to grab the camera, she sees her chance if she can get the tray she can cut her restraints and take him out. She needs to stall, she needs Mulder to have time to find her. She wants to give him time, She asks Gerry about his own Howlers about the trouble with his father. She channels Mulder and knows what brothers will do for sisters. Her own brother would do for her and Melissa. Gerry pulls the tray away and takes the camera to take her picture once more. She struggles with thinking that the photos she took with Mulder in that small cramped little booth won’t be the last ones he sees of her. He will see her on the floor of the padded room in a weird distorted photo that will filter into his dreams for years to come. But luck is on her side and she is able to convince Gerry to take a photo of himself. The camera flash is almost blinding, she knows he is sick she just needs to show him that this has always been about him and not anyone else. The photos come out in a small series of flashes, they wait for the polarization to show the image. She feels vindicated when they show him dead, show him his fate. That justice is finally with her. She just hopes it doesn’t plan on taking her with him. Gerry flips through the photos over and over. Questioning the images, like Mulder did. What do they mean? She hopes they mean that her life will be hers again, that she will be able to see the waves and shore once more. But Gerry thinks it’s about time, that his time is ending and he must hurry. Fear runs through her body a surge of adrenaline as she tugs and struggles against the restraints. She thinks about the time she almost drowned, how it felt struggling in the water, wondering why something so beautiful and peaceful would try to take her life. How she would gasp and flail her arms in sheer panic, like now as she hears Mulder calling her name. God Mulder please please prove that picture true and he does. Thank god he does. She feels him release her final bonds reach out his hand to take hers. She feels the storm calming inside of her, like Mulder is a life preserve her around her waist pulling her up against the tide. She walks out of the dark trailer, walks past the paramedics straight to the lakeshore. She takes off her heels, the prick of the injection still stings but the sand and the wind and the waves cradle her in their embrace. She takes a deep breath, lets the air of the misty water fill her lungs up. She takes a moment to look down at her feet in the sand and as she looks up she almost swears she sees Melissa in the distance dancing on a distant shore. 

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