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toyahinterviews · 2 years ago

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LIFE AND TIMES WITH VANESSA FELTZ BBC1, 2000

VANESSA (voiceover) : From punk rocker to Shakespearean actress, distinctive sounding singer to religious programmes presenter Toyah Willcox has had a surprisingly varied career. Toyah was born in 1958 into a middle class family in Birmingham and had a difficult start in life TOYAH: When the midwife delivered me, apparently the first thing my mother said “is everything there?” and the midwife said “yes ... but” because the right side had developed and the left hadn't so it was just overdeveloped. I had longer legs, longer arms. Clawed feet So everything was turning in like that (twists her arms) and a twisted spine, but relatively easy to deal with. I apparently went into plaster for six weeks. That was to set the spine and the legs. And then when all that came off, it hadn't worked. So it started 10 years of physiotherapy which my mother was taught to give me VANESSA: It's quite amazing to hear somebody describe themselves as non-perfect. I think most people don't even have to grapple with the concept of whether they're perfect or not. They just are

TOYAH: I wasn't aware of it until I went to school and then I became known as Hopalong. Because of the gate how I walked and also because my speech impediment was very, very bad then. I could hardly speak at all. And apparently my tongue used to hang out of my mouth, which was comical. So people were very, very cruel and it was only when I was with other children that I was aware of my imperfections. Otherwise, I was quite happy (laughs) VANESSA: What you are as a little kid, who, as you say, is not quite perfect and of course you were, as I suppose could have only been expected, quite badly bullied at school

TOYAH: I was badly bullied, but I was an incredible tomboy. I've always loathed being a girl. My fight against gender started very early. So at school I was incredibly boisterous. I was the one who was always breaking bones, always smashing my teeth I can remember, at the age of five, climbing a climbing frame in pouring rain, mud below me and tight rope walking this climbing frame. I came off it, smashed my nose, smashed my teeth and then started to play with the blood. I really was a very weird kid. And I think even though people bullied me they were slightly wary of me VANESSA (voiceover) Even at a tender age Toyah was starting to rebel against society's views of what the future held for her as a woman TOYAH: I was brought up in a time when women had expectations about their future forced upon them. And I loathe every angle of those expectations. Marriage, children. If you're lucky you could be a secretary, or you may go to university and be a doctor, but you would retire and have children and you would settle down and you'd run the house. I'd rather be dead than have any of those things

VANESSA (voiceover) 1970: Toyah’s mother was taken into hospital with a serious illness TOYAH: It was my 12th birthday. I got out of bed and no one could find her. She she wasn't in the house, which was completely unusual because she always drove me to school - otherwise I wouldn't go. And she always made us breakfast. She’d disappeared. Couldn't find her VANESSA (voiceover) Toyah’s mother feared that she was dying and didn't want the children to see her in such pain TOYAH: I got a phone call at the school. The headmistress called me into the office to tell me that my mother was possibly going to die. She'd been found hiding under my brother's bed where her bladder had burst because of a gallstone. Imagine the pain! So I wasn't allowed to visit her even though I was told that she was dying. And within the month or two months she was away I changed. I changed radically

By the time my mother got back she was unrecognisable. She'd probably gone down to about six and a half stone. Clothes were just hanging off and I walked in the house and dad came out of the kitchen and said “there's someone here to see you”. And Mum walked out and I really really wanted to hug her and I didn’t and that was the end of our relationship for a long time VANESSA: Have you hugged her since? (Toyah shakes her head) Why not?

TOYAH: Umm … Not a hugging family. There's big barriers. (Toyah’s visibly upset) But we know we love each other. (Above, Toyah with her dad Beric and brother Kim) VANESSA: So at this point punk arrives on the scene. For you it must have been a gift from heaven because it must have been all you were looking for in some kind of rebellious expression TOYAH: It was fantastic because the first time in the world I realised that wasn't alone. I went to a club, I went to “Bogarts” - this was in Birmingham and I heard that the Sex Pistols were playing. I thought never heard of them but I'll go anyway and I walked into this club and there were 300 people in this club that all looked like me VANESSA: How did you look at the time? TOYAH: I had black hair but I had green and yellow at the front and the back was all yellow. So I was very punky and I was dressing in bustbin liners and I had a little kind of Andy Pandy (a 1950's children's TV series) suit which I dyed black and I was wearing that and up until this point I'd be laughed at in the street, buses wouldn't stop for me and taxes wouldn't take me home

VANESSA: Explain the appeal of something which is so, on the face of it, unattractive and repellent TOYAH: I disagree! VANESSA: Unappealing! TOYAH: I just I thought I looked really beautiful VANESSA: Oh, you thought you looked gorgeous? TOYAH: Yeah, I thought it was the best way I could look. And up until that point I'd always wanted to look different because I felt different. My expression of punk was I wanted to show how I was feeling internally - that I didn't feel part of the norm. I didn't feel part of everyday life. So I wanted to express it. And this gave me a licence to do it and I did it with a vengeance and I felt extraordinarily beautiful What I liked about this was it made the kind of gender statements that I have been desperate to make all the time. And that was I am not a woman. I am not a man. I am a person and it works

VANESSA: It's around this time in your teens that you become involved with the Old Rep Theatre and do you start thinking "I want to be an actress" yet? Have you sort of always had that thought? TOYAH: I knew I wanted to act and sing the first time I saw "The Sound Of Music" with Julie Andrews running up that hill in that opening sequence. When I started the Birmingham Rep Theatre School I was 14. I started going Friday evenings for my dancing lessons. Saturday morning for drama I knew exactly what I wanted by then and I wouldn't be swayed. Even a visit to the careers officer when I was 15 - I sat down in the office and she said “what do you want to be?” and I said “I'm going to be an actress and I'm going to be a singer.” And she said “yes, of course” and then put some leaflets about nursing in front of me. I just left the room and I said “just remember my name because one day everyone will know it” VANESSA (voiceover) 1975: Toyah left school with one O-level and started full time at drama school and she soon got a job as a dresser to actress Sylvia Syms TOYAH: I loved it. I'm very good at being subservient in a perverse sort of way. As soon as I walked into Sylvia Sym’s dressing room on the Monday - she was on tour, she arrived at the Alexandra Theatre in Birmingham and I walked in and I said “is there anything I can do for you, Miss Syms?” and she said “oh, I was starving!” So I went off and got her a sandwich and I said “when do you like your cup of tea? And how do you like it?”

So she always had a cup of tea at the beginning of the show, in the middle of the show and then at the end, and it was absolutely fine because I had the privilege of standing in the wings watching her work, which taught me more than any theatre school could ever teach me. I loved dressing. I dressed Simon Williams, Sylvia Syms, the whole of Dad’s Army, which was a difficult experience because I was madly in love with Ian Lavender, who would not wear clothes when I was in his dressing room. So that was my first experience of lust VANESSA: There must have been something remarkable about you. I mean obviously there is because you were a dresser and suddenly you're kind of discovered. Somebody sees you and realises that you're not just going to be a dresser. You're going to be an actress

TOYAH: I was paying my way through drama school by dressing and also doing extra work. My very first day’s extra work at Pebble Mill BBC I made £12. And it was on a retro play about a 1950s rock band with Kate Nelligan starring in and all I had to do was sit at the cafe table watching the band. But little did I realise that everyone was watching me. And I was getting all the close ups in the scene even though I didn't have to talk So the next day I get a call at the theatre school from a director who'd heard about me and wanted to meet me. He was called Nick Bicât and he was trying to cast a young girl in a play. The story was this young girl wanted to appear on Top Of The Pops so badly she breaks into the studio. So Nick came to the drama school to see me and that was it. I got the part, a lead in play ("Glitter", above) VANESSA: Just like that TOYAH: Just like that VANESSA: I know the drama school kept saying “no, audition all the others” -

TOYAH: Yeah, they refused to tell Nick who I was. And they refused to let him see me singly because I wasn't the best student. And so Nick came. He knew who I was immediately. He said I just stood out in the crowd and I went down to London and auditioned but he just knew I'd got the part A clip of “Glitter” plays TOYAH: A wonderful irony from this was that when it showed on telly three months later, Kate Nelligan was watching it, not knowing who I was and that I'd been an extra that day in her play. And she said to Maximilian Schell, who was directing at the National Theatre - “that girl has to be in our play” So I was called down to the National Theatre and joined the company. I was the youngest member of the National Theatre Company in 1976 VANESSA (voiceover) Offers of work flowed thick and fast for Toyah. Derek Jarman cast her in the role of “Mad”, a pyromaniac in his punk film “Jubilee”. And in sharp contrast, she worked opposite Katharine Hepburn in the film “The Corn Is Green”

1979 was the year that Toyah played the part of “Monkey” in the film “Quadrophenia”, and on television the part of “Sal” (in "Quatermass") TOYAH: When I got “Quatermass” I was finishing off “Quadrophenia”, so I was night shooting “Quadrophenia” and day shooting “Quartermass”. So I actually got pneumonia halfway through that. Sir John Mills was in it and I was playing this kind of tribal love child who was wanting to go to another planet in a spaceship

VANESSA (voiceover) Despite her success as an actress what Toyah really wanted was to be famous for her music. She formed a band but the rock and roll lifestyle took its toll on her health TOYAH: I formed the band and I realised that if I wasn't sexually attractive to the audience, I wasn't going to be doing the band any favours VANESSA: Through your teens you did balloon and get quite potch TOYAH: Yeah. When I was 20 I was a good three stone heavier than I am now. Purely I think because I was lonely, therefore rather than doing what normal people do at night I was eating VANESSA: Was it an effort to to lose weight ultimately? TOYAH: I started taking diet pills but I've taken them recreationally. You could buy them in the bags and just you know, pop them away. And it would mean I'd go on average three days without eating, have a meal, three days about eating, have a meal

Why I'm still alive I think is a miracle. Because I was taking about five of these really strong amphetamines a day and not sleeping. Drinking an awful lot of alcohol to try and come down from it. And I went from being about 11 and a half stone - and I'm only five foot tall - to being seven stone I was just a person of extremes and I do have an addictive nature. I like my habits. I like extremes. I like danger. I'm a real adrenaline junkie. So the whole attraction of popping amphetamine and frightening living daylights out of people because I’d do the most stupid things like climb roofs, climb cranes, steal cars. (It was a) really mad time in my life VANESSA (voiceover) 1981 was the year that propelled Toyah to stardom with her first hit “It's A Mystery”. Finally her childhood dream became a reality TOYAH: It was heaven. The day before, just lounging in the bath at midday, and the phone rang and it was the record company saying “you're on Top Of The Pops tomorrow” and I said “how?! Why?!” And they said “It's A Mystery" has gone straight into the Top 40” I was like “nooo!” (pulls a face) because I hated “It’s A Mystery”

I thought it was the worst song I've ever recorded. And they said “no, it's true.” And when I turned up, at BBC Wood Lane … oh, I was just so excited! I can't tell you how wonderful it was. And in retrospect, it was probably the most boring day of my life. You just sit around in the dressing room all day and then do your song I was bullied about everything … Everyone ridiculed me for saying I wanted to sing. Here ... I had the flag and I was putting it on top of Everest for the first time. It was fantastic! (Below, performing "It's A Mystery" on Top Of The Pops 19.2.1981)

VANESSA (voiceover) In 1983 things went from strength to strength for Toyah. Her music career was booming and her fame began to escalate TOYAH: “It’s A Mystery” moved me into the league which was commercial success and being an international name. And not being able to drive down any road without seeing posters with my face on in every shop window VANESSA (voiceover) Just when she thought it couldn't get any better she was offered a part alongside Sir Laurence Olivier in a TV drama (Below, "The Ebony Tower", Toyah with co-stars Laurence Olivier, Roger Rees and Greta Scacchi) TOYAH: I wasn't in awe of working with Laurence Olivier because I'd worked with Katharine Hepburn so many years earlier, and I knew what to expect. That generation of actors has an etiquette that you must keep to. You either call them Sir or Madam or Lord Olivier. And with Lord Olivier ... we just sat and talked hour upon hour about when he formed the National Theatre, when he worked with Marilyn Monroe, when he met Joan Plowright, when he married Vivian Lee

We got on incredibly well and as for working with him, the hardest thing was that he and Katharine Hepburn worked at a different pace. Modern style of acting is much more natural, it's much more quicker, it's much more throwaway. So you had to just bear in mind that you're making those two generations meet. But it was a really fabulous film to work on. We were treated like stars VANESSA (voiceover while a clip from “The Ebony Tower” plays) Toyah had to strip off completely during some of the scenes TOYAH: As I was maturing, I wanted to be a sexier person. So part of me really wanted to do those naked scenes, yet the rest of me was aware that I was kind of kneeling, therefore my breasts weren’t going to be seen from the best point of view and my thighs weren't going to look good So it was worrying and I starved myself two months to do those scenes. But once you're actually doing it and your director has actually kindly stripped off to be naked with you, there is a kind of enjoyment about it

VANESSA (voiceover) In 1985 at a charity lunch Princess Michael of Kent introduced Toyah to rock guitarist Robert Fripp from the band King Crimson (below with Toyah) TOYAH: He approached me to do a charity album with him. So I moved down to his studio in his house near Bournemouth and worked with him and within a week he proposed! VANESSA: What made you say yes to him so very quickly? TOYAH: He is the most extraordinary human being I've ever known. He's kind, spiritual, super intelligent and does not manipulate you in any way through fear or intellectualism. He straight down the line. He's truthful, to the point of hurting but you can't help but admire someone like that. And I knew as soon as I met him that this was someone that I could take that journey with where you grow, where everything is an event. I thought this will make a really good marriage VANESSA (voiceover) And on “This Is Your Life” Toyah’s husband made his feelings for her extremely clear after hearing “Freedom”, the track they wrote together (Clip of “This Is Your Life” plays: MICHAEL PARKINSON: Robert, that music really did come from the heart ROBERT: (tearfully) I fell in love with my little wife when she sang that and I haven’t fallen out of love with her since)

VANESSA: They look like tears are the most acute love. I've never seen anything like it! (Toyah laughs) He's just sobbing at the sheer vista of you being there, isn’t he? TOYAH: He's extraordinary. He really really loves me. At the same time he’ll go go off on tour for a year and he will phone me up in tears every day telling me how much he loves me. He's an extraordinary pot of juxtapositions. He really loves me, but we see very little of each other

VANESSA: I was just going to ask you about that because this is a dynamic that fascinates everybody whoever holds fort about the subject of your marriage. Why does he have to be away so much? TOYAH: He’ll never be at home! He'll never do it VANESSA: What's he doing all the time? Why is he always away and why don't you just go with him? And why aren't you together more? What’s it all about? (Toyah laughs) TOYAH: I refuse to be a rock and roll wife. My career has always been my priority. And it's the same with him. We're nomadic, basically. We are both nomadic and the distance between us actually holds us together VANESSA: You don’t want to be separate! You want to be together! TOYAH: You do in the beginning, and I think then children come and children hold that mesh together. But we we didn't have that in the equation of our relationship VANESSA: It's not an accident that there are no children. You took the decision to be sterilised and it's what you wanted to do and yet having done it, you immediately felt, you say, robbed of your femininity

TOYAH: Yeah. Very, very odd feeling. Knowing I didn't want children, knowing I didn't want to accidentally get pregnant and go through all those decisions of whether you keep it or lose it. And there was another factor - because I don't have a full socket in the hip on the right side that can dislocate. I have to be very, very careful with dislocation So pregnancy would have meant that I'd have to spend the last three months of the pregnancy kind of in a chair or lying down. So I got sterilised. There's no problem in me making that decision, but when I woke up after the sterilisation I thought “what have I done? I've I've actually played with God's decision of who and what I am”. I felt very strange about it. Now I don't at all, but for the first year of being sterilised, I felt weird VANESSA: So no part of you now thinks, oh gosh, I wish I’d just left it to chance or happenstance?

TOYAH: (Shakes her head) I really am very, very firm in knowing that I don't want children. Obviously now I'm 42 ... I mean, I suppose I could, but I've never had those feelings or that calling never VANESSA (voiceover) In 1991 Toyah started presenting television programmes. (Back at the interview) This is yet another unexpected incarnation. By this time you've been so many people and done so many things. Classical Shakespearian actress, you've been an absolute top selling singer and suddenly you’re a TV presenter. Did you ever dream of doing something like that? TOYAH: No! Never dreamed of doing Panto either! (Vanessa laughs) What happened was I was in Los Angeles visiting Robert who was working on an album and a phone call came from England. And it was my agent and she said, “Oh, you really don't want to do this. But there's this programme that's asked you to present it” and I said, “well, actually yes, I do!”

Because I'd never done it and I wanted the experience and it was the Midlands version of “01-For London”. It was called “First Night” and I spent a year doing that. It taught me how to present, taught me how to interview. taught me how to write as a journalist, and I haven't looked back since then VANESSA (voiceover) For the next 10 years Toyah went on to present a rich variety of television and radio programmes. (Back at the interview) Nobody can say you're not a grafter, you're extremely hard working and always have been TOYAH: I love my work. I live for my work, and nothing can substitute my work. I'm very, very honest about that and my friends understand that and my husband understands that in a way that he's the same. I only get any sense of calm or satisfaction when I'm working If I'm not working, I'm almost a manic depressive. I'm just not worth knowing. But now I'm slowly moving back towards being a film actress and TV actress with doing “Barmy Aunt Boomerang”, which is a BBC children's programme (Below with Richard Madden) VANESSA: By the way my children say congratulations on your Australian accent - it’s magnificent

TOYAH: (in a thick Aussie accent) Oh, bless them sweetheart. I think that's just so kind, dear little Sheilas (Back to normal accent) I do “Aunt Boomerang”, which I based on Barry Humphries (who plays "Dame Edna Everage") (they both laugh) I just finished the feature film “Most Fertile Man In Ireland”

VANESSA: Tell me about that TOYAH: I was working in Malaysia, got a phone call - could I do a day's filming in Dublin? So I got the next plane to Dublin. Shot all my scenes in one day and a miniscule role but the pivotal role in the whole story. I play a fertility doctor who cannot have children in Northern Ireland who finds a man that is so fertile he can make sterile women pregnant. It’s a comedy (they both laugh) And there you have it. A day's filming and I'm in, really, one of the best films that will be out next year VANESSA: What do you think the future holds? How would you like it to pan out? TOYAH: How I’d like it is very different probably what it holds. I would still like to sing but it's got to be on my terms. I can't handle huge fame like that ever again. I love my independence. I love being able to walk into a supermarket and browse but I want to be a film actress, a TV actress and I want to sing and I want to write books but I know I will not be sitting at home being idle VANESSA: I have a feeling all those things will happen and more. I would not be surprised if you were suddenly an astronaut. I really wouldn't! (Toyah laughs) Toyah Willcox, thank you very much indeed TOYAH: Thank you

You can watch the programme HERE

#toyah #toyah willcox #toyahwillcox #toyahinterview #toyah interview #toyah2000 #toyah 2000 #toyah bbc #toyahbbc #thetoyahwillcoxinterviewarchive #the toyah willcox interview archive

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kitsunebishake · 3 months ago

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it's a JRPG 💀

of course it's pretty simple, it's about as complex as HSR, but without equipment and there's a defend button (so FF brave exvius without equipment)

but I was surprised I was expecting another card game lmaoooo

so far the gameplay is pretty much pressing a singular button (I think it would've benefited from having base attack, skill, and then the burst like in HSR, it'd basically be staple JRPG mechanics) but the game plan might change with the difficulty

I have 2 major complaints which one is the fact that the optimization is atrocious, I can play for about 10-30 minutes before the game starts lagging and then inevitably crashes

my phone could run ZZZ for 2-3 hours before it'd start lagging and only crashed a singular time, and I don't think this game with these graphics should use more power than 3D games like ZZZ, Genshin, Shining Nikki, or Life Makeover

the other complaint is this thing:

now what the hell is this? it's clearly meant to be a fox, from the yiip yiip thing to the name being literally vulpix but not actually

but why does it look like that? that does not look like a fox

if I separate it maybe the anatomy of the body and the ears could pass as a fennec fox, but the rest? that's a cat

that's just a cat with big ears

(this is not really a real complaint and more me, whose entire persona is foxes, being "?????" at this thing)

anyways, tumblr isn't letting me insert videos but it's insane that apparently the romanceable characters have character themes 😭

no joke the first actual romantic interest just appeared in the main story and HE'S GOT A WHOLE ASS IDOL SONG PLAYING 😭😭

story is pretty interesting though! I'd be enjoying myself more if it didn't crash so much!

also here's the guys that have my attention so far (I haven't met them yet)

the wolf guy I'm on the fence because I opened that character preview and he sounds like he's going to be portrayed as "stupid animalistic indigenous man with a speech impediment"

which is not a trope I really like, it makes me uncomfortable as someone who struggles with talking (in general characters with speech impediments are a huge hit or miss with me)

however for all I know he could be really smart and sensible, there ARE good ways to write a character like this, I just don't have huge hopes for the eroge to be the one yk

aside from those there's this one

not my type but certainly someone's type, they're very pretty

I want to draw sampo in their clothes now

that's all I've got to report for now,,, I'll give it a few days, if I get tired of the crashes I'll uninstall

also, I know it's 100% an optimization thing because this game is like 500mbs, it is NOT heavy at all, it's lighter than Pokemon Cafe Mix 😭 (A PUZZLE GAME)

I want to like it so bad because I'm tired of boring games "for women", I wish BL and otome games weren't just mostly boring taptaptap games or rhythm games

nucarni has a more fun gameplay style but is weighted down by the choice of grinding for 30 days every day to level up your cards vs spending real life money to upgrade them

my favorite mobile games are Shining Nikki, Octopath Traveler, Final Fantasy Brave Exvius War of the Visions (legit modern Final Fantasy Tactics), HSR, and Pokemon Unite 💀

legit well made games and fun, but unfortunately only one of them is made for a female/queer audience, and it's the fashion game because of course it is 😔

this made me remember of how Square Enix absolutely fumbled the bag with their idol game

it's SQUARE ENIX but they didn't have the balls to make an idol JRPG, only the characters were JRPG/dnd based but the gameplay had nothing to do with it, it was extremely boring and didn't go anywhere at all because of it

pleaseee Noctilucent fix ur game,,,

they did it boys, they got me

#i should probs tag these so y'all can mute it if you dont care about my opinions on things lol #uhhhh #3 foxes in a trench coat reviews #thats going to be my “autism complaints and praises” tag

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manifestations-of-mythology · 2 years ago

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Cynocephali, Live Más

The harsh light of morning woke me, rudely. It was such a fine dream I was having, and I found myself looking forward to my day far less than I was last night. I could be angry, but at whom? The sun? I only had myself to blame for not mounting the shades in the windows of my new bedroom the night before. I resolved to do that tonight, no matter how tired I might be from my first day at work. I also resolved to move my feet and arms, which preferred the warmth of my bed, for several minutes before my mind won out over my body.

I arose, and shambled into my bathroom after setting off the coffee maker. At least I had not forgotten to set that up. As groggy as I felt, I’d be in real trouble if I had. It was clear to me that I hadn’t adjusted to the time change, either. I splashed water over my head, and went about combing my curly locks into place, as well as I could. There were so many times I’d wished that the hair on my head blended in better with the rest of it, but mom liked it. I wish more people did; I’m not picky. But that was hardly my only deficit. I took my short brush, and worked the rest of the hair on my face, ridding myself of pillow swirls and loose guard hairs. I looked up and grinned in the mirror: a tired brown dog with a blonde clown wig on. Wonderful.

After three hard boiled eggs and three cups of coffee, I gathered the tools of my trade, and the inescapable accessories of my speech impediment. This talking board was a gift, and was a big step up from the plastic one I’d used for so many years. It was thin, and made of very solid aluminum. It also had many more of the tiny glass beads filled with iron oxide under the writing surface, which meant the text you could write on it was much cleaner. And images, as well. I had spent the evening sketching on it instead of installing my shades, as I should have. I erased my line drawing of a lamp with a push of a button, and it vanished in a flash. But, not before saving it with the push of another button in the row there at the bottom. This one could store hundreds of notes. Dad must be proud of me; this board was much nicer than the one that took me through school. I knew this thing wasn’t inexpensive.

I could have walked to work, but I decided to show up a bit early. Thankfully, I wasn’t late for the trolley, and I hopped aboard just as it started off. I took a strap, and was thankful there was another person like me, towards the back of the car. She was an older woman, scarf over her ears, with groceries in tow in a folding rolling cart. We exchanged a friendly glance, but not a smile; bared teeth weren’t always welcome in mixed company. The hair on her cheeks was not unlike the color of the hair on my head, but a glance under her scarf was enough to confirm that the hair on her scalp wasn’t some wild other color, like red or something. Though, women often dye their hair… men too, nowadays. Should I dye my hair?

I almost missed my stop, thinking about what color to go for. I hopped out, and walked confidently into the construction site. I was new here, but I was a master of my craft. By training, at least. My confidence was also bolstered by the fact that I knew most of my fellows would be worth talking to. It’s always easier to feel at ease amongst your own, especially when your differences are so apparent.

“Ah, the new hire!” An older man barked out. He pulled down his dust mask, to reveal a vast bush of black hair about his snout, marked by streaks of grey. “I’m Tan-Kat, the foreman. Your dad is an old friend of mine, we, uh, trained together before he got it into his mind to be an architect.” I knew this much, of course. This connection was why I was here; dad had sent a letter to his old friend about me, and my recent graduation into the craft. I was hired after a phone interview, which was very flattering.

Now, the burly old dog was clapping my back, and adding a nice coat of light grey stone dust to my jacket, which was thankfully made of the traditional undyed white cotton. That tone matched fine with any type of stone dust; it was convenient for this work, and I knew where I’d be working. I thought I had dressed well for the day, but the foreman did not share my opinion about my outfit. “You’re gonna hate that jacket, though. It’s way too hot today, especially working over basalt, and you’ll have no protection for your waist without that jacket. You’ll be down to that shirt in no time, I guarantee it.” Tan-Kat was bare chested, with a cape about his shoulders that went down below his waistline to keep the dust out. The front was protected by the traditional apron. It was a very old fashioned outfit. Hardly anyone went bare chested any more, at least not outside the homeland. “Now, your dad put that thing down, for the square; how did you happen to pick it up?”

“Well, I love music, and I got to playing with the stoneworkers who dad used to hire for his projects… and I got good at the instrument.” I shrugged. “I prefer the oboe, though.” This phrase did not rhyme nearly as well as a series of barks and chirps. I also did not mention that I had taken to a weird plastic sax-oboe-thing in recent years, just because it was easy to keep and use. I had one in my bag, along side the instrument I was obligated to carry. I could easily tell that a geeky conversation about music wouldn’t do with Tan-Kat, and we were right down to business.

“Well, we’re not here for easy listening. We’re here to be better than a tone generator that any fool can use.”

“Oh, if you work the thing right, it has a musical… aspect?”

“Not with this stone, kid; get ready to make some harsh noises.” He wasn’t wrong, the ribbons of quartz in this basalt made it hard to carry on the level. I almost tipped the first block on its side, before I regained control. But I smoothed out my performance by mid-day, and my playing had more of a pleasing warble than a harsh overtone. The other player was taking notes from me by lunch. It was flattering, and I enjoyed the attention, but she might have just been trying to be friendly to the new guy.

This sort of work arrangement wasn’t unusual; immigrants from the home lands still stuck out in this country, and it was easier to communicate and work harmoniously this way. Of course, people thought we were keeping secrets, which was easier to believe with our unique language and religion. And our faces, which we could hardly hide. It could be worse, and we all knew it. Past immigrations of this sort had, at times, gone horribly wrong. But, our skills were in demand here. And we had the same rights as any other person, here. In theory. I also remembered how often that theory would be tested back in my home state of Wyandote. We dog heads usually kept to ourselves, even the ones who were born and raised here, as I was.

“Hey, new kid.” A very large and rather good looking hound, in white and black furs, had interrupted my lunch and my reverie. The practical and protective white zip up jumper he was wearing under his apron looked very good on him, and I was torn between admiration and envy. “Uh, Bart-Ao? Right? I’m Tao-Cha. I think you met my wife, she’s the other player.” Darn, and also darn. Maybe I wouldn’t be a home wrecker if… no, I’m not that daring. “You’ve got a call. You can take it in the back office.” He shot me a huge grin, which was welcome, and also didn’t help. “It’s your dad. Making sure Olympia hasn’t killed his son, I recon.” I wanted to groan, but that wouldn’t be giving off the air of mature professionalism I was aiming for, so I just thanked him and walked off to take the call.

•••

“Son! How’s the apartment?” I wanted to answer, but he didn’t let me. I was in the ‘back office,’ which was an air conditioned trailer the Foreman would retreat to for doing the maths and the billing. I was amused that he seemed to have no embarrassment at his preference for the standard model woman, judging by the swimsuit model cut outs pasted on his filing cabinet. Though, I noticed one of them was our own hometown beauty, Chae-Ka. She was blessed with a flat face, as we sometimes are, but still had the full fur coat. I guess some people like that.

I could take or leave her face, or her furs, but having heard her speak I knew I was jealous of her voice. She had no trouble speaking the more common languages, lucky girl. I would give half my teeth to be able to speak Albionese, as most of the people in this country did. But I would have to deal with merely understanding, reading and writing it. It felt like a curse. I returned from my thoughts to find my father had gone on, but I don’t think I had missed anything yet. “… I know, it was sight unseen, but Khit-Ao, she’s your cousin, right? She said that place was great, and the views are nice, so…”

“Yeah, the place has good views.” I interjected. The sun sure had a clear shot at my face this morning. “And, the appliances are new, that’s really nice.” They weren’t top of the market, but they were new. I didn’t mention this, because I didn’t have a chance. Dad must be really excited for me.

“Ah, great, and Tan-Kat, he’s not giving you any shit, is he?”

“Dad, I’m literally in his office, and…” Dad laughed, and continued.

“As if he would give a shit, he’s an old friend.”

“OK, fine, and no. He’s been fine. And… I’m alone in here too.” It felt like almost a lie to suggest he was present, and I knew better than to lie to dad. He always just… knew. It was terribly frustrating. “Tan-Kat seems to like the flat faces.”

“Don’t call them that around him, and don’t insult his wife when she shows up by using your board.” What could this mean? I took note, and moved on as fast as my father did. “Olympia isn’t like Wyandote, Bart. Try to fit in. With everyone, OK?”

“Sure, dad. I seem to have a good start? Look, I should get back to work. Love you.”

“Love you, too. I’m so proud of you, you’re so much better at the art than I was. Or Tan-Kat; he does math ever since he broke someone’s legs real bad with a foul note. Be careful!” And he hung up.

The rest of the day went without incident, and I got a warm send off from everyone in my new crew before we left for the day. It was a ritual of back clapping and happy chirps I’d been through a few times before, but it was welcome. I felt welcome. At least, here amongst my own kind. I took a moment to ask Tao-Cha about his neat jumper, and did my best to not make it seem like a flirt, since his wife was right there. It was an honest question; Tan-Kat was right about my attire. I had to ditch the jacket almost immediately, and by lunch I already had basalt and quartz dust in my underwear. By the time we hit the showers at the end of the day, it was agonizing.

I had a fresh set of clothes in my bag, so I changed into them in the locker room after my shower. The jacket didn't fit in my bag, so I would have to wear it home. This facility was in the other set of trailers, with the lockers and the break room. Everyone had their own stall to wash and change in, which seemed almost extravagant, but we did get paid well for our work. No one else could lay a foundation that would last for centuries in a few days, like we could. The whiz kids with their tone generators would have to move much faster if they wanted to really compete with our well oiled machine, but we did feel their breath on our necks some days. Slow, steady and cheap might really win the race, if we aren’t careful. It often does, even against the most confident of opponents.

I was so distracted with this train of thought as I walked out, I almost ran right into a lovely middle aged woman, in a red and black sun dress. She was of the standard model, and had yellow nail polish on to compliment her dark brown skin. In my confusion, I spoke without thinking.

“Oh, sorry!” I barked out. I realized my mistake, and started to sign with my hands, before I was interrupted.

“Oh, don’t you worry, young man. Have you seen Tan-Kat?” She said his name so well, and she understood me! And… she called me a man, without a moment of hesitation. I instantly understood my father’s warning, from earlier. I suppose a preference for differences can go either way.

“I haven’t seen him since I hit the showers.” I said this slowly, but I said it. It felt weird.

“I have no talent for your language, but I understand it just fine.” She smiled. “Are you the new player?” I nodded, an ever useful universal word, and she continued, “Oh, Tan was so excited about you. I’m Jade.” I thought I had misheard, but I had no way of checking. Jada seemed more likely. But then I saw her green eyes, and I understood. “Productivity has been nearly halved since old Kaon-Ah had to retire. You’re Kut-Ao’s son, right?”

“Yeah, he got me this job, through your husband. I’m still getting used to Olympia, I’ve hardly had a chance to see it yet.” Switching languages from side to side was starting to feel natural, already. This must be how the two of them converse every day. It seems romantic, actually.

“Oh, it’s lovely here, be sure to check out the overlook park… Powell’s Butte, I think. If you have a chance. Go early, there’s always a crowd. Yeah… your dad.” She flashed me a sly grin, “Do you know how close the two of them used to be? If Tan hadn’t run into me, I’m sure he’d still be a bachelor, and I’m sure the two of them would have somehow ended up back together again. You’d have missed out on that deal, I think.” And we laughed. I had no idea, but it made sense; there was hardly a sliver of light between the two of them in all of the old photos I’d seen. It was nothing to be ashamed of.

•••

On the way home, I skipped the trolley and took a walk. The autumn evening was fine, and I felt the need to see the city a bit before I got a bite to eat… and put up those blinds. As I passed one of the many parks here, I admired the crowd of people there picnicking and playing music under the trees. There were four bands I could see, spread about, trying their best not to break each other’s beat. The one nearest to me was lacking a horn player, but I kept walking. But then, I broke my stride and walked back. I may never know why.

I had my horn in hand before I arrived, which silently answered my reason for appearing. But, I knew this wouldn’t be enough, so I wedged it under my arm and pulled out the tablet, scribbling down a few things quickly before replacing the pen in its magnetic field on the side of the device. That was so much nicer than the pen clip I was used to.

“Hi! I play. You’re between songs? Want to jam?” I gave them a few moments to read, before I tried to judge their faces. Moments later, I was relieved to see they liked the idea, even before they opened their mouths.

“You’re a new face. Hey, I’m Nikita.” Nikita was a woman with olive skin, who had a face I couldn’t quite pin an age on. A very fine face, though, and it radiated a sort of warm hospitality. Or perhaps that was her smile. Her hair was an unnatural shade of pinkish red, and she was dressed in a mix of sports clothing, adorned with pins, patches and paraphernalia. Most everyone in the park had on a similar outfit, which took the form of either a silky half cape with a t-shirt and a sports wrap, or a light poncho with shorts. Either choice of garment seemed so much more comfortable than the jacket I had on. I was reminded that I was overdressed even for work, and I felt the hair on my cheeks stand up with embarrassment. In that moment I felt terribly out of place, but Nikita smiled, and then I did not. “Kosta is on the harp, Simon is on the kalimba…”

“Synths dead. Piles are dead.” Simon interjected. They were a lanky person, about my age I’d guess, with pale skin and short brown hair. They were either a tall somewhat masculine woman, or a slim man with an unnaturally gorgeous face and a delicate voice. In either case, they looked like a rock star. Especially posed as they were, upon and surrounded by three large black musicians bags that probably contained those various electrics. The tiny fingerboard instrument in Simon’s hands seemed like an afterthought.

“Yeah, he does fine on that, though.” He, ah ha! OK, good to know. “Ithicus has the drums.” Ithicus seemed cut from the Norse pattern I was very familiar with, back in Wyandote, which led me to wonder how he got a name from the Mediterranean. I suspected his parents worshiped different gods than most of my neighbors back home. He was so stocky that he reminded me of a cornerstone, which was only emphasized by the comfy looking blue and green poncho he was wearing. This reached to the ground about where he sat, and served to make him look like a very colorful boulder. He had pale skin, like Simon, but his coloration couldn’t be more different otherwise. The hair on his head was not unlike mine; blonde and wavy. It laid down his back nicely, instead of rudely standing at attention like mine did. The hair on his skin was considerably less dense than mine, except atop his lip, where he wore an impressively thick mustache. All of it matched his head. Blonde looked so much better on him, but before I had time to be jealous he smacked the transparent skins of his travel drum set, joyously. Then, I was smiling along with him without a care. I noticed my mistake, and I quickly corrected.

“Dude, I’ve seen that before. Don’t hide your smile.” Someone who had not been introduced was better at reading my face than I expected, and I took note of him. He was dark skinned, but not that dark. Perhaps Egyptian? His hair was black and dense on both his face and chest. Not that much less dense than mine, though I’m sure he had no undercoat. “My ex-girl used to hide her smile all the time, bugged me.” He extended his hand, over his guitar, “I’m Adio. Some people call me Adios, if they are leaving.” We all laughed, again. I took his hand, briefly, and we shook vigorously. I found his smiling face was too fine to look at. It was breathtaking, and the rest of him wasn't bad either. His outfit did little to conceal his body, and it was very well formed: broad, muscular and taut. I had a hard time judging his height, but perhaps a bit taller than I? Better than 180 cm, at least. “But man, you can smile, go ahead. Tell me your name, though. You know all of us now.”

“Bart-Ao” I scribbled out, quickly. I turned my board and gave them a moment.

“Oh! Hi Bart.” Simon said. I started to write a correction, but Adio beat me.

“They usually go by the whole name. First and last, unless you’re real close.”

“Oh, uh… Bart-Ow?” Simon corrected himself. It was close. Close enough, really; our vocal equipment was not at all the same. I responded with a smile, and a few quick riffs on my horn, as I made sure the fingerboard was in order. It wasn’t my intention to start a song, but there we were, moments later, joined in a… sloppy first run improv jazz piece. It was immensely joyous, and everyone had a smile on their face by the wandering ‘end’ of it, even I.

“OK, so… what’s that?” Ithicus had a question about my horn, and I wrote out my answer on the board, with a cute little illustration because I’m fast on the thing.

“It’s from Nippon. It’s kind of a sax / oboe. It’s also plastic and tough.” That I can ‘speak’ a slash is a nice time saver. Under this I had dashed out a quick illustration of the rising sun, which they are so fond of on those islands.

“You don’t need a different reed or anything for… uh?” Nikita was trying her best to be polite, and I appreciated this. I shook my head in response, and started writing again.

“Our mouths are perfectly talented, it’s our vocal cords which are lacking.” This might be interpreted as flirty, but I didn’t care. Maybe it was. Everyone laughed, so if it was a flirt I might have hit everyone. I still didn’t care.

“The pig people of the steppes have more talented mouths.” Oh my, Adio is an adventurous soul! Pig people is the name everyone had arrived at, in Albionese at least. It seemed perilously close to an insult, but they took it well, so long as you didn’t call them pork or bacon. They didn’t differ much from the standard man, except in their noses and teeth. I suppose they have a bit of a snout, too, but not like we do. Sometimes they have pointy ears, too, but never a speech impediment. They came from the steppes of Rus, but now they are all over the Turtle Island too, in pockets here and there.

“Oh, like your last squeeze?” Simon played two chords on his kalimba, and I could almost see Eros stringing his bow. “He’s been giving you eyes across the park all evening.” Simon motioned with his eyes, and I was treated to an impressively large specimen about 40 meters away, in an open topped pair of overalls. His darkly tanned skin matched the color of his hair nicely, such that they blended together a bit, and his musculature was very pleasant to gaze upon. So many people complain that the pig people are ugly, but I was thoroughly convinced otherwise, in that moment. The impressively beautiful standard woman who was sitting next to him seemed nonplussed that his gaze was in our direction, and even less so when he winked at our group, as we conspicuously looked back. Apparently, a taste for differences was somewhat common, around here. Adio shrugged, we laughed, and we played a few more songs.

Looking around as we played, I saw the rainbow of humanity before me, joined together in such joy, and I felt something fall away that I had never known to have a grip upon me. It was like my heart breaking, in reverse. Every type of human was there, and every face as well. Even a family of the Clan of Wukong were present, having a nice picnic and listening to one of the bands. I wondered if they were immigrants, or visitors from China. You could hardly tell they weren’t just another regular human, besides the fact that the wife and child also had beards. And the tails, of course. We, sometimes, would be so blessed, but more rarely. They are rather proud of their tails, I hear.

My revere was broke just as we concluded another improvised tune. My mouth and hands had done well, even if my mind was elsewhere. Or, perhaps I had played out a bit of what was on my mind, and what no longer weighed on my heart, as there were tears in the eyes of everyone present. The mood passed with an exclamation.

“Gods, I’m hungry.” Ithicus seemed to be speaking for my stomach, as well, which replied with a loud growl. Not the sort of sound a dog head cares to make in a group of those not of their kind, but they didn’t seem to even notice.

“We could hit the Taco Bell, round the corner?” Simon said. This was a great idea, that all of us clearly loved, except for one of us which had another feast in mind.

“Uh, I think… I might…” Adio slung his guitar over his back as he arose, and then tossed his cable and his tiny amp speaker thing into Simon’s electrics bags. They must play together, most of the time. Then Adio walked right over to his last squeeze, like a man on a mission, and with a few words made him his current one once again. The mountain of a man leapt to his feet and followed him out of the park, hand in hand. If there hadn’t been such an intense look between them, there, I might have run after them. I’m not usually up for a fling, but that looked like fun. However, I know better than to step on Love’s toes, even if I worship no god. The young lady who was by his side flipped her hands into the air, in disgust, and proceeded to converse with the woman next to her. She was a good bit away, but they were both facing me, and I’m good at reading lips.

“Did… my date just walk off with the cute guy?” She said.

“You’re the one who pointed him out.” Her friend was very amused.

“No, they knew each other…”

“Yeah, did you see that look? I’d say they’ve known each other a lot.” Now her friend was laughing, but the jilted date wore a mild look of shock.

“Wait, was I the bounce? He was bouncing back from ‘cute guy’?! I’m not the bounce! I’m the bouncer, not the bounce-e!” Her hands were doing a lot of talking here, even in front of her face, but I’m sure I got that right.

“Girl, you didn’t even get a bounce. You were the awkward ‘I still love him’ date.” In response to this the one pushed the other over. Not hard; they must love each other like sisters, to talk like that. I, too, was very amused.

•••

“Do you… know Taco Bell?” Simon was trying to be kind, but it was a silly question. The ringing bell, which I could see in five different directions from our place in line, was as familiar a symbol to me as the basket of fruit on my underwear. Was it my stupid jacket that made me seem like such an outsider?

“I came from Wyandote, not the moon.” I wrote. I also drew the moon, real quick, along with a goofy face on it. This was to soften the blow, since sarcasm is so hard to convey with text alone. I turned the board, and a beat later everyone let out a few guffaws, and Simon got a strong pat on the back from Ithicus. The underlying joke, about the bull-shit story our sailors used to tell men who got too curious about where we lived, was for me alone.

As I ate my burritos, tacos being far too awkward to eat in a crowd of standard humans, I had a few moments to digest my thoughts from earlier. I was shocked to realize that I had never really been at one with people who were unlike me, before. Sure, I’d gone out to eat, or engaged in social events, but where we were in the minority I’d always felt like an outsider. Sitting here, and sharing this meal with these wonderful people I’d just met, I felt the weight of everything I’d been missing. I must have stopped chewing for a moment, because someone noticed my inner turmoil.

“Are you… All right?” Ithicus seemed genuinely concerned. Now, outside of the glaring light of Adio, I could see that he was quite handsome, himself. If you like block shaped people… Do I like block shaped people? Looking back at his concerned face, I felt like I easily could. But then, I almost choked, and had to awkwardly swallow the half bite I had in my mouth. He was on his feet before I was done, and I waved him back into his chair. That was sweet, of him, even if he was the cause of it. I took to my board to explain.

“I’m not used to this. People mix better here than back home. It’s nice.” Writing out your thoughts forces you to be direct, sometimes.

“Yeah, I’ve been to Wyandote. Lots of people there are… a bit cold?” Nikita took a swig of Pom and Lime Mt. Dew, as if to wash down her words. “They take after their gods. You probably didn’t get to see them cut loose, since y’all tend to keep your own faith.” Nikita knew more about us than I had anticipated. If it was from that stupid documentary five years ago, I’d have to correct a few things, but I appreciated the curiosity.

“Yeah, we don’t call out to gods, we worship the four principles of the universe as concepts. It’s pretty dry, actually.” I wrote out. I then wiped it, after everyone nodded, and continued writing. Ithicus had a point to make in the mean time.

“I see a few dog heads at the Temple of Dio. You don’t all hew to it.” Ithicus had a good point, so I deleted what I was writing and wrote something different; a minor advantage of this form of communication.

“Our lack of a god is no more jealous than Dio is. He throws a good party, I hear.” I almost wrote out his old name; that would be a faux pas. He had manifested some thirty years ago at the after party in every single temple, and told everyone assembled that they were all, really, his friends, and they should just call him Dio from now on, like his friends do. They gave up changing his monuments after a bit, and just took to underlining the first three letters of his name on existing depictions of the god.

“Oh yeah, it’s a great party.” Simon was, apparently, also familiar with the temple. “Only at the evening service, the one in the morning has kids and the afterparty is… There is cake?” Everyone laughed again. “I mean, the parents are usually smoking out back in the woods during the cake, they need a break.” Oh, that’s true, he was more or less the god of all intoxicants. That’s convenient; alcohol was going out of fashion, since it wrecks you so badly if you drink it in any quantity. Well… non-hallucinogenic drugs. I suppose Hecate gets those. Though, all the gods are pretty trippy. “Oh, and don’t go to the Freyday service by accident, that’s the cult of the Nazarene. They’re kinda dry. I mean, you might like that.”

“Who?” I wrote out. It was so fast it was barely slower than actually saying it.

“Who?” Nikita said, just as I turned my board. Nikita was, apparently, not so familiar with the temple, or this figure of worship. Well, not that temple. There were a lot of them, and she had cute pins depicting half a dozen gods on her purse. So, she might not be too picky, like the gods.

“It’s fun.” Ithicus said, “So they have an incarnation of Krishna, you’re probably familiar with that concept.” One great enclave of my people was in the land where that name was frequently spoken. So yes, of course. I nodded in response, as it was much quicker than writing all of that out. “Ok, they say he was born in the Mediterranean, around Palestine, in a town called Nazareth. Everyone was trying to kill him his whole life, but not for any good reason. He only went around telling people to be kind to each other, and to try and see things from each other’s perspectives. Oh, and healing people and stuff. Eventually, after even the King failed to kill him, Dio’s grandpa had a try at it." Simon was clearly confused by this point, and he interjected.

"Wasn't that his dad?” Simon said.

"He thought he was everyone's father, he was nuts. But, their family tree… it looks like a circle. The priests were arranging all of that, and they were also nuts back then.” Ithicus thought this to be funny, and he stifled a giggle. It was probably less funny at the time. Nikita had a keen observation to share, in this moment.

"So, it's a compromise… just to make it easier to preach about?" Nikita may be unaware of the particulars of Dio's local temple, but she certainly understood how a religion works.

"Yeah, a compromise. I mean, Dio says he's pretty sure Apollo was his father. We generally take his word, despite the tree." Ithicus shrugged, and we all had a sip of soda before he continued. It's nice when the gods themselves manifest to clear up a liturgical dispute. It’s hard to imagine how a silent god could keep his flock from flying to pieces, honestly. They'd probably end up killing each other. "Well, 'grandpa' fails, and the Nazarene flees to the east with his disciples, where old thunder and lightning can’t get at him. He tried to kill Dio, too. His grandpa. They have that in common.” As I recall, that god tried to kill almost everyone, and managed it rather often. No one worshiped him anymore; not in public, at least. I had a question for the table, so I wrote it out.

“So. Dry. No wine?” This was a better joke than I had thought, and when the table recovered Simon had a surprising answer.

“Oh no, Dio and the Nazarene have that in common, too. Wine. Diluted for the kids, of course.” Of course. We took the chance of this natural pause to eat more of our meal before it got cold.

I could tell something was bothering Nikita, though. Eventually, she put down her… what is that thing? A cheesy hexagon? I knew the logo well enough, but maybe not the menu. She put it down, wiped her mouth, and spoke. “The people in Wyandote, how cold they are… I’m sure they knew you are human.” Nikita was more confident than I. I took a moment, then wrote my reply, which took a few more.

“I wish I could be so confident. Every time some group of people decided we aren’t human, they murder us. It’s pretty consistent.” It’s a good thing there was never been some central authority to declare us as ‘not human.’ That would have been the end of us. [Note: The Etymologies of St. Isidore of Seville: Book 11. Chapter 3. Sections 9-15, Regarding the ‘Monster’, and the ‘Unnatural Being’ ]

“That’s… heavy, man. A lot to carry on your shoulders.” Nikita’s sentiment seemed to be shared by everyone. We had all stopped eating, as there was too much to digest in that moment. Thankfully, we were mostly done. I nodded, and wrote out a few additional thoughts.

“We’ve always had to fight to be seen as men, but when we raise our fists you call us beasts.” Or, when we try to talk, even though it is very clearly speech. There was no reply to this, so I wrote a quick follow up, "I’m guess I’m putting down that weight. Trying?”

“Well, if you need friends, here in Portland…” Ithicus was so kind.

“Yeah, we’re here for you, you seem to be pretty great actually.” Nikita seemed pretty great, too, as was her glorious smile.

“Next time, I’ll have some extra charged piles. Thorsday, same time same frequency?” Simon was so kind, as well. I smiled and nodded; it was a date. “Oh hey, I always get too many tacos, you want one?” This seemed improper, but it was as if Ithicus had read my mind.

“You already sat yourself with your back to the restaurant,” Ithicus had noticed that? I’d done it without thinking. “We’re not afraid of your teeth, come on.” I took a taco. When I was done, Nikita had another observation.

“Your mouth doesn’t look like a dog’s. Not at all, and your ears… they’re kinda right, but they are on the sides of your head. At least the pig people look like pigs, who named you?” I always thought we looked more like the tree kangaroos that live in New Holland, but we are definitely not marsupials. I pondered my answer for a moment, and wrote out my reply as Simon cleaned up the wrappers.

“Some people in Hellada thousands of years ago called us dog heads and it stuck. We used to do a lot of trade in the Mediterranean. Mostly jewelry. We’re still good at that. We call ourselves the Lost Children of the Solar Empire.” I shrugged; the name looked incredibly goofy written out in Albionese.

“That doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue.” Simon was right, but he was wrong. Quickly, and at a controlled volume, I spoke out the name of our people in our language. It was much quicker, and a bit like a brief tone poem.

“I kinda want to clap, but I won’t.” Nikita was using a practiced tone of boredom, that she was clearly using to mask her delight. In fact, everyone was delighted, and this filled me with with a weird mix of shock and joy. I was even more shocked when Kosta spoke, for the first time that day.

“You’re great on that horn thing.” Kosta said, her voice lightly accented by the language of the Rus. “I thought it looked like plumbing, and then you made me cry.” Kosta was an older woman, with more than a few lines on her face, who had a talent for the harp, and for fading in to the background. Every band, even impromptu ones in the park, needs an older person to keep them from acting like a bunch of fools. Everyone knows that. She was wearing a lovely knit hat with floppy edges, and a heavily embroidered blue silk suit which looked comfy enough to sleep in. “Don’t you miss that date, or I’ll bite you!” She snapped at the air, viciously, and it was adorable.

“Auntie, I can’t take you anywhere.” Nikita threw her arm over her shoulder. “Mom says I’m babysitting her.” I waited for Kosta to laugh, before I joined in. I didn’t want to harsh this feeling, with these wonderful people. Whatever it is, it’s intoxicating, and I’m sure it wasn’t in the food. Maybe I can ask Dio about that, later. All of this gave our hasty goodbyes a rosy, dream-like quality, after I helped them load their things onto the trolley for the trip. I couldn’t let Simon carry all three of those bags, again. It was painful to watch. I was so out of it, I’m glad I didn’t load up my own bag. I’m also glad I wasn’t run down by the bicycle race I almost missed, as I walked the last few blocks to my new home.

•••

I had barely cast off my burdens when the phone rang. I had a feeling who it would be, so I put the thing on speakerphone and fell back into a chair. I didn’t care to hold the handset, and the neat trick that other men could do, with the phone in the crook of the neck, doesn’t work at all with us.

“Oh, Bart… You ok? I was expecting you home hours ago.” It was Dad, of course. Mom didn’t tend to worry like he did. Also, I was right. The neighbors would just have to deal with the sound of yapping dogs while we spoke, if the impressive sound insulation in this place didn’t stand against our words. I wondered, in that moment, whether that was one of the reasons my cousin had selected this apartment.

“I walked home… ended up playing with a band in the park. We went and got a bite to eat.” This really drained all of the color out of the experience, but I was talking to my dad.

“Oh… great!” Father seemed to be delighted. “People like us, or…”

“No, they were all flat fa… standard people. I mean, there were dog heads in the park. Some pig people too, and the monkey people from China. And all the other hues of man, that don’t stand out so much. It was neat.” I guess I was delighted, as well.

“I’m very happy to hear it… what did you think of Jade?”

“She seems to be real nice, she… Wait, how did you know that I ran into her?”

“Hah, Tan-kat gave me a call. First time we have talked in years, actually…”

“Since you two broke up?” This was fresh, but I had been shocked to find out about this bit of family history, and I wanted to tease him a bit.

“Uh…” This is one of the few words that we share with Albionese. It’s too bad that it means literally nothing.

“Jade said something about it… It came as news to me. I thought that you only had eyes for women! I didn’t know we had so much in common.” My parents knew about my wandering eye, of course. It was nothing to be ashamed of.

“Oh, not like you. No, I… only ever had eyes for Tan.” Familiar enough to refer to him by but one name! Duly noted. “He picked up the instrument so he could play by my side, and then I ran off to be an architect…” I could hear his voice catch, as he choked up a bit. I gave him a moment to compose himself and continue, “I’d think I broke his heart if Jade hadn’t picked it up so fast.”

“Did that cause some stress?” I was pretty sure I knew.

“Jade? Yeah, the old rules… about sexual relations, had only been voted out a few decades back. His dad’s side of the family did not like it. Most everyone knows what we are now, and there is less chance of a loose child being treated as an animal, or a monster. But, that side was old fashioned, and they made a lot of noise about traditions and propriety.” He laughed, “Jade’s family was surprisingly supportive, and that helped a lot. I guess they had a pig person, way back in their family tree? I didn’t know that, at the time. Tan said there was no trace of it on any of their faces. It seems like weird folk are everyone’s family secret, here on Turtle Island.” Living my life out in Wyandote, I’d had no idea to what a degree that was true. But, around here, it seems like people had given up on secrets. We had some ugly secrets of our own, which this conversation brought to mind.

“It’s really rich, for the traditionalists to be all up in arms about propriety. As I recall, the traditionalists used to bait sailors with our…” It was impossible not to use the slur, in this context, “… flat faced women, to keep our blood fresh. Relations were never the problem, it was relationships. They just don’t care for love.”

“Men were more restricted, son. It’s harder to keep track of our children…” It’s true, men tend to jump at opportunities for such amusements, and it’s far too easy to leave behind an unexpected gift. “Yeah, well… You’re right, and Love be. Can anyone doubt the two of them love each other? I don’t. Tan-kat says two of their kids take after their mom, except the ears. The third, more the dad. It sounds cute… I want pictures?” It was good to hear there was no bad blood between them, now. I’d hate to be on the wrong side of my boss because my dad didn’t squeeze him right, back in the day. “But all that aside, I’m so glad you are getting along well in Olympia, already. We were a bit worried… that you were getting some hard feelings towards the standard model men. People around here can be so cold, if you don’t worship with them.”

“That’s the second time I’ve heard that today, and I can’t believe I missed that detail until now.”

“Look, son, if they looked down on us… like that, I couldn’t work with them like I do. Like we do. We have philosophical differences, and that’s fine.”

“I mean, if their gods don’t like us…”

“There are a thousand gods, none of them have the time to be too jealous, or too picky.” Can you imagine? That would be terrible. “But, you know, it’s a community: a temple. And we were never in that community.” This brought to mind another question.

“A few people in the band mentioned the Temple of Dio. I know some dog heads attend, would it be…” My mom interjected. The other side must be on speakerphone, too.

“Oh gods! I told you. Ten minutes in a new city and he’s up to his neck in gods.” I couldn’t tell if mom was annoyed, or amused.

“Eh, I’m not shaking hands with him or anything.” But, I do like a good party.

“If Dio shows up then shake his hand, don’t be rude.” Dad seemed genuinely concerned. That was unlikely… Less so if I started having some faith, I suppose. “I don’t have a problem with it."

“Dio’s fine, smoke and wine, just don’t get too lost in your time.” That also rhymed very well in the original language. Mom was quite a poet, often without even trying.

“Yeah, have fun.” I could tell by dad’s tone that this was wrapping up, but there was one more point I wanted to hit upon.

“So, uh, dad… Call him back, eh? You two shouldn’t be so distant. I always wondered about that guy in the pictures.”

“I don’t mind if you two get close again. If Jade’s not jealous, that would be fun to watch.” This was not what I meant, and mom knew it, she was just trying to embarrass me. She had succeeded, and I was at a loss for words. Apparently, so was my father, so mom continued. “Wow, got you both, how often do I get this much peace and quiet?”

“I have a few things to do around here, so maybe I can give you some more? Love you two.”

“Love you!” my parents barked out, in unison, before they laughed and disconnected the line.

I looked up, upon my kingdom of boxes, and knew that I had days of work ahead of me before this place was really my home. But, I already felt at home in Portland, and it was a good feeling. I unpacked my stereo, placed it atop my boxes of clothes and art supplies, and set off a jazz record that I was fond of. So accompanied, I installed those blinds in my bedroom. I’d have to rest well tonight, if I had so much living to do.

#classical mythology #mythologyart #New Mythology #cynocephaly #alternate timeline

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thelastspeecher · 5 years ago

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Angela Pines

I just wrote another 2k words for this AU today when I was supposed to be doing the dishes, so screw it, I’m gonna start posting what I’ve written. This is the reason I haven’t been updating my multichaps. I’ve been writing, but only writing my nonsense. So, presented with zero context, here is some of what I’ve written for the AU that has been occupying my every waking moment the last few days.

Enjoy.

——————————————————————————————

The bell over the door rang. Filbrick looked up. He frowned at the sight of his three sons rushing into the shop.

“I thought you were gonna spend the whole morning at the beach,” he rumbled.

“We were, Pops,” Stanford said. He looked over at his older brother, Shermie. “But…”

“But what?” Filbrick asked. Shermie walked over to Filbrick, carrying something in his arms. He gently deposited it on the counter. Filbrick’s eyes widened behind his glasses. Sitting next to the register was a very young girl, no more than four. Her dress was caked in sand and stiff, likely from soaking in saltwater and then drying in the sun. She looked up at him balefully through a mess of tangled blonde hair.

“Did you boys kidnap a little girl?” Caryn asked, propping a hand on her hip. She had been shining some of the display items, like she frequently did when she needed a break from being a phone psychic.

“No!” Shermie said quickly. “Stan found her washed up on the beach.” Filbrick looked at his twin sons.

“Which one?” he asked.

“We both found her,” Stanley said. Filbrick grunted and made a gesture for Shermie to continue.

“They came and grabbed me, and we went all up and down the beach looking for her parents. No one knew her. I figured we should bring her back here for now.”

“Hmph,” Filbrick grunted. He parted the girl’s hair, revealing eyes the color of the ocean. “What’s your name, kid?”

“An-n-ngie,” the girl squeaked. It almost sounded like she put a “B” at the beginning of her name, but Filbrick chalked that up to her age and apparent speech impediment.

“How old are you, Angie?” Filbrick asked. Angie held up three fingers. “Three.” Filbrick looked over at his wife. “Caryn, get her cleaned up and bring her back down here.” Caryn nodded. She picked Angie up and brought her upstairs.

“What’s gonna happen with her?” Stanford asked.

“Dunno,” Filbrick said roughly. “Go take over polishing for your mom.” His sons did as they were told. About ten minutes later, Caryn returned with Angie. She was now wearing one of Stanford’s old overalls, and her hair had been carefully combed and put into a braid.

“Poor thing seems scared out of her mind,” Caryn remarked, walking over to Filbrick. She set Angie on the floor. “We should probably call the authorities.” Filbrick nodded. At the feeling of something tugging his pants, he looked down. Angie was now standing, staring up at him with enormous blue eyes, pulling on his pant leg.

“Up?” Angie whispered fearfully, tears threatening to spill down her cheeks. Filbrick picked Angie up, intending on handing her over to Caryn again. However, she immediately nestled against his chest, clutching fistfuls of his shirt. Her tiny body shook. Filbrick felt himself soften. He cleared his throat.

“Shermie, take over the register. I’m gonna go make some calls.”

“You got it, Pops,” Shermie said, coming over. Filbrick carried Angie up to the apartment above the pawnshop. He grabbed the phone and went over to his armchair and sat down. Now sitting in Filbrick’s lap, Angie leaned her head against his chest. Filbrick softened further. He coughed roughly and began the process of tracking down the girl’s parents.

Half an hour later, the pawnshop closed for lunch. Caryn, Stanley, Stanford, and Shermie all traipsed upstairs. The twins openly gaped at the sight of Filbrick in his armchair, Angie curled up in his lap fast asleep. Filbrick glared at his sons preemptively. They scampered away without saying anything.

“Any luck?” Caryn asked, walking over and kissing Filbrick on the cheek. Filbrick shook his head.

“No. I talked to my buddy on the force. He didn’t have any reports of missing kids with her description. But he said that it might take a while for the report to come in.”

“Do you think we can…keep her?” Caryn asked softly. Filbrick grunted.

“It’s a kid, not a stray dog, Caryn.” Angie shifted slightly in her sleep, mumbling something. Filbrick softened yet again. “Randy said that once it’s been a coupla weeks, we can be confident that her family either can’t or just flat-out doesn’t want to find her. And if it reaches that point, he’ll help with the adoption papers.”

“She’s so sweet and small,” Caryn cooed, stroking Angie’s golden, silky hair. Filbrick had done the same earlier, but stopped when he heard footsteps on the stairs. “I feel like she was meant for us to find, Filly. We always wanted a little girl.”

“You always wanted a little girl,” Filbrick grunted. Caryn rolled her eyes. She picked Angie up.

“Don’t act like you weren’t disappointed you didn’t have a daughter to spoil rotten.” Caryn carried Angie off, probably to put her in a bed better suited for her size. Filbrick suddenly missed the slight amount of warmth Angie produced in his lap.

He got up and went to the kitchen to make a sandwich for lunch.

-----

Filbrick wandered into the kitchen for a glass of water. He let out a yawn. The chaos of the previous day, when they’d finally begun the formal process of adopting Angie, had worn him out thoroughly. In the morning, they were planning on going to the store to get Angie some clothes, something he was already dreading. He wasn’t one for clothes shopping.

Small footsteps sounded. Filbrick looked over. Angie toddled past the kitchen entryway in the oversized shirt she was wearing as a nightgown, seemingly on a mission. Filbrick quickly set the glass he’d grabbed on the counter and followed her. He caught up to her just as she reached the top of the staircase leading to the pawnshop.

“What are you doing out of bed, angel?” he asked, picking her up. The nickname was Caryn’s creation. It based upon her name, Angela, and the fact that she’d appeared out of nowhere. Filbrick sometimes used the nickname in front of Caryn, but not his sons. Not yet. They didn’t need to know he had a soft side.

“Fwog,” Angie mumbled blearily. Filbrick frowned. Frog? He turned her around. Her eyes were glazed over. She stared at him blankly.

“You’re a sleepwalker, huh?” Filbrick muttered. Angie babbled at him. “And a sleeptalker, too.” Filbrick carried Angie over to the recliner. He sat down and leaned the chair back. Angie curled up on top of him. “Your mom and I figured out your middle name today,” he informed her, stroking her hair. “Diane.” Angie brought her thumb to her mouth to suck on it. “Angela Diane Pines.” Angie abruptly sat up and made like she was going to walk away again. Filbrick quickly pushed her back down and held her there.

“We’re gonna need to get you a crib, angel,” he said softly. “Can’t have you falling down the stairs in the middle of the night.” Angie nuzzled him happily. Filbrick’s eyes slowly closed. He fell asleep, Angie curled up in his lap.

-----

“Hi!” chirped Angie cheerfully to the latest customer to come to the cash register. She’d been adopted for only a day, and already she was pulling her weight, at least, in Filbrick’s opinion. Angie loved nothing more than being down in the pawnshop, following him around. Her big blue eyes and rapidly growing wardrobe of adorable outfits caused customers to let their guard down and pay much more than they normally would.

“Oh, hello,” the customer gushed at Angie, poking her prominent nose, eliciting a giggle from her. Filbrick bit back the urge to tell off the customer. He didn’t want strangers touching his daughter, but she didn’t seem to mind, and he could tell this customer might be willing to pay through the nose. So he let it slide. This time. “She’s adorable.”

“Thanks,” Filbrick grunted, ringing up the purchase. “We just adopted her yesterday.”

“You- oh! That’s so kind of you.”

“Well, my sons found her washed up on the beach. Turned out she was abandoned. Couldn’t let a sweet little girl like her get lost in the system. Not when she’s got a family right here that would love her.”

“Aw,” the customer cooed.

“Sure, things might be a bit tighter with another mouth to feed. But we had to take her in.”

“You have such a big heart,” the customer said. They took out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it over. “Here. And keep the change. Put it towards food for your new little girl.” Filbrick beamed at the customer.

“Will do. Say ‘bye’, Angie.”

“Bye!” Angie said cheerfully. The customer chuckled and left. Filbrick looked over at his daughter proudly. Not only did her cuteness lull customers into a false sense of security, but telling the story of how she came to live with them made people want to give big tips.

“Already, you’re making us some money, angel,” he said appreciatively. Angie giggled. She held her arms out.

“Up, up!” she chirped. Filbrick smiled and picked her up. Angie giggled again. Filbrick’s heart melted. Angie had been nervous and scared the first week, but now she laughed and smiled all the time. He would never admit it to Caryn, but he had been disappointed they never had a daughter. Sure, he wanted a son to pass down his name and store to. But he also wanted a daughter to shower with attention and fuss over. He didn’t just like having Angie in the shop because they made more money with her around. He liked having her in the shop because he hated being away from her.

Filbrick was already looking forward to taking out his shotgun for a cleaning the first time Angie brought a boy home.

“All right, angel, time to get you ready for the ceremony,” he informed her. He walked over to the door and flipped the sign on it to read “CLOSED”. Angie nestled against his chest as they went upstairs. Filbrick handed Angie over to Caryn, who whisked her away to be put in a formal dress they got specifically for the occasion. He looked over at his sons, sitting on the couch, dressed up. Like usual, their hair refused to be tamed, despite Caryn’s best attempts.

“Pops, do we really hafta go?” Stanley whined, kicking his feet. “It’s just a dumb ceremony.”

“It’s not dumb, Stan,” Filbrick rumbled. “It’s your sister’s conversion. She’s gone through the legal adoption, now she needs the religious one.” Stanley crossed his arms and looked away. Ever since they decided to adopt Angie, he’d been acting out more than usual. Filbrick didn’t like that. “You’re going to behave.”

“Hmph,” Stanley huffed. Shermie leaned over and tried to press down his younger brother’s exuberant curls.

“Hey, maybe if we all behave, Mom and Pops will take us for ice cream after,” he whispered. The twins’ eyes widened. They looked at Filbrick. Filbrick crossed his arms, but nodded. The twins promptly sat up straighter, already acting on their best behavior.

“All right, time to go to temple!” Caryn announced, returning with Angie, who was eagerly sucking on her fist. She poked Angie’s nose. Angie chortled around her fist. “Are you ready, honey?” Angie removed her fist and looked up at Caryn in what appeared to be shock. Caryn kissed the top of her head, making her laugh again.

“Come on, boys,” Filbrick grunted, ushering his sons down the stairs. “Let’s go.”

-----

Angie toddled around the store, following Filbrick as he closed things up for the night. He glanced down every now and then to make sure he didn’t step on or trip over her, but she was maintaining a safe distance behind him.

“Your mom made spaghetti tonight,” Filbrick informed Angie. Angie let out a giggle. Filbrick grinned. He’d expected Angie’s predisposition to laughing to die down once she’d adjusted to living with them, as had her pediatrician. But two months in, she still laughed at just about everything. It was a far cry from Stanford��s tendency to cry at everything at her age. Filbrick went over to the door, flipped the sign over to read “CLOSED”, and locked it.

“Papa!” a voice chirped behind him. He froze. “Papa!” Filbrick turned around slowly. He crouched down to Angie’s eye-height.

“What was that, angel?” he asked. Angie held out her arms, beaming.

“Up, up, papa!” she said happily. Filbrick stared at her. Despite taking her in months ago, she hadn’t called him her dad yet, and also had yet to call Caryn her mom. The pediatrician wasn’t sure whether it was because she didn’t think of them as her parents, or whether she was still working on assigning names to everyone. It had taken her weeks to start calling the twins “Stan” and Shermie “Sherm”.

“We need to show this off to your mom,” Filbrick said. He scooped Angie into his arms and carried her upstairs, his heart racing. His little girl finally thought of him as her dad.

“Pops, we’re gonna go get school stuff tomorrow, right?” asked Shermie the moment Filbrick entered the apartment. Filbrick nodded. “Got it.” Filbrick made a beeline for the kitchen, where Caryn was stirring a pot of sauce. She looked up.

“How’d things go, Filly?” she asked. Filbrick opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by Angie.

“Mama, hold!” Angie whined, stretching her arms out for Caryn. Caryn’s eyes widened. She took Angie from Filbrick.

“That’s right, angel, I’m your mama,” she whispered, holding Angie tightly.

“She called me ‘papa’ downstairs,” Filbrick informed her. Caryn squeezed Angie.

“Oh, she’s finally really our little girl, isn’t she? She knows we’re her parents.” Filbrick nodded, trying to act stoic. “And the boys have finally accepted her, too. Our family’s complete, Filly.” Angie looked over at Filbrick with a smile that stretched ear to ear. Filbrick nodded again, caving once more at Angie’s exuberance.

“Yes. It is.”

#pretty sure this AU is the only time I've ever written Filbrick not being Fildick #and tbh he gets more Fildick later on in the AU #he displays a lot of benevolent sexism towards Angie #oh as a frame of reference the Stans are five and Shermie is like twelve #Angela Pines AU #Filbrick Pines #Ma Pines #Stanley Pines #Stanford Pines #Shermie Pines #Angie McGucket #ficlet #my writing #my stuff #speecher speaks

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jlf23tumble · 5 years ago

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This one’s for @homosociallyyours and @silverfoxlouis, the former because she’s not going to listen and the latter because they’re listening as we speak! I saw a post earlier that low-key annoyed me because it either misrepresented today’s Stern interview or it skipped right over the fascinating bits, so here are the parts I enjoyed (I won’t waste my time on the shit I hated, lol):

Shrooms and the song-writing process are related to Harry’s anxiety about fucking shit up and needing to get out of his own head; related: coming from a band, if there's something you don't like, you can tell yourself that it wasn’t your choice.

The Rob Stringer talk made me SIDE EYE w/r/t the delay, like, okay, you’re a label boss who’s gonna drop a ton of money, but you’re cool with telling the artist to just relax and take all the time they need, you’ll just pick up the thread when hs2 is completely finished, lolz (I have my own theories about allllll of that, but okay!).

I love Stevie and her coven of nocturnal witches, too, but tell me more about how she hated Harry’s choice of first single (in my heart, she wanted “Golden”) and the song that she thought should have been on the album but isn’t, god, she’s such a yoda, and this entire bit was so much bigger than the coven.

I live in Harry’s soft, breathy “thank you” whenever Howard praises SOTT.

I feel like all the White Eskimo talk is a fic waiting to happen, the whole battle of the bands and them winning studio time and how Harry talks to maybe one of them and there’s a guy who IS STILL IN WHITE ESKIMO I GUESS???? WHAT?

Howard Stern hatesssssssssssss Simon Cowell, so his attempts to get Harry to talk shit were both wonderful and expertly dodged, lmao.

My only positive comment about the discussion around Harry “putting on some timber” during his bakery (cashier at a baker) years was how much it echoed Louis’s comment about “having extra timber” during one of his recent BTS specials.

Were the guys in One Direction REALLY saying that Matt Cardle was “so fucking good” back in the day? This junior statesman!

Ralph pointed this out when we were talking about the interview, but a lot of the time, Howard just makes statements (as per usual), and Harry says, “Right,” which is a great response because it isn’t really an answer, yet it’s still participatory.

Howard is obsessed with coronavirus, so it was hella interesting to hear Harry’s thoughts about it affecting his tour, when his tour is still so far away (yet another tour is so much closer and in the direct line of fire).

Howard (like me) was pleased that Harry’s band is a mix of women and men and not just dudes (I should take a drink every time Bowie is mentioned, like around Harry’s clothes, how Harry is starting his tour in Philadelphia, the entirety of that convo making me want to see Harry’s face as much as all the xarries want to).

One of the things I hated seeing earlier today was this notion that Howard “forced” Harry to talk about the robbery because he absolutely did not, Harry went into CRAZY levels of detail about it when Howard asked, “When did this happen to you?” (and the way Harry talked about it wasn’t full of trauma or sadness, it bordered on humorous in spots but still serious; it clearly shook him up, but he wasn’t about to let it change his life of feeling free to walk around at night).

I wanted to hear a lot more about all the musicians hanging out in the ‘70s and being competitive in terms of who was writing the best songs about a particular party vs. the competitiveness of banging out the best single today. Harry’s focus was that if you say you like a song, people think you should collaborate…if two musicians hang out, they're dating or recording (like with Adele, and case in point, Howard immediately asked if they were working on something).

I also loved the bit about acting and how nervous Harry used to be about EVERYTHING because he’s waiting three hours to do three minutes, and he focuses so much on his voice or hands shaking, but this last SNL really helped (in my heart, his “little tweaks” were on the Sara Lee sketch).

I live in the guffaw from Harry whenever Howard unexpectedly hit his funny bone (like Harry saying Anne gave him some money to buy clothes when he first moved to London, and Howard saying it was good return on investment for her, what with the house Harry eventually bought her, etc.).

I absolutely LOVED the entire bit about Ben Winston’s attic (and Ralph’s related takes on it), the fine line of the plausibility yet the doubling down; the word “cocaine” coming out of Harry’s mouth; the parts about dating and keeping your relationship normal/secret, etc., GOLD, ALL OF IT.

Harry, like Phoenix Mendoza, writes every day, which is part of why he wasn’t really into giving up his phone to muggers because that’s his writing zone of choice for lyrics and poems (the whole robbery clapback here: “for the purposes of not getting mugged again, no, they’re on a different device”).

MITCH SPEAKS!! He was into his Nick Drake phase when Harry met him, but apparently everyone is into the open D (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!) chord, so he was a shoe-in. Also, Harry met Adam in 2010??? I’d like more information.

We move back into 1D territory with Zayn’s departure, which is still shittily handled but somewhat more maturedly discussed, and yet another attempt to get Harry to talk shit about Simon, which is getting us closer to what we want/need (Harry’s very real answer to Simon being pissed that Harry didn’t consult him about going solo: “I’m in a band since I was 16, there were five of us, we had a lot of managers, lots of people at the label, and all of these decisions affect your life in a massive way, every decision I made was a group call. I didn't know who I was as an adult,” and a lot of that is paraphrased in spite of the quote marks, but just know that I am screaming LIAM).

There’s a lot of weird downspeak to Sarah and Ny (Adam and Mitch were talked at earlier), but everyone’s very much into Sarah, and rightfully so. I loved the slip up where Howard is trying to figure out if there’s anything romantic going on between Harry and the female band members, and someone says, “Mitch!” so you can hear Howard process Harry and Mitch for a hot sec, cracking the Hitch dream, before we get clarification and Harry gleefully taking us into the story of their love. (Me as the speech Howard gives Sarah and Mitch about how dangerous it is to be in a band together and to have a relationship because if you fuck it up, it’ll be terrible.)

SLEDGEHAMMER NICE.

We get a bit into the “Adore You” video because Howard’s an animal softie, and he loves it (it’s downplayed, but Howard also mentions how fans have put a lot of “thoughts” into the fish), but then we get into talk about how this song is about the girl Harry’s banging (HIS SNICKER HERE) and how the common denominator in all of Harry’s failed relationships is him, huh. All of this relationship talk here makes me want to DIE with how much I love it.

Everyone focuses on the gross talk from Howard about Harry having a lady therapist (this is a long-standing Howard trope), but some good shit disappears between those cracks, like how Harry decided to go into therapy, how he’s keeping his LA therapist instead of having two in different countries, etc., and it’s actually Robin who asks Harry about seeming weak or vulnerable in front of a female therapist, but clearly, he’s not bothered.

I’m so interested in how the shrooms tongue-biting incident cured a speech impediment I wasn’t fully aware of but that is still so impossibly endearing.

Harry himself picks out his opening acts, which we already knew but is always nice to hear confirmed.

The drug convo in text from earlier today makes it sound like he doesn’t smoke cigs, but to me, it seems like he doesn’t like to smoke weed (an edible king, relatable).

Harry says, “you’ve said it all,” which just makes me think he’s a long-time (or recent) Stern listener, because that’s what Howard says when he’s done/interview’s over.

We think it’s all done but the shouting, and then Robin gets into Harry’s clothing, which is where it gets dicey. Howard (of course) mentions that Bowie wore a skirt and how he himself did full drag on TV (“legs shaved and everything, you should see how gorgeous I am as a woman”), but Harry keeps it very much in the realm of what he wears is what he wears because it’s fun for him, he’s not wearing a school uniform or trying to look cool for his friends, he’s a lot more comfortable with himself: “At shows, I tell people to be who they want to be, I plan on telling my kids that, so I don’t want to be a hypocrite, I’m not wearing it for shock value.”

Howard says people will assume he’s gay or bi (like Bowie, YEAH, SIGH), but Harry says it’s not performative. This whole bit is fascinating on so many levels, he touches (without saying) on the entire queer-baiting issue, and it’s cringe-y, with Howard saying “I’m not criticizing, wear what you want, I’m a big mess, etc.”

Anyway, they pivot out of that with Howard moving beyond into asking Harry who he wants to badmouth: “Simon?” Harry: “This has been great!” and this entire bit about how Howard wants to know if Harry considers Simon a friend, and Harry saying he doesn’t talk to him gives me life. There’s a lot of gross talk about who Harry has his eye on for his next girlfriend, but I will tell you that I never in my life expected to hear the words SUSAN BOYLE thrown into this convo.

The interview closes out with Harry getting progressively more silent about the women he should date, saying that he doesn’t talk in interviews about his love life, he talks in music (oh?????), so Taylor Swift comes up, and Harry says it’s flattering to think you’re in a Taylor song because she’s such a great songwriter, which, true, I guess?

Harry hasn’t used a dating app (duh), but Howard thinks he should create one, and…scene.

#recap #stern show

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freerabbitmanandpig · 4 years ago

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My Friend With Parkinson’s

On Oct 1st of this year I was given compassionate release from Allenwood USP for (what was diagnosed as) an unspecified connective tissue disorder. I had served roughly 60 months of a 70 month sentence. To secure this extraordinary release my lawyer had sited the new emergency COVID increased risk criteria, pointing to my status of being prescribed immunosuppressants, as well as suffering from lifelong asthma. Being as that I’d been housed in a care-level 3 medical facility, most of my time had been spent around inmates with chronic conditions, many of them without a chance of making it home within the course of their natural lives. Conscious of the fact that many of these men lacked the financial resources available to my family, especially as the pandemic has left many people in the street without regular employment, I made promises to some of these men to attempt to get their stories out into the world.

Christian Tarantino (Reg. # 14684-050) is a middle-aged man that I met while in Allenwood. A gambler with a good sense of humor, who was generous with his friends and, while in the street, lethal to those who stood in his way. According to the FBI, back in the early 90s Chris was part of a crew that committed a number of armed robberies. In 2011 he was sentenced to three consecutive life-terms for the murder of a guard during an armored car robbery back in 1994, as well as the murder of one of the participants whom he feared would flip on him.

Criminals, conscious of their own status, tend to withhold judgement, and I’d be lying if the description of Chris as a “cold killer”, spoken to me with admiration by more than a few inmates, did not inspire this same admiration in me upon hearing the stories of his exploits. To be clear, I never personally heard Chris tell any stories about his case, or murder in general; the stories he did tell me were often funny ones about the club scene in NY, or his dog. The problem was that, when Chris spoke, I often had to strain to hear him. Still, the Parkinson’s had made him patient over the years, and he did not get frustrated when a person had to ask him to repeat himself, sometimes multiple times. No matter how long it took for him to finish the story, it was worth it to hear it all the way through – as I said, he was funny.

Chris and I had started talking more about his disease a month before my release, after having heard that the Marshall Project had published a short story of mine the year before. The problem, he’d told me one morning, was that a 15-minute analysis with the MD did not take in to account the fact that his PD fluctuated in intensity throughout the course of a given day. Even if you’re classified as a care level 3, you generally only get to see the facility’s MD once a year, with all subsequent outside appointments and medication adjustments being managed by your assigned PA. The key to adequate treatment lies then in the temperament of your PA. My PA was considered the best on the compound and was likely instrumental in getting me the workups and appointments I needed to secure my compassionate release. Chris’ PA was largely considered the worst on the compound (one of two), a bitter woman who often had to be compelled into action via administrative remedies, which Chris was inevitably forced to file. If he came to a sick-call and was not actively in the throes of intense contortions (which he sometimes referred to as ‘crazy legs’) then he was often disregarded. Chris and his PA were prone to devolve into shouting matches, nor was this a problem that she had only with him. Even when he wasn’t engaged in fighting the crazy legs, he was mostly still confined to his wheelchair. There were, on occasion, times when he felt in control of his legs enough to walk, albeit while holding on to another inmate’s shoulders. There was no shortage of willing shoulders, as inmates of all races would step up to ferry him, either to the computer room – where they would inevitable have to help him type his emails, or to the shower – where no handicap accommodations existed. This last omission struck many of us as particularly negligent, considering the yard’s care level. Another problem was the speech impediment. I’d often heard him ask, rhetorically, how it was that sounding like “a retard” when he spoke was not a clear enough indicator of the severity of his condition, regardless of the tremors. Of course ‘retard’ is not really the best adjective for any modern condition, but the point was still valid that, when he spoke, he sounded like a person recovering from a massive stroke – only he wasn’t recovering, Parkinson’s is a degenerative illness.

The prison had no choice but to provide him with follow-ups to the local neurologist after a highly invasive surgery, known as ‘deep brain stimulation’, in which a device, a ‘neurostimulator’, was implanted into his brain. This local doctor told Chris flat-out that he was incapable of treating him at this stage in his illness, nor is the facility capable of recalibrating his implant.

At night, a small group of us would walk to pill line to get our evening medications. I got Elavil and Gabba Pentin – the former for my interstitial cystitis, and the Gabba Pentin for more generalized pain. Chris, on the other hand, got a bunch of different pills, each with an Old Testament-sized list of potential side effects. To add insult to injury, the medical staff crushed most of his medications, as though this middle-aged man in a plastic, yellow wheelchair, barely able to get the cup of powder into his mouth, would somehow be able – or even willing, to cheek these many pills so that he could smuggle them back to the unit and…. What? For anyone curious enough to look, Federal Penitentiaries are full to the point of bursting with real narcotics. Who the fuck wants to sniff twenty different PD meds?

During these evening walks (some of our only time outside of the unit since the pandemic started) the subject of my pending motion came up on a regular basis. It was news, if nothing else. As for Chris, PD does not put him at an increased risk for COVID complications, and although I’d heard him, on occasion, tentatively breech the subject of outright compassionate release, his main request to me was that I put his story up, in the hope that perhaps someone else from the outside would get involved and get him moved to a medical facility. At least then he wouldn’t have to worry about falling down in the shower and bearing the indignity of calling for help, alone and naked on a wet floor that’s covered with other men’s piss and body hair. Before I was released, I wrote one final staff request for him to the medical coordinator attempting to get him transferred to a care-level 4 facility. This was not his first attempt to obtain such a transfer, and, for the purposes of the request, Chris provided me with a list of names of staff members who had seen him fall down, or else had helped him get back to his cell after an accident. It was a long list.

For a man who devoted a large part of his life to fitness, it’s a hard pill to swallow. In my mind I am stuck wondering what three consecutive life sentences (or a thousand for that matter) really means for someone like Chris, who’s own body has become a prison. In a sense I have an idea – back in 2017, my uncle Steven Parr – a successful and well known archivist in San Francisco, was diagnosed first with Parkinson’s, which was later amended to a diagnoses of Lewy-Body syndrome – a disease that bears similarities to PD. His initial suicide attempt was precluded by his manager, Adam, who was on the phone with my mother at the time. His second attempt, however, was successful. To me, though, the most poignant encapsulation of Chris’s attitude was made apparent when I was pushing him to the showers one morning. He’d removed his shirt before getting back in his chair, and I was struck by his apparent muscle tone and total lack of body fat, despite his sedentary lifestyle,

“Damn Chris, you’re in a wheelchair and still in better shape than half these dudes in here.”

“Yea..” he spoke slowly – struggling to force his tongue to conform to the consonants, “..this is the worst thing god could’ve done to me.”

In a way it was cruel how the progress in my appeal seemed to engender a sense of hope in some of the other care level 3’s working fervently, without the aid of outside capital or competent legal help, to obtain their own releases before the virus made it’s way to the yard. By Oct 1st the USP at the Allenwood Correctional Complex had 7 cases, all of them quarantined in the shu after having arrived on a plane, and then a bus, with who-knows how many others potentially infected. They’d already shut the medium back down as, despite their ‘best’ efforts at screening all arrivals, 15 cases had popped up in general population. As I already stated above, the administration fought me every step of the way – even after the motion had been granted and I was only awaiting the end of my obligatory 2 week quarantine, the staff refused to allow me to call my family, my lawyer, or even probation, so that I could arrange for transport. I didn’t know whether I’d be going straight home or to a program until the last minute. I could see it in their faces every time they brought me legal mail or were forced to set up my screening for the drug program that I’m in now – they didn’t think I deserved it. Like they had only just found out via the granting of my motion that they presided over an unequal system. I got 8 months back – goodtime I’d lost, along with years-worth of visits and phone calls - “privileges” they justified in taking almost exclusively over dirty urines, and for what? Suboxone. At my final workup the MD confided in me that, prior to the pandemic, they’d been told by the region to start preparations for the MAT program (medication assisted treatment) and to apply for the DEA approval to begin prescribing both suboxone and vivitrol. Unfortunately, these proceedings had to be halted to focus their energies on the then emerging public health crisis. Maybe it’s my prejudices, but itt seemed to me that these people took it personally – as though those reclaimed 8 months had come directly off the end of their own lifespans.

#jail #mass incarceration #parkinsonsdisease #social justice #criminal justice

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transdonaldduck · 6 years ago

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idk if you already answered this, but what was mason and donalds first meeting like?

Mom was confident, a pillar of strength Mason desperately wanted to emulate- she was certain and steady all the time. At most she was reserved, modest, gentle… but never has her hand hovered over a doorbell for so long, waiting to gather the courage to ring the bell. A heart beat passes and Jessica pushes the buzzer to McDuck Manor.

There’s a pause, then- “McDuck Residence, state your business.” It’s a curt tone, feminine, and her sharpness makes Mason frown.

“Yes, hi! Hello.” Jessica’s nerves finally smoothed out on the last word, jitters vanishing as her professional persona kicked in, “I’m looking for Donald Duck.”

She doesn’t get a reply for a long moment, and just when she thinks she’s been denied, there‘s the voice again, “May I ask what this is about?”

“Of course, um, My name is Jessica Quackmire. We met about fifteen years ago, and I have… something that uh…” Her face twists as she fishes for the right words, “…Belongs to him?”

Mason turns her head slowly, unamused. Jessica shrugs helplessly, mouths I didn’t know what to say!

There’s a loud sound, the grinding of metal against metal and Mason jumps, watching the gates peel backwards to allow them entrance, “Please proceed forward.” The woman says over the intercom before the line drops dead. Mom puts the car in drive.

“Something that belongs to him?” Mason asks wryly.

“I’m an adult, I can admit it: I panicked.” Jessica says reasonably, grimacing at her own word choice, “This is a delicate situation, I didn’t want to just tell him about a surprise family over a gate intercom.”

“Fair enough.” Mason concedes, drumming out a tune on the dashboard, trying to expel some built up energy.

“…Are you nervous about meeting him?” Jessica asks gently.

Mason balls her hands up to stop the incessant habit, dropping them to her lap, “What’s there to be nervous about?” She tries for nonchalant, “It’s not like I don’t know all about him… he’s got his own wikipedia page.”

“It’s different reading about someone versus actually meeting them.” Mom points out as she finally makes it to the manor, pulling into the roundabout in front of the main entrance, “Do you want to stay in the car until I talk to him?”

“No way, I want to be there the whole time.” She says, unclicking her seatbelt, “I can handle it.”

Once mom had decided to start med school, she’d sat Mason down and had a long talk about her father. It’s not as if Mason wasn’t aware of him before, and while she’d always kind of wondered about what he was like in person, she also was pretty happy with her life and never really felt the need to reach out badly enough to actually do it. Mom wanted them to build a relationship, though, since she wouldn’t be around a lot once she went back to school. Mason had a sneaking suspicion there was another reason there somewhere, but she didn’t pry. The thought of meeting her dad was good in theory, but he was a difficult man to track down. Turns out he hopped from job to job, didn’t have a landline listed in the phone book, and his previously listed house(boat) had apparently blown up and then sunk spectacularly during the return of magica De Spell- so, he was hard to get a hold of… which meant they were stuck here, jumping right into the fire instead of asking him to meet them out for lunch or something. No warning ahead of time. Oof.

Mason pops open her door and jumps out of the car, following her mom up to the door. The closer she got to actually meeting Donald Duck, the more anxious she was getting. What if he didn’t like her..? What if he didn’t want her.

Mom knocks on the door politely and firmly without delay, this time, shoulders squared. Mason mimics her, straightening her spine, schooling her expression. The woman who opens the door was an imposing figure. She was dressed very sweetly in a matronly apron and a skirt, her hair pulled back into a tight bun, and Mason understood almost immediately she was the no-nonsense type and strains to stand stiffer under her eyes.

“Jessica Quackmire,” Mom smiles, solding out her hand.

“I am the housekeeper, Miss Beakley.” She smiles back, shaking her mom’s hand twice, “Please follow me, Donald is out back.”

Miss Beakley hardly gives them time to register her words before she’s off, and Mason and her mom are pressed to chase after her. The Manor is huge, bigger than Mason’s elementary school and highschool combined, there’s tasteful crown moulding and paintings and marbles flooring with plush red carpets on top, they pass a fireplace as tall as her stacked with wood for its next use- its fancy and clean and well put together. Her Dad lived here?

As she looks around, craning her neck to take it all in, she gets the distinct feeling of being watched. She glances behind her suspiciously, frowning at the empty hallway and then scrambling to keep up when she realizes she’s being left in the dust. Finally they come upon a kitchen area and, past that, a set of sliding glass doors that lead out to a pool area, and in the pool… is a giant boat.

Are rich people really like this?

There’s two people on deck of the boat and, now that Mason is looking closer, the ship is in rough shape- it’s banged up and scraped, huge sections of paint missing, the bow is cracked and splintered in places, the smoke stack up top dented and banged up. There’s signs of work all around the pool, stacks of wood, buckets of paint, other things Mason doesn’t know enough about to identify… but the thing that really catches her attention is that the two men on the boat are arguing loudly.

“Donald!” Miss Beakley calls, “Your guests are here!”

The man in the sailor suit pauses the argument, grabbing the edge of the railing to peer over and look at them. He’s handsome, a few stress wrinkles here and there, but his feathers are still bright. He’s wearing a sailors outfit, and even leaning over the railing he stands like the boys in JROTC stood- military. He’s got his feathers cut short, a tuft or two poking out from his hairline, and before she can quite take it all in he leans too far over the edge and pitches forward into the water with a loud quack of surprise.

Mason barks out a startled laugh, clapping a hand to her beak to smother it as mom hurried forward to try and help. This was Donald Duck? Scrooge McDuck’s nephew and one of the worlds most skilled adventures in the world? Mason felt a bit better, knowing now he wasn’t exactly the intimidating figure she’d built him up to be. Jessica leans out and offers him her hand as he pops out of the water, blinking chlorine out of his eyes, but before he can take it Scrooge leans down from the entrance plank and uses his cane to hook the back of his shirt, pulling him over to the edge of the pool so he could haul himself out.

He sits in the edge of the pool and coughs a few times, smacking his chest, and gathers his bearings.

“Hello Mrs. Quackmire,” Scrooge says, coming down the rest of the way to greet them, “Scrooge McDuck.”

Jessica reaches out to shake his hand, “No introduction necessary, Mr. McDuck, I think the whole world knows who you are.”

Donald gets to his feet, water rolling off his feathers, ringing out his shirt, “Don’t say that, it’ll just go to his head.”

And Masons heart skips a beat.

“Your voice…” She says without thinking at all.

He blinks, winces, and she can see his face flush under his feathers, “I have a speech impediment.” And it almost sounds like an apology.

She wants to say don’t worry, I had the same one but her throat is suspiciously tight and she can’t quite get the words out, dropping her eyes to the ground so she doesn’t make him feel worse. Mom has put her through several speech therapy classes when she was young and, while she never fully lost the scratchy undertone, she wasn’t even a fraction as garbled as he was. If there was any more proof she’d needed…

“Hey, Donald. It’s been a while,” Jessica steps forward, crossing her arms across her stomach, drawing his attention, “Would you mind if we talked in private?”

He blinks and his eyebrows furrow, and Mason can tell he’s trying to place where he knows her from. He nods, “sure, would you like to come inside my houseboat? It was recently sunk so sorry about the work in progress.”

“You could always stay inside the manor like I was offering.” Scrooge mutters, rolling his eyes, “I’ll be inside if you need me. It was nice meeting you, Miss Quackmire.”

“Likewise!” She responds, following Donald inside the boat with Mason in tow.

And Donald hadn’t been lying, like the outside of the boat, the inside was a mess. The railing on the stairs was broken along the base, missing several slats, and the kitchen had been gutted, empty holes where a stove or a dishwasher should have been. The place was sparsely decorated, the kitchen table piled with picture frames and photo albums, the living room with only a worn looking couch and matching chair, an ancient tv set.

“She was damaged during the return of Magica De Spell,” he tells them, “I’m trying to fix her up. Make yourself at home, I’m gonna go get out of these wet clothes.”

Jessica smiles at Mason encouragingly, “Well, this is kind of nice, isn’t it?” She says, looking around, “It needs a few repairs, but it’s so… sweet. Quaint.”

“Not something I expected from the nephew of a trillionaire.” Mason admits, walking over to the kitchen table, peeking at the photos, “This must be Huey, Dewey, and Louie.” She says, looking at the picture. It’s Donald with the boys, they’re all smiling, at a park, and the boys look no older than six or seven. The picture is warped around the edges from water damage and she can see the care Donald took to try and salvage it.

Donald comes back into the room wearing a loose black t-shirt and Jessica smiles at him, stepping away from the kitchen table, “Please, have a seat.” He says warmly, motioning to the couch. It’s not the most comfortable thing in the world, “Would you like some tea?”

“No, that’s alright.” Jessica shakes her head, taking her satchel off and setting it aside.

“Okay, let’s get down to business. You said you had something of mine?” Donald says, sitting across from them in the chair, “I hope it’s not her!” he says jokingly, motioning to Mason.

Mason and Jessica’s eyes get as big as dinner plates.

There’s a long pause, and Donalds own eyes widen comically as the puzzle pieces slide into place. “Oh- Oh-” He stutters, hands reaching out to clutch the arms of the chair, “ Is she- she’s mine?” Donald asks, eyebrows shooting to his hairline, disbelief in his gaze.

Jessica takes a deep breathe, “Fifteen years ago you and your band the Three Caballeros were playing at a bar in Las Vegas. I invited you back to my place- I don’t know if you remember that, or me, but I have a picture of us when we met. I was into photography back then.” She grabs her satchel, pulling out an old looking photo, handing it to him, “After that night, you went back to duckburg…” She closes her eyes for a brief moment, “And I laid an egg.”

He studies the photo.

“I chose to raise her on my own,” She continues, balling her hands into fists in her lap, “I thought it was the best choice and I never told you, but I shouldn’t have made that decision for you. We came here today to… to give you the option to have a relationship, with her.”

He looks up, face still slack jawed, “I have a daughter?” he asks, in the softest voice Masons ever heard, looking back and forth between them.

Jessica nods, “Yeah.” She says, just as soft.

He looks at her and he absolutely glows. She feels her breath catch again, and she almost feels lightheaded, “What’s your name?” He asks her, smiling wide, eyes sparkling.

“Mason.” She says automatically, blinking away the burn in her eyes, “Mason Victoria Quackmire.”

“Mason!” he repeats in awe, jumping up and coming to sit beside her on the couch, “I was just joking before,” He says earnestly, “I’m really happy it’s you. I’m really happy to meet you.”

Before she can burst into tears she throws her arms around him, burying her face into his chest, and a warm feeling cascades over her heart when he envelopes her in a bear hug, pulling her close, tucking his beak over her head. He’s solid, steady, and warm.

“On the event that this was a happy reunion,” Jessica ventures, giddy, digging through her bag, “I brought you some things I think you’d like to see.” She pulls out a photo album, ones that has a dated floral pattern, worn along the edges.

Mason groans playfully, too busy wiping away happy tears to really put any ire into her teasing.

Donald gasps, reaching out to take the book, keeping her held close with one arm. He sets it on his lap, flipping through the pages with one hand. The first is a picture of her the day she hatched and he gets so excited he almost jumps off the couch, cooing at the picture, “You’re so adorable!” He fawns, positively glowing as he flips through each page.

“There she is on her first birthday, we had a special cake for her to eat with her hands,” Jessica squishes close on Masons other side, pointing to different photos and offering context, “There she is on her first day of kindergarten- oh there’s the Halloween where she dressed up as Darkwing Duck! From that old-school tv show!”

“I know the one,” Donald smiles fondly, trailing a finger lightly over the edge of the photo, and Mason slyly tries to wipe away her tears. Jessica and Donald both press reassuringly closer and Mason gets the idea that she wasn’t subtle enough.

They spend who knows how long going through photo albums and school yearbooks, her parents gushing over elementary school graduation and awkward middle school dances, the ones where Mason has braces and ugly glittery dresses she had thought looked amazing when she’d picked them out. Jessica had even brought home videos she’d taken of Mason when she was a kid, Donald hunting down his salvaged VCR to play them, Masons speech impediment mirroring her fathers, and the first time he heard her childhood voice he started quacking excitedly, grinning ear to ear.

“Uncle Donald!” A voice calls down the stairs, a kid bouncing down the steps, “Dinner’s-” he stumbles to a stop, blanching at the other people in the house, “Uh, Dinner’s done?”

“Ah,” Donald says eloquently, glancing at his cell phone, “I didn’t realize how much time had passed.” He admits, “Would you two like to stay for dinner?” He asks, turning to them.

“Ah, no thank you, we wouldn’t want to impose.” Jessica refuses politely, both she and Mason had agreed beforehand that they wouldn’t stay for dinner, putting a time limit on their stay in case it wasn’t a very good reunion.

“But we’re staying in town for the next few days, so we’ll be able to come back and see you again when you’re free?” Mason ventured hopefully.

“I’m free- I’m always free, no problem, anytime.” Donald nods, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder reassuringly. “Anytime.” He stresses.

The boy’s eyebrows keep climbing, confusion written on his face as he slowly inches up the stairs, adjusting his hat awkwardly. He disappears the last of the way when Jessica stands, taking his queue to leave finally. He’s one of Donald’s nephews, Mason’s pretty sure that was Huey, the one who dresses in all red. Mason follows after her mom, standing and getting ready. Donald is slower to follow, sad to see them go.

“Before you Leave- please, let me introduce you to my family.” He implores, “Officially.”

Jessica looks at Mason, asking her silently if that’s what she wanted, “Yeah, Okay.” Mason nods nervously, “I think I’d like that.”

The manor is just as nice and high class as before, but after spending all day in the houseboat it feels emptier, a bit too cold compared to the lived in and well loved old ship… the dining room is full, several people gathered around to eat, Donald’s nephews and a little girl- maybe a friend of theirs?- are gathered to one side, whispering and conspiring over their silverware. Scrooge Mcduck is at the head, glancing over a map- which is spirited away suddenly by the housekeeper from before, tutting at him when he tries to snatch it back. Also there’s a ghost. What the fuck. He’s serving mashed potatoes.

“Oh, Mrs. Quackmire, I didn’t realize you were staying for dinner.” Mrs. Beakley notes apologetically, “I’ll set out two extra place settings for you.”

“No, no, that’s alright.” Jessica holds out her hands, “We’re actually on our way out!”

“But before they leave, I’d like you all to be acquainted.” Donald steps forward, “Boys, Uncle Scrooge,” He says, turning to them, placing a warm hand on her shoulder to steady them both, “This is Mason. She’s my daughter.”

“…What?” Scrooge asks blankly, processing his words slowly, eyebrows shooting to his hairline, “Did you just- Daughter?” He wheezes out, shocked.

Donald squeezes Masons shoulder, “Yes, I didn’t know about her until today. Jessica and I met at one of my shows with the Three Caballeros. Mason, this is your great uncle Scrooge and your cousins Huey, Dewey, Louie, and Webby.” He says, pointing them each out in turn.

She does a little wave, smiling awkwardly, “Hi, it’s… really nice to meet you.” She says earnestly. They seem too shocked to say anything, except for Webby, who looks like she’s about to jump out of her seat in excitement. She whips a camera out of nowhere and snaps a picture of Mason, much to her confusion.

“Oh this one is SO going on my corkboard!” She crows, holding it out so Mason can see her own surprised face.

“Wait wait, Uncle Donald has a kid?” Louie finally snaps out of his surprise, peering at her over his dinner plate, “When did that happen?”

“About fifteen years ago.” Jessica jokes, nudging Donald with her elbow playfully.

Mason doesn’t quite catch Scrooge frowning but she can sort of tell he’s not happy, “It’s nice to meet you, lass.” his smile is tense.

At that, Jessica claps her hands together, “Well, it seems like you all might need some time to process! We’ll go ahead and get out of your hair.”

“Let me walk you out!” Donald insists, walking along with them as they leave his flabbergasted family behind. Once they reach the car, there’s a moment where they all just stand around, obviously not sure how to end this interaction. “It’s been wonderful, Mason.” Donald says sincerely, “Would you mind if I gave you a hug?”

On other adults, Mason would have felt obligated, but with Donald it really did feel like she could have said no if she wanted to. “I’d like that.” She says honestly, jumping forward to lean into his embrace. He rubs her back and sighs happily, releasing her after a moment. “I’ll see you tomorrow?” she asks.

He nods, “Tomorrow.”

“Mason, could you start the car? I’d like to talk to Donald for a moment alone.”

Grabbing her keys, Mason nods, getting into the passengers side and cranking the engine. She turns the radio off, leaning over to press her head to the window so she can hear what they’re saying. She jumps when Mom taps loudly on the window, rolling it down sheepishly.

“No eavesdropping! Turn the radio back on.” Mason groans but compiles, spacing out and staring up at the stars as pop music muffles whatever her parent were talking about. Jessica finally leans over to give Donald a quick hug, pulling away and resting her hands on his shoulders as she says her final piece. She squeezes his shoulder and smiles, finally pulling away. He retreats up the stairs, standing there as Mom gets into the car. He doesn’t go inside until they pull away.

“What’d you two talk about?” Mason prods.

“Nosey!” Jessica teases, staring at the road, “It was nothing, just boring mandatory adult small talk.”

Mason hums in response, resting her head against the passenger side window as they pull out of McDuck’s driveway. “…He’s really okay with us coming back tomorrow?” she asks softly.

“Yeah, Honey Bee,” Jessica matches her tone, “He’s so excited to know you.”

Mason smiles, “I’m excited to know him too.”

#sugarfr0g #mason duck #jessica quackmire #ducktales oc #my writing

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angelicallydevilish · 5 years ago

Text

Human!AU High school!AU because I’m trash

Crowley attends speech therapy, not by choice mind you but because several months ago his father cornered him in the car after school saying something along the lines of “Really, Anthony, a 15-year-old shouldn’t still have a speech impediment, this is humiliating” then, instead of driving them home, dropped him off to the dreadful office without even a magazine rack to peruse where he has to wait anywhere from 30 minutes to an hour and a half for the person ahead of him to finish up[1], only to then be subjected to more torture in the form of a series of exercises no doubt designed for 6-year-olds, and he has the honour of suffering through this twice a week for however long it takes pronounce S’s correctly[2].

Having nothing to do while he waits[3] he’s taken to observing the waiting room, taking it all in. On this particular day there are 3 potted plants in desperate need of attention, 2 receptionists one is an older lady who refuses to look him in the eye or even acknowledge he’s there while the other, is a much younger girl not much older than himself[4], Mary he thought her name was, always greets him with a very cheerful “Good day, Mr. Crowley!!”[5] Crowley isn’t quite sure which treatment makes him more uncomfortable, and 1 other person in the waiting room.

This newcomer, who has been there for every session for at least a month, is there before Crowley arrives every time and he always has a book[6]. He appears quite proper with his fresh-pressed slacks and a pristine button-down with a sweater vest and some sort of winged emblem over the left breast, perhaps he attends a private school? Regardless it's rather drab for someone who appears to be a high schooler himself. His perfect blonde curls bounce as he nods his head whenever he agrees with the author and, on the rare occasion when he looked up from his book to check the time, Crowley gets to see his stunning blue eyes; somehow still radiant despite the dungeon-like lighting of the waiting room.

The person whose appointment is before his own is always the same, a short girl black hair, my chemical romance vibes, never smiles. She storms past the receptionist desk ignoring Mary’s up-beat call of “see you next time, miss”. Occasionally she’ll bark a quick, “We’ll leave without you, Zira” at the boy reading, pushing through the doors without waiting for him. Zira, what an odd name odd but intriguing something he could get used to hearing. Crowley is torn between laughing at Zira scramble to gather his things, and feeling mildly annoyed by the aggression directed at the poor guy.

After witnessing this many times now, Crowley has decided he hopes they aren't dating. Only because it’d be an unfair relationship, of course, and not because the boy is gorgeous and he wouldn't mind having a go himself. Maybe they were siblings? Crowley doesn’t care, really, but thinking about it does make the wait feel shorter, so on his next visit rather than re-count the number of scuff marks and dents in the ceramic flooring, he slides into the seat next to Zira instead of giving him the usual 3 chair gap to avoid conversation. “Zira, is it?, Crowley attempts to sound suave but the waiting room’s narrow chairs force his gangly limbs into an awkward position, and the ‘is’ gets far too drawn out making it sound more like “Zira, issss it?” Crowley curses his apparent serpentine ancestors.

Aziraphale visibly jumps engrossed with his book and not expecting an interruptions so soon, stumbles over his reply, “Yes uh rather, Azriaphale actually, I don’t quite like my name shortened[7],” he pauses momentarily gently placing today's book[8] in his lap using his thumb as his makeshift bookmark his face now baring an adorable frown, “how did you know my name, good fellow?”

‘Good fellow’ Crowley can’t help but smirk a little, “Apologies, that’s what your sister calls you after her appointments so I just assumed, bit tetchy isn’t she?” he curses his speech impediment more and more as each word leaves his mouth; any microscopic hope that Aziraphale would find him cool enough to talk, maybe even exchange numbers, was completely dead.

“Goodness no! She’s not my sister.” Aziraphale almost looks offended.

Crowley’s heart buckles a little of course she’s his girlfriend and he even called her “tetchy”, what an idiot. He tries to swallow his grimace before speaking once more, “ah yes, girlfriend then? Sorry about the tetchy comment she-”

Aziraphale nearly retches at the implication, “Dear boy, you really must stop assuming things.” He adjusts his tartan bow tie[9] and continues, “if you must know Beelz is my brother’s girlfriend and I am only here because he refuses to wait and promises to stop driving me home from school if I’m not here when she gets out.” He lets out a small sigh, indicating irritation, but from the look he gives the door, it's directed more at the girl behind it than his new companion.

"Right, she doesn't seem like the type who'd need a babysitter though" Aziraphale smiles at the babysitter comment, a truly angelic sight; something Crowley hopes to see more of in the future.

"If left unattended she, well, doesn't attend, says it's far too childish for someone her age," Aziraphale grimaces[10], "I don't mind though it gives me plenty of time to read." and there it is again; the beautiful smile.

Before Crowley can even consider replying, the slam of the speech therapist's heavy door echos off the nearly empty waiting room and a mass of black is shifting quickly in then out of his line of sight, indicating the end of the girl Crowley now knows as Beelz's session.

"Come on, Zira, you can talk to your boyfriend on Friday," the girl shouts, already halfway through the door as eager as ever to leave.

"Right, yes," Aziraphale is quickly but kindly shoving his book into his messenger bag, "I do suppose I will be seeing you on Friday then, Mr. Crowley, I quite enjoyed our talk."

The tables are reversed for Crowley is now the one confused as to when the other acquired his name, Aziraphale catches on to this and quickly adds, "Miss Mary greets you every time you come, that's how I knew" blessing him with one final radiant smile, before making his usual quick exit.

Crowley sinks deep in his chair[11]. Friday, he can't help but think how soon yet far away it is all at once. For the first time since starting Crowley is glad his father drops him off early; and is even a bit excited for his next session, despite the current one not even beginning yet.

[1]His father couldn’t be bothered to drop him off at the time of his actual appointment he’s a busy man of course. [2]Or until his father stops being embarrassed by him which is far less likely to happen. [3]There is only so much you can do on your phone before it gets boring. [4]This is probably just an after school job for her. [5]She tried for several weeks to start conversations with him upon his arrival but eventually decided he mustn’t be the talkative type and now leaves it at the greeting. [6]A new one each visit, thick and old but well-loved; not a page out of place.

[7]His brother and everyone associated with him insist on calling Aziraphale various nicknames to annoy him. [8]The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde. [9]An item of clothing Crowley has yet to see him wear before today and plans on teasing Aziraphale about his old-fashionedness should the other choose to continue speaking to him after making such a fool of himself. [10]Possibly recalling the incident which resulted in his new position of 'babysitter', which consisted of Beelz not going to her session at all and choosing to instead smoke a pack of cigarettes in the parking lot, and flick the butts at her therapist's car. [11]He refuses to get up until the therapist specifically asks for him.

#not fanfiction #i am not a fanfiction writer #just a fool #end my misery #it is 5 am #i work in the morning #i hate myself #ineffable husbands #crowley good omens #aziraphale good omens #good omens #once again not fanfiction #bye gonna cry myself to sleep now #oh god and the footnotes #so many footnotes #i live for footnotes #delete l8r

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elejah-verse · 6 years ago

Text

Feels Like A Dream

Fanfiction one shot

Elijah Mikaelson x Elena Gilbert

a/n: A little something 😀💕

Tags @rissyrapp20 @dendrite-lover @cassienoble2000 @elejahforever @captainshurley @goddessofthunder112 @hides2000

👔

"Can I talk to Elijah? He said that he will be here - tonight - I've just seen his message - I could not reply to him - we had this whole crazy with the sirens returning from Hell"- Elena shot at Rebekah as the blonde picked up the phone.

"I don't know where Elijah is."- the blonde Original replied."

"We were knocked out by the Hollow."- Rebekah said, continuing-"And - all I know is that Klaus took all the Hollow's magic on him to save Hope. When I woke up, Elijah was not in his room."

"Is - he gone - with Antoinette?"- Elena asked her stomach feeling empty now expecting that Rebekah will confirm it was so.

"I really don't know. He is not answering his phone. But - her stuff is gone, too"- Rebekah replied-"Elena, why would you think he would go with her? He told me last night that he loves you and that he decided he was moving to Mystic Falls no matter what happens."

"Because - we - argued. And - he - left."- Elena said.

"You argued about Klaus? About what he said? Klaus does this. Because he can't see anyone happy and - even though he is my brother and I love him, he knows how to blackmail us emotionally and we stick by him, forgetting all about ourselves. I have done it for years. But, Elijah finally saw sense. He said that he wanted to put himself first and I told him that it is more than ok to do so."

"Do you think that Klaus did something to him?"

"I don't think so, but -"- Rebekah paused.

"But you think, he might have" - Elena now said.

"Ah, they had a huge fight. It was about the 'always and forever' - how Elijah owed it to him to stand by him" - Rebekah said-"I don't know what happened then. As I told you - Hollow knocked me out - I also can't find Freya anywhere-I'm sorry, Elena- I got to go now. Vincent is here." The Original blonde now hung up on the doppelganger.

In Mystic Falls, Elena looked at the phone, tears welling up in her eyes. She now sat down on the neighbouring chair, her mind flashing back to events few month ago

Flashback

Elijah arrived in Mystic Falls late at night, knocking at the door of Caroline Forbes' family House, where Elena lived after splitting up with Damon.

Elena opened the door, inviting the Original in, as she knew he was coming.

"I am really sorry for having kept you awake. I could not set off earlier." - Elijah said.

"It's all right."-Elena said-"I am sorry to hear that Hope is not well, again. What is it really? "

"Davina says it's the witch's curse. Her being a hybrid. She can't cope with all three parts in her." - Elijah explained-"I need your help. I know I have behaved abominably. I apologise - yet again."

Elena sighed nodding a little in acknowledgement of the apology.

"OK. What do you need? My blood?"

"No. It's - Bonnie Bennett. She is the one that possesses the ancestral magic of Anaya whose magic helped make us." - Elijah said.

Elena now understood the delicate nature why Elijah needed her.

"I am to blame for her mother's - turning-still I hope she would help"- Elijah said. Both of them now remembering the events after the Mikaelson Ball years back.

"I will talk to her." - Elena said without much further ado, adding-"Hope is innocent in all this. And - we've all done terrible things."

"Thank you."-Elijah said.

"OK. Ahm - I'll call you when I talk to her."

"Yes."-Elijah said briefly, knowing, both of them now exchanging small awkward looks. A lot of time had passed, a lot had happened between their Willoughby meeting. They spoke on the phone, a couple of times, but this was the first time they were standing in front of one another. And there was again this weiry feeling present, like it had always been, when they were together. That something unexplained.

"You live here-now?" - Elijah suddenly asked.

"Yes" - Elena replied-"Damon and I broke up. Things - didn't work. The story of my life."

"I am sorry to hear that." - Elijah said-"I thought that -" - Elijah stopped there, now remembering his failed relationship or whatever it was he had with Hayley-"maybe you will find your way back to one another."

"We won't. It's over."-Elena said adamantly.

"Yes. I know from personal experience-when it's over is over. Trying to find something that never really was there is an illusion no matter how much you try to make it work." - Elijah remarked.

"Illusion" - Elena now said pensively-"yeah - I had many illusions. And then reality hits you. And you wake up one day and - I guess it's called I grew up. And I think - no, I know-I found my way back to myself. "

Elijah was silent, and with a little nod he put a little smile on.

"I share the sentiment."

Elijah gestured with his hand towards the door, and Elena slipped-"OK. I will call you."

Both of them walked to the door. Elena opened it and there, one split second, one look exchanged, her heart thumping wildly, him hearing it wanting to burst. Elena gulped her eyes on the Original, whose heart was equally beating to the beat of hers.

Pulling slightly out of the kiss, the Original looked for confirmation in the Doppelganger's eyes-"You want this?"

"Yes, I want this."- Elena's eyes shot back at Elijah now leaning into a demanding kiss.

Elijah now sped them up on the couch and the only problem in the world was the bondage of their clothing. The Original now slowed down, both twisting and gasping together as they worked the buttons, hooks, zips, until the last impediment slipped away. And then in the warmest rhythm of her flesh he found an overwhelming sense of this is what I needed, her body replying under his smooth kisses, 'this is what I needed,' losing himself completely in her, he was only dimly aware of her whispering 'Oh, yes, yes, yes'. There was nothing but obliterating sensation, thrilling and swelling, and the sound of skin on skin as their limbs slid across each other in this sensuous meeting of two bodies, souls, hearts.

Elena enveloped her fingers around the phone and closed her eyes. It could not have been nothing. All these months, must have meant more than just casual visits to Mystic Falls. But then there was this woman, he had proposed when he had been compelled to forget about his family and all that he had been. Could she have swayed him?

Caroline now swooped in the house from the back door with Enzo.

“Lena? What is it?”- the blonde vampire asked- “Bonnie just called me. She and Kai are on the way back from New York.”

“This is about Elijah”- Enzo now said.

Elena looked up at the two vampires and sighed.

“Oh, God, Lena - no - what happened?”

“I don’t know. Elijah’s not answering his phone and Rebekah said that he is nowhere to be found. And - Klaus - huh”

“Oh - tonight was the Hollow exorcism- is he - dead?”- Caroline voice trembled with sadness, her eyes glittering with tears welling up.

“Yeah - “- Elena confirmed - “I’m sorry - I just got to -” - Elena now stood up and went for the doorknob, swinging the door open.

“Hello, there”- Elijah said standing now face to face with the doppelganger.

“Elijah!”- Elena exclaimed with great surprise and overwhelmed by the feelings of seeing him there safe and sound, now slung her arms around the Original squeezing him tight.

❤️

Months later

In the newly rebuilt Gilbert house, where Elena and Elijah lived since he moved to Mystic Falls, Elijah answered his phone seeing it was Elena-

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I am running late. We had a crazy thing at the ER and I will not come home to change. Caroline, Bonnie and I are going to the Salvatore tomb to lay flowers for Stefan. We should have done it three days ago, but you know how things were at the Salvatore school, so we are doing it today.”

“Yes. All right. I am at home. I will prepare something to eat. Oh, and ahm- I have finally told Rebekah that I turned.”

"I don't know why you were stalling to tell her."-Elena said.

"Because she would not understand." - Elijah said.

"Did you tell Kol?" - Elena asked.

Elijah sighed now as his brother and him were not on talking terms.

"No. I have not told him. But I am sure Rebekah will."

"Yeah, she will. And ahm - you know - I think it's time you two made up."-Elena then said.

“That will never happen. He will never forgive me about Davina.” - Elijah sighed.

Elena sighed a little too.

“Let me talk to him. Rebekah tells me that he is quite happy with this vampire he met in Brasil, Chrissy. You know that Bonnie can resurrect Davina- and it’s not like he has not done bad things and - well, Jeremy killed him, remember - and now they apparently chat on a regular basis about a video game”

“I know.”- Elijah uttered -”but -”

“Ok- Bonnie is here. We will talk about this later. See you in a little bit. I love you.”

She knew that this subject was chewed over and over again, all the trespasses that the Mikaelson siblings have done to others and themselves, but the doppelganger and her deep compassionate heart drew a line and opted for finding peace and forgiveness for all. It was Elena's nature and Elijah's heart loved her for this.

"I love you, too"- Elijah now said to the doppelganger and then hung up.

Couple of hours later, Elena walked in the house, putting the bag on the sideboard.

"Honey, I am home."

"Living room."- Elijah shouted.

Elena went to wash her hands and as she walked in the living room a few minutes later, she stopped in her tracks, now looking at the Original all surprised as the room was all lit up with fairy-lights and the dining table was set for a romantic dinner. And though, this was not something unusual for Elijah to do. But there was something about Elijah that was different, the way he looked at her.

"What is this? What's happening?"- Elena asked.

Without any explanation, Elijah now took the little box and just went down on his knee and said simply-

"Marry me?"

Completely amazed and in a state of blissful shock, Elena nodded a yes. Gaining her speech back a second later she said loudly-

"Yes!!!"

___

A year later

Elena wrote in her diary sitting in front of her parents' tomb stones

“There are days that I feel like it’s all just a dream. I married Elijah Mikaelson, and I am pregnant. I am happy. Very hapoy. If someone had told me that ten years ago, I wouldn't have believed it could be so. But things were not always happy or easy. It was quite messy for a while. Well, it still kind of is, because, the supernatural is too much wrapped up around us, but we are tough. We stick together and we just stand up to whatever comes our way. Life is this weird, but remarkable, strange thing. You never know where it will take you, but - it’s important to just grab it by its horns - and go for it and live it. I got to go now, Elijah is here.”

#Elijah Mikaelson #Elena Gilbert #Elejah #tvd fanfiction #Fanfiction #alternative universe

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limitededitionsanderssidesblog · 6 years ago

Text

Speech Impediment - Chapter 12

Ships: logicality, prinxiety, platonic dlamp

Summary: Virgil reveals a bit of his past to Dexter, just enough for him to understand his friends pain. Afterwards Dexter confronts his family.

AO3 - Here

Chapter One Previous Next

TW: past suicide, mentioned parent abandonment, chocking.

“Why didn’t they love me?!”

The night was already quiet around them, the only sound provided being the wind howling against the windows. The freezing temperatures outside began to seep into the vehicle as the heater had been turned off when Dexter removed the keys from the ignition. Virgil shuddered in his seat, most likely from more than just the cold. Dexter had to get them out of there and to a better location.

Getting out of the car, Dexter went around and opened the door for the other, helping him out and escorting him to the dorms. Asking where he wanted to go, Virgil murmured in a hoarse voice that he wanted to go to his dorm room, so Dexter took him there. The room was empty, Roman still being at work, and shy of any warmth. So it wasn’t too much better than where they had been previously. The building didn’t have heaters, meaning that the students had to buy them themselves. Helping him to sit down on his bed, Dexter went over to the long, cylindrical heater and turned it on high.

By the time he turned around to face him again, Virgil had already gotten under his covers and curled up in a ball, hidden from sight. Dexter smiled sadly and walked over, sitting down gently beside the blanketed ball and resting a hand on what he thought, and hopped, was his shoulder.

“Virgil?” He called out quietly, “Are you feeling bad?”

He was answered by a unhappy whine.

“You know you can’t talk to me right?”

The anxious emo didn’t respond and instead just curled up more on himself, Dexter, not wanting to push his friend out of his comfort zone, made himself comfortable and pulled out his phone and opened the YouTube app, putting on a vine compilation. If there was anything he knew would cheer Virgil up, it was vines.

“Hey bro what do you want to eat?”

“The souls of the innocent.”

“A bagel.”

“No!”

“Two bagels.”

A muffled chuckle came from under the covers.

“He doesn’t deserve you. If he doesn’t treat you right by now, you’re gone.”

“I’m gone!”

“Now go chop his dick off!”

The vines continued on, and so did the soft giggles. After about ten minutes of the first vine compilation, Virgil poked his head out of the covers. Soon after, he was sitting side by side with Dexter watching the vines, his manner becoming more relaxed and his tears dried. About forty minutes of mindless entertainment had passed until he was finally calm and sure enough to talk.

“Thanks Dee.” He murmured tiredly as he rested his head on Dexter’s shoulder, exhausted from his emotional episode.

“Do mention it.” The sneky boi replied, “Feeling worse?”

“A bit.” Virgil shrugged, “Just... just remembered something is all.”

Dexter looked sideways at the older, but slightly smaller, student, noting the distant and sad look in his eyes,

“Do you not want to talk about it?”

Virgil stayed quiet for awhile more, appearing to be at a miniature war with himself over whether or not he wanted to speak. Dexter waited patiently until he decided what he wanted to do.

“Long fucked up story short: my dad left when I was ten, my mom killed herself when I was thirteen, and I lived with my homophobic grandparents until graduation.”

Well shit, what was he supposed to say to that? Whatever explanation he had cooked up in his mind was nothing compared to that, now he’s going to look like an uncaring asshole if he doesn’t speak up fast-

“Wow.”

FUCKING PERFECT!

Virgil gave a halfhearted chuckle, completely different from the one earlier.

“Yeah, it’s not your typical story... but it’s mine. Guess we can be fucked up together, right?”

“I’m not fucked up?” Dexter echoed, well, tried to anyway.

“Yeah, I mean look at you!” Dexter faltered and looked down at himself, trying to find the flaw that Virgil saw. Realizing how he sounded, Virgil quickly backtracked, stuttering an apology. “N-n-not that there’s anything wrong with you, you’re a great person. I just meant that your family is a bit fucked up.”

“Is that why you didn’t yell at my mother?” Dexter questioned, feeling relieved that it was him that Virgil saw as a mistake.

“Yeah... seeing her act like you were... some kind of monster really pissed me off. I mean you were just hugging your sister! Why the fuck did she have to act like that?!”

“I’m aloud to be around her. That wasn’t the rule ever since she was born.”

“It’s a fucking stupid ass rule! You’re family not a stranger. A family should accept one another, stick it out through the bad, encourage each other and lift them up, no matter the flaws. At least that’s what I always thought. Not really how mine turned out either.”

“I haven’t gotten used to it, it’s never been this way-”

“But it shouldn’t have to be! Just because shit happens doesn’t mean everything needs to be shit. Fuck your parents, if they don’t treat you right by now, you’re gone.”

Dexter looked over at Virgil, and saw that the other was smirking at him. It took a moment, but eventually his brain processed what he needed to say next.

“I’m not gone.” He whispered, grinning as well.

“Now go chop their dicks off.”

The next day Dexter sat through several meetings with his parents and professors. His little sister Daisy often sat to the side while they talked, watching some kid show to pass the time on her tablet as she waited. The conversations with his Anatomy and Calculus professors went fairly well. Professor Mraz noted his early struggle with calculus at the beginning of the semester, but praised his tenacity and hard work with the subject to be able to come out with a B+ on the final. His parents seemed pleased enough that he was doing well.

The tricky part came at around three in the afternoon when they pad a visit to Professor Sharps’s room. Her room was so obviously a writing class, Dexter could only hold his breath and pray to God that his parents wouldn’t take too much notice. Miss Sharp was sitting at her desk when they all walked in, working on some kind of paperwork as she waited for them to arrive. Dexter had made sure to give all his professors a few hours notice prior to each meeting.

Her long ginger hair was pulled back into a french braid and she was wearing one of her favorite green dresses with a red blazer. Seeing the family walk in, Miss Sharp rolled her wheelchair over to greet his folks, each with a handshake and a polite hello.

“Hello, I’m Professor Sharp, your son’s Classic Literature teacher.” She introduced herself, giving a small wink and a smile towards Dexter, which he returned.

“Hello Miss,” His father replied, shaking her hand, his mother doing the same next, “I’m James Woodbrooke, and this is my wife Katrina.”

“How do you do?” She greeted with a smile.

“Simply splendid I solemnly suppose.” She giggle as she spoke, “That’s an alliteration, a little exercise I like to do with my students because it helps with- their study of classic literature!” Miss Sharp quickly corrected herself from spilling the beans. Dexter could find any fault with her however, she was a writing enthusiast after all. Trying to turn her switch off is as easy as lifting ten tons of bricks. That was an oxymoron.

“Hm, well I came here to ask about Dexter’s performance in your class. Has he been... behaving well? Been a decent student?” James asked delicately, trying not to appear suspicious in his concern. Miss Sharp’s eyes furrowed ever so slightly at his question. She glance over at Dexter before she answered, making him squirm a little in embarrassment.

“I like to think of Dexter as my best student. He is always here on time, never misses a day, is well prepared, and fully attentive during lectures and interactives. His grade is the highest in the class and is work is commendable.” She answered curtly, holding herself with a firm stance, not breaking eye contact with his father. His father huffed and crossed his arms, apparently not impressed in the slightest.

“Well he did say he wanted to be an English teacher. Still, with his disability I don’t he’ll be able to make it very far in the field.” James said nonchalantly.

“With his abilities I believe Dexter will exceed in this field.” Miss Sharp wheeled herself back slightly, smoothing out the creases in her blazer, still not once breaking eye contact. “We met, we discussed, we concluded. I could do this forever, but time is money. Work will not wait. Anaphora, Hyperbole, Metaphor, and Alliteration.” She grinned widely, enjoying the offending face of her mother, and annoyed look of his father. “Don’t have a good day.”

His parents busted out of the doors shouting in anger, screaming complaints about her audacity to speak to them that way. In fact, they were so angry that they didn’t even notice that Dexter was holding hands with Daisy as they walked after them. He savored every moment of contact he had with his sister, and so did she, knowing that this would be a rarity for them.

Once they all climbed into Dexter’s buggy, directing them to take him to a decent place for dinner, their shouts became loud, angry talking.

“That woman thinks she knows our son? She must be just as insane if she thinks he could ever exceed.” His father scoffed, “Why are you even in school? I thought you were going to work at the shop with me.”

“I thought it would be a bad idea to have a backup career.” Dexter mumbled next to him, trying to not let his words sting and focused on the road.

“It is a bad idea. Maybe if you could talk correctly I’d be okay with it, but how the hell are you going to teach with your impediment?”

“James please, we’ve discussed that Dexter isn’t just cut out to be a mechanic. That’s why you’re training his cousin, remember?” His mom said from the back seat.

“Whatever.” He grumbled.

The restaurant he had taken them all to was a personal favorite of Logan and Patton called Romello’s Italian Restaurant. The two often went here on their dates and would sometimes bring back leftovers form him and the others to share. The clam linguine was to risk death for and he’d definitely be getting it tonight.

The four of them sat at a booth, Daisy and his mother on one side, and him and his father on the other. Dexter suspected it was to keep him away from his sister. Conversation would have been nonexistent if it wasn’t for Day, the little girl loved to talk the ear off of anyone who would listen to her rambled about what element Neptune’s atmosphere is comprised of and all the like. And at the moment, they had no chance but to listen, as neither he nor his parents budged.

The server came with their drinks and took their orders, leaving them to, once again, listen to Day talk about everything she knows about space. It seems that his little sister already knew what she wanted to be, and she claimed that she’d be the first human to reach beyond our solar system.

It wasn’t until their bread sticks were brought over that she had quieted down, shoving her face full with the snack. His father decided to take the opportunity to speak.

“Dexter, I think you should drop Professor Sharp’s class,”

“James,” His mother spoke in warning, but was ignored.

“She’s filling your head with delusion. I wouldn’t be surprised if she was mentally ill as well.”

“James,”

Dexter shifted uncomfortably in his seat from cheek to cheek. Daisy watched curiously as she ate, filling her mouth with an amount of bread beyond what any small child should consume at once.

“But I don’t love her class. I thought-”

“That isn’t important, this woman is filling you head with... fantasy. You’ll only raise your expectation beyond your capabilities.” James argued, focusing solely on his son. For once, his mother did too, not watching Daisy eat all of their appetizer.

“If you love the class so much, perhaps you could simply request a different professor next semester?” Katrina suggested, trying to be the mediator in the family. “Whatever Sharp is telling you isn’t true, and you know better than to lie, right?”

“Mother please, Professor Sharp is the worst in her subject. You wanted me to not have a good education.”

His mother sighed and rubbed her temple, looking exhausted. No one noticed, but Daisy suddenly stopped eating.

“It’s ‘best’, Dexter, and yes I do want you to have-”

Daisy interrupted the conversation, slamming her hands on the table. James was about to scold her for being indecent, but then noticed that something was wrong. The three of them all turned their attention to Daisy, her little, plump face was turning blue and her small hands pulled at her throat. His little sister was chocking.

“Daisy!” The three of them shouted simultaneously, hopping out of the booth and surrounding her.

“It’s the bread!” His mother said in panic, pushing the girl out from her booster seat.

“Obviously, do something!” His father demanded, looking frightened and unsure of what to do. Katrina wrapped her arms around Daisy’s stomach and started to squeeze her, having no effect. Daisy started to become worse, and looked as if she was about to black out. The staff were on their way to help, but Dexter acted first. If she passes out while chocking, it’s very likely she’ll die before an ambulance arrives.

Pulling Day from his mother’s hands he positioned the thumb of his fist slightly over her bellybutton, grasped his fist with his other hand, and thrust multiple times. It took several attempts, but after about twenty seconds of trying, a wad of soggy bread fell onto the ground. Daisy gasped for air and coughed horribly. Dexter let out the largest breath of air ever in relief.

“Daisy!” His mother said joyously, wrapping her arms around her daughter loosely to allow her room to breath. His father kneeled down and hugged the both of them. Families and groups around them cheered, all apparently having witnessed the scene and had been just as worried.

Standing from the floor, Katrina lifted Daisy up on her hip, and his father stood by his side. He placed a hand on Dexter’s shoulder and stared at him for a moment, then pulled him into a hug.

“Thank you for saving your sister.” He murmured into his son’s shoulder. “You knew what to do when I didn’t, perhaps you have more abilities than I thought.” Dexter had the largest smile on his face because he was certain that was the closest his father has ever came to complimenting him. “You can stay in your class. Although maybe you should be a doctor.”

Dexter chuckled lightly, “Yes, I’d still like to be a teacher.” He lied.

Their meal was free that night, and apparently for the next year as well. They were all still a bit shaken however, so they had their dinner to go and went back to the hotel, and this time the invitation was extended to him as well. They sat together and watched the Hallmark specials until late in the night.

His parents still hadn't fully accepted him, but Dexter was patient and decided not to say anything. After all, they had promised to pay his tuition if he graduated, and he wasn’t about to pass up on that opportunity. He’d tell them one day, and now that day felt just a little closer.

His parents allowed him to spend the night over with them, having him share the bed with his little sister, no longer visibly upset about the two of them talking to or being with each other. If this was his late Christmas gift, it was the best they had ever given him.

His family flew home the next morning.

Yep, hi.

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pinelife3 · 6 years ago

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Mindhunter: No Magic

I’ve been reading the book Mindhunter. You might have seen the Netflix/David Fincher TV show (or read the book?) - it’s based on the life of FBI agent John Douglas, the guy who pioneered criminal profiling, especially of serial killers, in the 70s, 80s and 90s. An interesting element of Mindhunter is how many cases Douglas worked on where the police consulted a medium. I kid you not! In tough, high-profile cases where the local police needed a breakthrough, they would sometimes call a psychic to ask for confirmation on their leads, hoping that the medium could magically intuit something about the case that the cops had missed (where does the killer live, what does he look like, what’s his line of work, etc.). It doesn’t sound like Douglas himself ever called a medium, or put much faith in their psychic intuition, but he does mention that they were around and contributing to cases he worked on. It seems like in the early days of profiling, people had a similar opinion of Douglas’ work: that it was superstitious, unscientific, unreliable - this even extended to his testimony and analysis as an FBI expert sometimes being inadmissible in court:

Though I’d already been qualified as a crime-scene analysis expert in several states, the defense referred to me as a “voodoo man” for the way I came up with my interpretations, and the judge ultimately ruled that I wouldn’t testify.

In “Killing Types”, a post on this blog from January 2016, I compared two accounts of how the criminal psychological profile of the Butcher Baker was developed. One account was from Wikipedia, and the other was Douglas, who personally developed the profile:

The serial killer in question was Robert Hansen AKA the Butcher Baker (everything I’m gonna write about him is via Wikipedia. You should just read their article if you want a more detailed account as I’m just summarising here). He was a very shy, skinny young boy with acne and a stutter. He was horribly bullied and the cute girls in school didn’t like him. Wikipedia doesn’t have a citation for this, but apparently: because he was “shunned by the attractive girls in school, he grew up hating them and nursing fantasies of cruel revenge.” As he grew up, Hansen became an adept hunter. Like many serial killers, Hansen was also a thief and an arsonist. From 1971 to 1983 he murdered at least 17 women ranging in ages from 16 to 41.

Hansen’s typical move was to abduct women (usually sex workers) and take them to his cabin near Anchorage, Alaska. There he would rape them and then set them loose so he could hunt them in the woods. Of his confessed murders, many of the bodies have not been found.

By 1982, three bodies had been found in shallow graves in the woods and the Alaska state troopers called in the FBI to assist in putting together a criminal profile. According to Wikipedia, FBI agents put together a profile for a person with the following characteristics:

Experienced hunter

Low self-esteem

History of being rejected by women

Would keep ‘souvenirs’ from his murders

A stutter

...[Douglas] devotes a chapter to Hansen, and the way he describes what happened is actually kind of different from Wikipedia’s version of events. Wikipedia makes it sound like the FBI turned up and pulled the profile out of thin air just based on looking at the crimes, whereas Douglas says that when he and his boys rolled into Anchorage, Hansen was already a suspect. So what they were doing was comparing what they knew about Hansen to what they knew about the crimes and seeing how things matched up and if he was a likely suspect. So the profile they put together did include the bullet points above and, yes, some of that would have been speculation (such as the self-esteem problems, the history of rejection, and the souvenir keeping), but the rest (such as saying he had a stutter) were based on the fact that they knew Hansen and it was completely fucking obvious he had a stutter and acne scarring. Anyway, Douglas describes his profile and process as follows:

“[Hansen] was short and slight, heavily pockmarked, and spoke with a severe stutter. I surmised he had had severe skin problems as a teenager and, between that and the speech impediment, was probably teased or shunned by his peers, particularly girls. So his self-esteem would have been low… And, psychologically speaking, abusing prostitutes is a pretty standard way of getting back at women in general.

“I also made much of the fact that Hansen was known as a proficient hunter… I don’t mean to imply that most hunters are inadequate types, but in my experience, if you have an inadequate type to being with, one of the ways he might try to compensate is by hunting or playing around with guns or knives… I was betting that Hansen’s speech problem disappeared when he felt most dominant and in control.”

So I think we can call that another case closed: it is not possible for an FBI profiler, no matter how gifted, to look at a crime scene or a string of murders and miraculously determine that the killer has a speech impediment.

As you saw above, my read of the passage from Mindhunter was that Hansen was a top suspect, that Douglas made some additional speculations about Hansen, but essentially just endorsed the guy the local cops already suspected. So specific details in the profile that seem like magical inferences weren’t as magical as Wikipedia made them seem. In January 2016 I hadn’t read Mindhunter, but I looked up what I thought was the relevant section on Google Books and that was the basis for the above section of my blog post. (If you’ve never tried to read things online for free, you may not be aware of this, but Google Books provides previews of lots of books, but you have to buy the book to read the whole thing - so back in 2016, I just looked at the pages of Mindhunter that Google had made available for free.)

Now I’m finally reading Mindhunter in full, my take on the process of profiling has changed: I do believe that Douglas and co. could have inferred that the killer had a stutter or bad skin without knowing Hansen (a man with a stutter and bad skin) was the top suspect. Indeed, Douglas tells a number of stories where he and his team correctly made similar inferences - for example, in the profile they wrote up on the Trailside Killer (not covered by Wikipedia but chronicled elsewhere). On the process of developing the profile of Hansen, Douglas writes:

We didn’t profile Hansen or devise a strategy to identify and catch him according to our usual procedure. In September 1983, by the time my unit was called in, Alaska state troopers had already identified Hansen as a murder suspect. But they weren’t sure of the extent of his crimes, or whether such an unlikely individual, a family man and pillar of the community, was capable of the terrible things of which he was being accused...

Even though the police had a suspect before I heard about him, I wanted to make sure my judgement wouldn’t be clouded by the investigative work already done. So before I let them give me the specifics of their man during our first phone conference, I said, “First tell me about the crimes and let me tell you about the guy.”

They described the unsolved murders and the details of the young woman’s story. I described a scenario and an individual that they said sounded very much like their suspect, down to the stuttering...

In a sense, this was the opposite of what we normally do in that we were working from a known subject, trying to determine whether his background, personality and behaviour fit a set of crimes.

Is he a wizard? How’d he do that? How could Douglas know from the description of the crimes that Robert Hansen had a stutter?

The truth is common, ordinary, sensible: he had seen, heard about and worked on cases like this many times and had developed an impression of the kind of person who is capable of hunting women like animals in the woods. He’d spoken to serial killers in prison about their crimes, observed them up close, understood their motivations (control, domination, power, punishment, lust, rage). He’s a walking database of crimes and correlations, which allows him to mentally compile the information he’s received, query it against similar cases and then make what seem like totally uncanny inferences. In terms of demystifying something that seemed arcane and inexplicable, I don’t think I’ve ever read a book as satisfying and steady as Mindhunter. This guy isn’t magical - he’s just fucking sick at his job. He knows his shit. He’s a towering obelisk of professional competence.

That’s not to say they got everything right. For example, Douglas and his unit saw a big difference in lust killers who raped their victims vs. killers who masturbated at the scene. If a killer doesn’t rape his victim but masturbates over her, Douglas and co. would infer that the killer lacks confidence, that he’s inexperienced with women, he’s single, anti-social, probably has a shitty job or no job at all, and because of that he likely lives at home or with a relative, he feels he lacks control, etc. This type of analysis was often correct, but did sometimes lead them down the wrong path (which Douglas acknowledges in the updated foreword for the 2017 reprint of Mindhunter). Since the publication of Mindhunter in the 90s, a number of prominent non-rape lust killers have been caught and it turns out they were married with kids, they were upstanding members of their community, they were homeowners who worked decent jobs, and they seemed normal around women in social settings (see: the BTK Strangler). They simply weren’t the conspicuous, twitching deviants Douglas and his unit imagined.

Mindhunter feels like a book from a different time. Douglas is vociferously pro-death penalty. He’s more sympathetic and vengeful when the victim was a cute lil blondie than a street worn whore. He is interested in the psychology of killers, but is unmoved by their troubled backgrounds: Douglas acknowledges that practically every serial killer he studied had abusive parents, never felt loved or safe, were victims themselves in many ways - but he’s pretty indifferent towards that angle. This perspective would probably get more play in a book on criminals written today - modern writers might be interested in a holistic view of criminality and suffering as cyclical. Douglas does say the number one thing we could do to prevent the development of serial killers and psychos is love our children more and have more resources available to intervene when kids seemed to be headed down the path of darkness... but, look at Douglas’ description of a guy they were looking for in Illinois:

Like so many of these guys, this one is a real loser with a poor self-image. He may come across as confident, but deep-down, he is extremely inadequate.

The UNSUB is a real loser!

One of the key sources of information for Douglas is the killer’s signature. A signature differs from a modus operandi (MO) in that the MO is how the crime is carried out (e.g. killer surveils house for weeks in advance, cuts phone line during the night, breaks in via a window, uses the victim’s tights as a ligature, etc.) while the signature is what the killer does to get off: posing the body, keeping trophies, torturing the victim, taking photographs. Douglas says a killer’s MO may change over time based on failed crimes, stressors, changes to police work, etc. but a signature will remain steady. For example, when Bundy was at his most desperate after escaping from prison (for the second time!), he went on a poorly planned spree. By now, Bundy knew it was all over. The police knew who he was, what he’d done, and were searching for him - it was a matter of time until he was recaptured. The electric chair was waiting. Bundy’s MO had developed with experience and he was typically an organised killer who used a kit, props, and had the skill to lure his victims, but when he knew the net was closing in, he became disorganised - his MO changed. Instead of approaching a pretty girl on the street, luring her to his car and then taking his time to torture/kill her, he broke into a sorority house in the middle of the night and attacked the residents in their own rooms in vicious, quick attacks. Interestingly, this methodology was similar to his original technique when he was younger and less experienced. When he was under pressure, he regressed. Via Wikipedia:

Bundy's modus operandi evolved in organization and sophistication over time, as is typical of serial murderers, according to FBI experts. Early on, it consisted of forcible late-night entry followed by a violent attack with a blunt weapon on a sleeping victim. Some victims were sexually assaulted with inert objects; all except Healy were left as they lay, unconscious or dead. As his methodology evolved Bundy became progressively more organized in his choice of victims and crime scenes. He would employ various ruses designed to lure his victim to the vicinity of his vehicle where he had pre-positioned a weapon, usually a crowbar. In many cases he wore a plaster cast on one leg or a sling on one arm, and sometimes hobbled on crutches, then requested assistance in carrying something to his vehicle. Bundy was regarded as handsome and charismatic by many of his victims, traits he exploited to win their confidence.

For Douglas, an MO is not a reliable way of tying crimes together - because an MO can change. But a signature (which is often at the crux of why the crime was committed) will remain relatively static and is a good clue that two crimes carried out in different ways may be related. The MO may tell you some practical details about the killer (he owns or has access to a car, he’s a local who’s familiar with the back roads, he was known the victim because he was able to gain access to the home without a struggle, etc.) but the signature is driven by behaviour - and that’s what reveals the pits inside a person.

What’s been revelatory for me in Mindhunter is how there is a real, meaningful link between private behaviour and the surface-level details a person. We like to think that our interiority is private and inscrutable to others, that we’re boxed canyon mysteries with rich inner lives and motivations that are inconceivable to the people around us, that our true selves transcend superficial things like how we look or where we work - but Douglas can tell whether a guy will get a haircut after he’s killed someone. He knows if the killer was drunk at the time of the crime. He can tell if they were in the military or not - and if they were, whether they had a dishonourable discharge. How old the killer is. His race. Whether he’ll want to talk to people about the crime. The chances of him owning a German Shepherd. Whether he finished high school. If he keeps a journal. Whether he’s ever been married - and if it was a happy marriage. Most of these are visible details of ourselves that we display to the world, and feel safe displaying because they don’t give too much away: you don’t think people can accurately read anything serious or private about you based on something like how old your car is or whether you watch the nightly news. But all these insignificant details do reveal something. Maybe it is kind of magical.

#Trailside Killer #david carpenter #robert hansen #Butcher Baker #John Douglas #Mindhunter #David Fincher #FBI #Ted Bundy

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