#ratchet tag pending

[darkficsyouneveraskedfor]

The Pain of Living 3

Warnings: non/dubcon, chronic pain, blood/violence, perversion, and other dark elements. Not all kinks or triggers are tagged. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Summary: You deal with pain every day, but a new source of pain lands on your front step.

Note: I know I shouldn’t.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging.

Ibuprofen, pedialyte, gauze, and a few extras just to pad out your cupboards. It’s not quite a success considering what you’re headed back to. You drive cautiously, wondering if anyone else can see the horror sewn into your face. No one stops you, no sirens whoop, you’re left to face the strange man in your bed. 

You get home and carry in the bags, pausing just inside to catch your breath. The brief trip has you ragged. You feel twice as bad as when you left. That isn’t what matters. The blood on your floor reminds you that there is much worse to deal with. 

You bend and take out the large bottle of pills and a bottle of grape electrolytes. Your steps are weighed down by more than your pain. Dread hangs off of you like a wet blanket. 

You knock. On your own door. The man doesn’t answer. Your heart pumps. You knock louder, keeping the bottles hugged under your arm. 

Still no answer. You twist the handle and push inside. Please, let it be an awful nightmare. Don’t let him be dead. 

“Ah, oh god,” you exclaim and spin away from the sight the strange man’s naked back. The vision of his ass as he bends his leg around your duvet is stamped into your mind. Ugh. “Sorry, I--” 

“Fuck, I finally fell asleep,” he sneers. “Got the painkillers?” You nod at the hallway. The bed creaks and he huffs. “Well... give it.” 

You turn warily. He has the blanket pulled over his lap. His torso is entire naked, a patchwork of stitches, dried blood, and hair. You near the bed and set down the tablets and the electrolytes. 

“NSAIDs,” he rattles the bottle. “Anti-inflammatories help with blood clotting. It’ll keep me from bleeding out like Normandy beach.” You wince at his crude allusion. He rolls his eyes, “relax. Think I’m through the worst of it. No major arteries. But damn...” he leans back against the pillows, “I feel like a slapped ass.” 

You furrow your brow. The way he talks, his arrogance, it makes it hard to feel bad for him despite his injuries. He tosses back two pills and reaches for the other bottle. He gulps eagerly and pops his wet lips. 

“Mm, fuck, exactly what I need. Hey, you got a TV you can move in here? Something to watch?” He asks. 

You hesitate. 

“You should probably sleep--” 

“Thanks, Nurse Ratchet, I’d love to fucking sleep, but I’m restless now you woke me up,” he sneers. 

“Um... I have my laptop.” 

“Any fucking screen that can keep me from going mad staring at the ceiling.” He insists. 

You nod and back out of the room. This is odd. Absurd to the point you question your own sanity. Have you summoned a hallucination out of sheer boredom? Did you snap? Or do you really have the worst luck? 

You sniff and go to find your laptop. You don’t use it for more than filing your insurance claims and to get your mailing labels for your work. He can borrow it for a bit. You don’t have any pending orders. 

You return to him. He doesn’t acknowledge you as you enter. You hold out the computer. 

“Here, um, it’s all yours.” 

“You talk to anyone?” He asks. 

“Anyone...?” 

“When you went out, did you talk to anyone?” 

“Not really. I used the self-checkout--” 

“Did you tell anyone about me?” He interrupts. 

“Erm, no, I...” 

“Fuck, you are dull. That’s all I need,” he takes the laptop. “You can piss off.” 

You flinch. Wow. That’s not very nice. 

You reach for the laptop as he puts it on his lap, “look, if you’re going to be mean, I have better things to do with that--” 

He grabs your wrist and easily twists it back. Despite his condition, he’s just as strong as his bulging muscles would suggest. You whimper as your eyes glimmer. 

“Ow, let go, please,” you whimper. 

He keeps you locked in for another moment before he obliges. You retract and swallow down the agony. What hurt before is now unbearable. You cradle your arm and retreat. 

“Close the door, raggedy ann.” 

You shut the door. As much to block him out as to appease him. How can someone you helped be so rotten? 

You go to the kitchen and sit in a wooden chair at the small table. You rub your wrist and sniffle. It’s easier to be alone and in pain. You don’t like others to see you struggle. The way that man behaves, you don’t want to show any weakness. 

You blow out between your lips and look at the door. You’ll need to clean up soon. The rug is garbage but getting rid of a blood-stained carpet won’t be easy. And the bleach might not do much for the floor. 

You put your head down on your folded arms. You’ll deal with it eventually. Like everything else. It’s too much. Everything waits on the pain. Your whole life is centered on your aching bones and burning muscles. 

You wallow in your self-pity until you have the energy to get up. When you do, you ignore the inevitable and make coffee. As it brews, there’s a holler. 

“Hey, sugar stack,” the man calls, “is that coffee I smell?” 

You tense, a surge of pain rippling through you. You exhale and collect your strength. You yell back, “yeah.” 

“I take mine black. Thanks, baby.” 

You close your eyes and grit your teeth. You’re not a mean person. You’re not cruel. You don’t hate people. In fact, you do your best to keep them happy. You don’t want to be a burden. You don’t to be a problem.  

Yet this man makes your brain fiery. You’re actually annoyed. Angry even. It isn’t that he’s just rude, he presumptuous. He just assumes that everything belongs to him, and that seems to include your home.  

You can guess how he ended up the way he did. He doesn’t exactly inspire kindness. 

[sparkmender]

WHEN UR AMICA IS HECKIN TINY...

@autobotmedic is certified lovely

[fallenlombax-a]

@battlefcrgcd continued from X

“Is that your best ‘threatening face’ or do you have a problem with your face in general?” His face stoic and tone calm as he spoke.

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

White Knight Syndrome: Three

Early snow is flying and Bucky’s hands are freezing in the garage. It’s colder than a well digger’s ass outside and even with his gloves on, it’s too cold to work properly. Not for the first time, he wishes they would have invested earlier in getting a bigger Garage built where they could work. One that was made to be heated.

It’s early in the morning and he’s half waiting for you. Trying to make sure you get into the house okay. Rick has been around again. Not stopping at the house but cruising through the neighborhood. Often enough that even Sam and Steve agree that he’s about to do something stupid. Bucky didn’t like it. He knew that even if you didn’t say, you were afraid to come home. You’d been working your fingers to the bone just to avoid your own house.

When your jeep pulls in, he breathes a sigh of relief. He was comforted knowing you weren’t trying to sleep in a breakroom between shifts today. You looked so tired anytime he came to check on you. Stressed to your breaking point. Tears just one wrong word from spilling down your cheeks. When you trudge into the house after taking your shoes off at the door, he sighs.

He sits staring at the engine he’s tinkering with for a moment. He wants to go across the street and check on things. Check on you. There’s a feeling in the pit of his stomach like ice water swirling in its depths. Something that makes the hair on the back of his neck stands up. He’s about to call Steve when he hears a scream. It’s terrified and primal and it makes his heart drop even as he bolts to his feet ready to run.

You bolt around the corner of the house, feet bare despite the cold. Soft cloth shorts and a tank top the only clothing on your body. Rick is on your heels. His boots a major advantage on the cold, frost hardened ground.

Buck clears the distance between you as Rick grabs a handful of your hair, jerking you backward to throw you on the ground. He hears rather than sees the fist connect with the side of your head and his boot hit your midsection. He can’t hear anything but the blood pounding in his ears as he throws the other man away from you and puts himself in the way. He’s furious. And menacing. The giant puppy of a man who gives Neighborhood kids popsicles in the summer when they stop by the garage and hot chocolate when it’s cold and they’re waiting for the bus, looks like he could kill someone. Rick goes to push Bucky out of the way to get to you as you get slowly to your feet, shaking and struggling to breathe. Bucky didn’t think. He punched. Rapidly driving him backward and further away from you.

“Oh, Shit,” Sam said jumping out of the passenger side of Steve’s truck and bolting across the street to stop Bucky from getting a manslaughter charge. Steve called the cops and bolted across the grass, already taking his jacket off to wrap around you.

Sam shoves Bucky towards you, “Go,” he said, “Get her inside. She’s in shock and half-naked. Cops are on their way.” Bucky looked to where Steve was trying to get you back off the ground. You’re dazed and bleeding. Your shirt is half torn off and Steve’s jacket is the only thing making you decent to be outside. His heart twists unpleasantly and Sam shoves a little harder, “Go,” he said firmly. He nods and makes his way across the grass, kneeling in front of you slowly, “Hey, Sugar,” he said softly, tilting your chin up to look at him, “let’s get you inside, okay?” When you can’t meet his eyes, his heart hurts. There are four very large men and a lot of testosterone in this yard. “Baby,” he soothes, “it’s okay. We’re not gonna hurt you. I’m gonna carry you inside okay? Your feet are pretty cut up.” He talks to you softly, like he’s coaxing a scared dog out of hiding. Careful touches and soft words until he gets you to put your arms around his neck so he can carry you. “Good girl,” he murmurs, kissing your head.

Inside, he stays quiet. Swapping Steve’s jacket for the thick quilt off his bed. Something to cover your whole body. He gives you a cup of hot cider and gets a warm washcloth. One he can use to get the dirt off your face so the cops can see the bruises already forming. He can hear the yelling outside and watched the tension in your body ratchet back up when Rick starts screaming your name. “Shhh,” Bucky soothes, “You’re safe, doll.” When you start to cry, he takes the mug out of your hands gently and puts you in his lap, quilt and all. “Baby,” he murmurs, “It’ll be okay. The cops are gonna take him.”

Steve leads said cops into the house to get statements and so the cops can get pictures of your injuries. If the cops think anything about your current state or your being on Bucky’s lap crying, there’s no sign. You direct them to your back patio door. It had been shattered. Your feet had gotten cut up bolting through the gap to get away from him when he jumped you as you walked out of your laundry room. The cops get Bucky’s statement, that he saw you running around the corner of the house after he heard you scream. That he’d half beaten Rick to a pulp to get him off of you before he caved your ribs in with his boots. The cops thank him for his time. And his service. Then go to get pictures of the inside of your house, as an official crime scene. When Paramedics arrive, they clean the glass and dirt out of the cuts on your feet and stitch and bandage them. They also stitch up your lip. It feels like it all takes forever and all you want to do is sleep.

You’d spent so much money and invested so much time in protecting yourself. Doing what you were told would keep you safe. And you hadn’t been. Rick had still found you and still tried to beat you to death. You couldn’t think. Everything felt foggy and it sounded like it was coming from underwater.

“Doll,” Bucky said softly, holding out some sweats and a t-shirt, “They’ll be a little big, but warmer than what you have on right now.” You nod and he puts them the bed before coming back to scoop you up gently and carry you. You lean into him and he hugs you tightly. “I don’t really know what I’m doing here, baby,” he says softly, “What do you need?” You shake your head, “I’m just... I mean. I can go home as soon as the window’s boarded up. It’s okay.”

Your voice is flat. It’s monotone. There’s no inflection. It hurts. He sets you down gently and kneels in front of you. “It isn’t okay,” he said. “He found me once. He’ll do it again. No one can stop him. It doesn’t matter. His parents will pay his bail. He’ll be out tomorrow and he’ll kill me. Nowhere is safe. It doesn’t matter where I go,” you tell him. “He won’t get you here,” he said firmly, “I stopped him once and I’ll do it again. And again. You’re going to be safe. I promise.”

His lips, when they press into yours are gentle. Careful of your new stitches. He’s warm and sweet and you melt into him, tears starting to fall down your cheeks again. He keeps his touch light. So engrossed in you, he doesn’t hear Steve in the doorway doing an abrupt about-face. He isn’t sure who started the kissing but your top is torn off and he knows you probably don’t want everyone seeing your breast.

He lopes into the kitchen, trying not to listen to Bucky quietly trying to tell you he loves you without saying the words. He hears the soft rustle of fabric and footsteps as his friend carries you to another room to put on different clothes. When Bucky walks back into the kitchen, blushing and Steve hands him a beer. “Sam’s got the window boarded up, now. Clint brought a big enough sheet of plywood. I got the glass off the floor... Tell her to be careful when she empties out her shop vac,” he said. Bucky nodded, “I’m gonna have her stay here,” he said, “I don’t want her going over there alone. Not right now.” Steve nodded, “Probably a good idea. She was pretty fucked up.”

“Shock will do that,” you say from the kitchen door, making them both jump. You’ve had to roll up the Cuffs of Bucky’s sweats a few times and the sleeves.”Do you have a coke or something? That second wave always swings around really fast. I should probably put some sugar and some fluids into my system before it does.” Steve nods and hands you a coke quickly. “You hungry?” Steve asks. You shake your head, “If I actually eat I’ll probably be very sick... Thank you for lending me your jacket.” The blonde nods and kisses the side of your head, giving you a squeeze, “Figure you wouldn’t want neighborhood kids to know what your boobs look like.” You snort, “That’s fair.” Steve grins and lets himself out, punching Bucky on the arm on the way.

Bucky helped you into a chair gently and sat in one next to you, “What do you need me to do?” he asked in the quiet. “Can we just watch a movie? I don’t want to think anymore.” Bucky smiled a little, “Yeah, Sugar. We can do that.”

____

So wait?” Sam asked swinging himself into the truck, “Who kissed who?” Steve shrugged, “Whoever started it, they were both into it.” Sam smirked, “Nice... Nat owes me some money.” The blonde snorted, “Extenuating circumstances Sam. She’s not gonna pay you until it happens when she’s not in shock.”

Tags:@lancsnerd​ @stevieang​ @golddaggers​ @blameitonthecauseway @qxeen-of-hearts​ @process-pending​ @xmarveled​ @beautybyfire, @etherealwaifgoddess, @mschellehitt, @mistressoftorture @thorfanficwriter, @ctinadiva, @innerpaperexpertcloud @amalthea9, @hello-lemons, @straightforwardly @mrsgoodnight

[clanlc-blog]

❝ I’m tiiiired. My knee hurts. My elbow hurts and I have to go the bathroom. ❞ // yep. thats a ratchet thing to say.

          A deep breath was taken in as Clank cast his gaze towards Ratchet.

          “ PERHAPS you should have thought about that before you decided it was a good idea we take this little - what did you call it? short-cut? We can always stop and turn around, but i figured you wanted to get to our DESTINATION faster.”

                                               meme | accepting

[itsworn]

Watch As We Rescue & Revive a Nearly New 1969 Ford Ranchero GT After 29 Years of Storage

The subject of storage is a deep one, indeed. Here at the family compound you might see muscular classics out to pasture. Let’s call those cars “pasturized.” Over yonder is a weathered old barn. Its roof went away years ago, so the barn cars all have “barnacles.” Around here, premium indoor storage involves shipping containers. Sure, they’re hot ’n’ cold with the seasons, but a tight container can be fairly safely used as a portable garage. A not-so-tight container, however, can become the tomb of doom.

Long, long ago, back in 1969, Uncle Gary Bauman drove a new 1969 Ranchero GT off the showroom floor of Riverside, California’s Warren Anderson Ford. It was pretty much loaded. A 390, a four-barrel, a floor-shifted C6, and bucket seats to boot. As his company vehicle, the shiny new Ranchero propelled Uncle Gary to and from work at the old family business, Bauman’s Auto Wrecking. It was never used for parts deliveries. Nobody else ever drove it, and I’m pretty sure it never hauled anything in its bed. Now, it’s been a long time, but I’m rather proud to possess a 20/20 long-term memory. Amongst other details, the one I recall most vividly is the Ranchero’s new-car smell.

We are all familiar with the story of the one that got away. This will not be a rehashed version of that. Uncle Gary still has the low-mileage 1969 Ranchero GT. It hasn’t felt the sunshine in many, many years. In fact, it’s been stored away in one of those shipping containers. Knowing its secret whereabouts, and knowing Uncle Gary wouldn’t mind, I sort of got to thinking that you readers might enjoy a peek inside that container. Little did I know that slippin’ in for pictures would lead to a grisly discovery.

Out of sight and out of mind, the near-new/old Ranchero had languished in that old shipping container long enough that the container had settled into the ground. One door would still open, just enough to allow someone of average build like me to slip inside. Through the dank darkness it sort of looked as though both left tires had deflated, causing the left-rear bumper corner to contact the container wall. Although I couldn’t clearly see the Ranchero, I could clearly smell it. The stench of mildew had replaced the new-car smell I remembered from childhood.

Clues at this crime scene suggest that the container’s roof sprung a leak. Sadly, that leak went undetected for years. Cold winter rain came in. Hot summer sun came out—and the container’s precious contents sustained a series of summer-long steam baths. We can be certain that condition has taken a toll on Uncle Gary’s Ranchero. We won’t know the extent of the damage until we get it out. We won’t get it out until we get the container doors opened. And we won’t get the container doors opened without a lift from a friend with a heavy-duty hydraulic wrecker.

We will have to work for this, but we will get the Ranchero out into the sunlight for a better look. No doubt it will need a complete, professional detail job, but its mechanical needs might be tougher to assess. Pending Uncle Gary’s approval, I’ll personally see this rescue through—with a little help, as needed, from friends.

For the first phase of the job at hand, let’s begin with a mechanical evaluation by “Guardrail” Willie Martin, third-generation owner/operator of Riverside, California’s Ed Martin Garage. Following Martin’s inspection, shop manager/parts guru Mike Ferguson will provide us with an estimate. Then, providing it’s practical, let’s get this Ranchero Rescue mission underway.

1 Welcome one and all to container No. 2. These doors have been locked long enough that we don’t even remember which key opens them. That’s OK; these older locks ain’t too particular. In such situations, a worn-thin key is quite dependable.

2 Suddenly, this sight for sore eyes puts a hurt on our noses. Worse than any locker room, this much mildew stinks. Before we go any further, let’s do what’s necessary to get this container aired out.

3 Over the years the container settled to the point where the doors no longer open. Fortunately, my friend, Gary “Wiz-Bang” Estee, is a heavy-duty towing and recovery professional. With a big hydraulic wrecker, raising this container is a breeze.

4 As luck would have it, the two flat tires are up against the wall. This makes valve stem access inconvenient, but my flexible friend, Pelon Sanuntillanes, doesn’t seem to mind. Here toward the rear we get our first glimpse of expired tags: December 1989!

5 Compressed air in the new/old tires gives us a little clearance so we can see more of the Ranchero’s left side. Here we believe we have located the leak. Sure enough, it’s in the roof, right above the left fender.

6 An initial check under the hood reveals a bone-stock 390. Further visual inspection reveals a coating of corrosion over pretty much everything.

7 Much to my dismay, the new-car smell of my childhood no longer lingers. Let’s just hold our noses as we slide inside the moistly mildewed interior. Here behind the wheel, the odometer speaks the truth: only 12,155 miles!

8 Quite fortunately, the interior mildew had not yet crept into the center console. In the mix with other factory documents, the owner’s manual and warranty cards are present and in mint condition.

9 Through years of steamy storage the park brake was not set. Even so, the rear brake shoes have corroded to the drums. The Ranchero will not roll, so Estee has returned to winch it out with a rollback. Now we can see the only nonstock modification: circa 1969 American Torq-Thrust originals with late-1980s Goodyear Eagle ST radials.

10 Freshly offloaded from the bed of Estee’s rollback, Uncle Gary’s Ranchero assumes a position on a lift at Ed Martin Garage. After 29 years of improper storage, we are expecting the fuel system, cooling system, and brakes to require attention.

11 During Martin’s evaluation we see things we don’t often see, still in place on a 49-year-old Ford. For example, this air filter element is Motorcraft original equipment. Just below, an original Motorcraft four-barrel carburetor is all lacquered up. It’s so bad, its butterflies won’t budge.

12 In the usual places, Martin begins looking for clues. Here the fuel cap and radiator cap each have stories to tell. That crusty crud confirms our suspicions—there’s trouble in the tanks.

13 The condition of this heater-control valve suggests that the Ranchero was parked without Prestone. The heater core could be all plugged up to match. If so, there will be much disassembly required for access.

14 The poor old Ranchero is stiff. Wheels won’t turn, butterflies won’t budge, and things we’ve seen are not encouraging. At this point, before looking further, Martin goes for his ratchet. The engine still turns! After a full revolution, we are optimistic again.

15 Even under the distributor cap, steam has made a mess. Surprisingly, the vacuum advance has passed a bench test. Here a lap around the solvent tank may reveal more ugliness.

16 See the heavy pitting on the distributor cam? New points won’t last long. Those pits will grind a new rubbing block away quickly. For that, Martin recommends a cleverly concealable PerTronix box.

17 According to a paper Pennzoil sticker in the left doorjamb, Uncle Gary’s Ranchero was last serviced on February 7, 1989, right here at Ed Martin Garage. Yes, it’s been here before. Last time, quite coincidentally, was after long-term storage as well.

18 With a new filter in place and fresh oil added, it’s prime time. With a pneumatic drill, Martin spins the oil pump at a fairly high speed as yours truly monitors instrumentation inside. We have pressure!

19 Just wanting to hear the engine run, we have filled the float bowl through the vent with fresh gasoline. At this stage the carburetor’s butterflies are still solidly stuck, but the engine has fired and idled quietly. What we see here on the floor is fresh from the tailpipe.

20 Pleased with what he’s heard, Martin begins to overhaul the carburetor. A couple screws have broken, and the accelerator pump refuses to let go. Notice the dark goo in the bottom of the bowl. A dunk in the shop’s ultrasonic cleaner, followed by pressure washing, will remedy that.

21 Here on a different bench we have a two-piece fuel filler neck. The rubber joint has been discarded. It will be replaced. Although these two parts are clearly cruddy, a lap around the bead-blasting cabinet will clean ’em up like new.

22 The fuel tank’s condition, however, is the worst we’ve ever seen at Ed Martin Garage. Pretty obviously, the poor Ranchero was parked with a full tank of high-test. The questionable tank will be sent to a nearby radiator shop. With a little luck it might actually survive.

23 Perhaps if it weren’t so stinky, this sending unit might make a nice souvenir. We just don’t see them like this every day.

24 Earlier, from the appearance of the heater control valve, we had determined that the Ranchero was parked without Prestone. Let this thermostat housing support the initial observation.

25 Toward the end of a very long haul, this low-mileage 390 is running really good, but as Murphy’s Law would have it, something is wrong. The heater core is leaking warm green coolant. It needs to come out. Access will not be easy, so this is a setback.

26 Following a good deal of disassembly, we have accessed the problem. The heater core on the left is the original. The one on the right is N.O.S. Even though it’s new, testing revealed leaks, so it has been to the radiator shop for repairs.

27 After reassembly, the coolant leak is history. Now perhaps we should think about settling up. While these four pages of receipts add up to something, the money is well spent on a vehicle worth saving. Once we have obtained insurance and current registration, it will be time for a test drive.

About That Test Drive Have you ever driven a brand-new, 390-powered 1969 Ranchero GT? Neither had I until just lately. For me, there’s a gooey, squishy, rather emotional feelin’ that goes with the experience. Hey, it’s my favorite uncle’s ride, and after 29 years in storage, I am the first to drive it. Thanks to Ed Martin Garage, it’s running great and stopping straight. Even though it feels quite powerful, I’m driving like a granny because two of the late-1980s Goodyear Eagle ST radials sat flat so long that the thumping won’t subside. Before rolling down the highway I’ll gingerly putt down the street to see my tire guy, Dave, at Kuma Tire ’n’ Wheel.

Our final stop will be the detail shop. We have made an appointment with Ricky Pope of Soft Touch Auto Detailing. In Part 2 we will tend to cosmetics. Again with a little help from friends, and still more help from friends at Mothers, we’ll have Uncle Gary’s near-new/old Ranchero back in showroom shape—for auction, or for keeps.

The post Watch As We Rescue & Revive a Nearly New 1969 Ford Ranchero GT After 29 Years of Storage appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network http://www.hotrod.com/articles/watch-rescue-revive-nearly-new-1969-ford-ranchero-gt-29-years-storage/ via IFTTT

[stefanoaltieri]

The SAT Is Not A Test, It's Trickery.

Right now my kid is undergoing the torture otherwise known across America as the SAT. He has been preparing for this day for quite some time now. By the look and heft of his The Official SAT Study Guide, it seems he has been preparing for the last eleven years. I picked a bookmarked page, random to me, right about midway through the College Board-issued behemoth, page 356 to be exact, and glanced at the cryptogram on the left column. I read through it and thought to myself, “this feels like trap of sorts. This is an intellectual contraption setup to promote failure. This...this is trickery!”

I vaguely remember some chapter in the story of my life when I was somehow reluctantly convinced to undergo such torture myself. There were some figureheads, some caricatures of authority, involved. Something about college, and a test, and scores, and being punctual, and timing. And oh, yes, something involving a pencil, a very specific pencil, a No. 2. It had to be sharpened, of course, and I was instructed to "bring a pair." Apparently that's all the ordeal required. The rest, for the most part, is vague. Very vague.

Bubbles. Hundreds of them. Maybe thousands. The letters A, B, C, and of course the ever-elusive D, which may as well have been a hostage in an All of the above or None of the above scenario or some variation of the sort. The details escape me now, as I am certain they did then, but I do remember, almost vividly, the clock. More specifically, the minute-hand racing past the hour-hand, on the white-faced something-ix clock stuck on the painted cinder block wall, just above the classroom door. The second-hand was red, and sometimes between glances from the test to the clock, I would catch it standing frozen still for a moment too long.

And oh, yes, there is one more thing. I was never on time for school back then. I usually, almost predictably, always "came way too late," as Dean Young would tell me during one of our many confrontations in the hallway discussing my impending suspension for my failure to appear at detentions assigned to me as disciplinary measures designed to curb my tardiness. Also, I was never prepared, constantly "borrowing" loose leaf paper and a pen from well prepared classmates. And, to a fault, I always left way too early. Some would consider that "cutting class" but I didn't, I simply didn't go to the last class of the day because it was directly after my lunch period, which was technically the period I would cut out of school. So, I argued, in my defense, I did not intentionally "cut" that last period class, whatever it was it was simply an unwitting casualty of bad scheduling, or, more correctly, a matter of conflicting timelines.

As I have learned, conflicting timelines is a recurring theme in life, generally, but more specifically so in mine. But for the sake of brevity I will say for that particular place and time, there was no specific, intentional, rationale or reason for my lateness other than I just either always woke up late or left home late, and I rarely made any attempts to make up for it.  In my last trip through the wringer, during my senior year, this meant missing first period, almost entirely sometimes. I think it was either Algebra or English, but it may have been Gym, as I don't recall ever breaking a sweat in that school. I spent sixth and seventh period mixing and rolling dough at Pizza Boy in the Roosevelt Mall. Suffice it to say, my SAT score was greatly affected by such behavior, et al. Needless to mention, my academic career, in general, and perpetuity, suffered tragically. Fatally. Yes, that's Fatally, with a capital F.

What I don't remember is  anything about workbooks or practice tests or study guides. But Me 2.0 is all up in that. As he very well should be, I mean this kid is an honor roll staple. They could literally use his name as a staple to hold up the Roll of Honor hanging on a hall wall at his school. Like clockwork, if there is an occasional B it is always flanked by a row of A's and often transformed into one by the next marking period. An impeccable attendance record worth boasting about. No tardiness. No absence. Spotless. To a fault. I once told him he could miss a day of school to tag along with me and pick up my new motorcycle in Ohio. I worded it in such a way that it would sound like a really cool thing to do, but used a tone that connoted such concepts as "responsibly" and "thoughtfully". I pitched him something along the lines of making a once in a lifetime, memorable experience of the thing, a one-day father & son road trip. An adventure that would involve bonding, trust, brotherhood and beef jerky; miles and miles of nine-over-the-limit on the clock and lots of cruise control; Rock and Roll - or oldies, depending on which generation you hail from; a case of water for hydration; and some big empty cups for to avoid pulling over during the longer stretches between rest stops. It would have been a party on four wheels, for sixteen hours straight. I even suggested he could snapshot highlight moments of the debacle and post it to his Instagram. I wish I had done something like that with my father as a kid. Now it was my chance to turn the tables on life's mis-dealt hand and break the chain of missed-opportunities. He could tweet about it. #OneDayRoadTrip.  That's what the kids do. Right? YOLO. Right?

He turned me down. He did not want to miss school and have to catch up on his work and... Well, I don't remember the rest of it. I lost him after those first few words because of the confounded mess I became once the look in his eyes hypnotized me senseless. First went sound. Then darkness took over, summoning thoughts of despair and pending doom to any nonconformist-on-the-brink-of-turning-conservative. I was in a momentary state of dumbfounding shock, while the horror of it all echoed in my head with eerie notes something to the tune of "is my son a nerd?"

?

His instinctive reluctance to miss out on a legit, parent-sanctioned school absence for the sake of school-related malarkey made absolutely no sense to me, a dropout. None. Not then. Not still. Doubt it ever will. So, I ventured out on my own. I did it old-school. SOLO. Because that's how I roll. Apparently. But to make sure I didn't end up in a scene from Deliverance, I had the route all planned out, and set up my outdated Android to talk me through the plot twists now and then. As rubber wore down, I occasionally lifted my G3 out of the cup holder to check for signs of life and to make sure the car charger thing kept the battery juiced up in case I got stuck somewhere. It was a couple hours of high spirits until the WaWa coffee ran its course and the radio faded to static and I eventually got bored enough to try and picture-text a few location updates to my son, back at school. He would sneak me a very delayed thumbs up (👍) emoticon now and then during school hours, surely he waited until he was in the crowded hallways, inter-class. Then I remembered I shouldn't text and drive. So I kept it to rest stop texting only, mostly. I even tried miserably to capture a few snapshots of such roadside sights as deep valanced valleys nesting rural villages, and cool old rusted-through farmland robots planted like landmarks amidst the alternating chromatic values of green and freshly-plowed dirt. These, I thought, I would rub in his face when I produced them as evidence that he totally missed out. But I ended up with blurry, skewed shots of road signs, and eighteen wheelers, and dashboard. Lots of dashboard. Once, the ever-intrusive fingertip made a cameo, photobombing what would have otherwise been a postcard-esque shot of a tunnel entrance.

Epic.

Fail.

All in all, it ended up being a trip worth taking. For me. For the obvious reasons, the most logical of which was to haul back the coolest thing on two wheels worth taking such a trip for, which is the only logical reason to ever partake in such shenanigans, solo or accompanied. But admittedly, it wasn't something worth missing school for. Those sixteen hours felt like an eternity of dreadfulness at the time, eight of which mostly spent in pitch-black darkness, on the way back, with my bike in tow, strapped down in the hollow cargo cavity directly behind my seat. Eight hours of going eighty, with eight-hundred pounds of steel and rubber and gasoline held in place, just inches from my head, with the cheapest ratcheting straps I could find. It wasn't safe and it wasn't pleasurable. No place for a kid who's gonna use his brains in life. It was forebodingly dark and loud. Road noise, mostly, echoing through the uninsulated van like a rolling tin can, deadened only by only moments of fleeting redemption as I played hide and seek with the dropouts in radio frequency on which Alice Cooper, God bless his soul, hosted late-night radio. Sipping bad coffee to keep my eyes peeled enough to avoid plot twists involving six-pointers and eighty-miles-an-hour rental vans as I made my way through the peaks and valleys of western Pennsylvania.

But I digress. My kid. My boy. The fruit of my loins. The heir to all my fault-derived understanding of this world and most of my mistake-learned wisdom, is taking the SAT. Right about now, he is fully aware that he is being tested on his aptitude, whereas I felt, at his age, in a similar setting, or generally, that I was being tested on my attitude. I still do. But not him. He's every good thing I could never be if I tried. He was up for it. Prepared for it. He's got this. I know it, and more importantly, he knows it. He gladly sharpened three brand-new Dixon Ticonderoga No. 2 pencils, before going bed last night, and told me, with nary a hint of playfulness, "Dad, this is the best pencil in the world."

I concur.

I hope that his No.2 fills in only the right dots. I hope it leaves a trail of lead* that maps out nothing but the right answers, marking only the correct solutions. I hope that whatever fate had in store for him today, it also involves a handful of educated guesses, with some lucky guesses mixed in for good measure, though I doubt he would need that many. I hope he ultimately pencils this in as nothing more than what it is, a minuscule experience in an ever-evolving wheelhouse of much, much greater experiences that a life well lived should undoubtedly grant him. I hope that whatever pattern, whatever master key is used to unscramble this cryptogram of grey bubbles,  I hope it mirrors the pattern that his teachers taught my boy. And I hope that my boy decides to duplicate that pattern through the fullest extent his knowledge. I hope that the system utilized to review his choices can also connect the dots of his answers to his propensity for assessing the true value of knowledge. True value. True knowledge. The kind of knowledge necessary to pursue and carry out a fulfilling life.

I hope the appointed surveyor of errors scans both the marked and the unmarked choices and recognizes them only as the result of the invisible act of choosing choices chosen over choices not chosen, and not use the weight of consequence to suppress any choices he has yet to make or coerce anyone to make a choice about him, in the future, based on his choice of an answer today. I hope this examination of his scholarship can sift through his absorption of the mindless regurgitations of expanded sophomoric academics and screen his wondrous, now-limitless potential, ripening and maturing into a future which seems more and more so uncertain to a father like me and yet so promising for a son like him. I hope that whatever computer computes his standardized Scholastic Aptitude is also programmed with the intangible sensitivity necessary to gauge his ability to use his standardized scholastic intellect to enhance his common sense and his uncommon, not-so-standard sensibilities about and towards the world around him.

I hope the College Board can look at his test score, no matter what it may end up to be, and recognize its irrefutable meaninglessness against his all-in effort, his can-do attitude, his willingness to do and be more and better, and his relentless dedication to apply both his critical thinking and the stuff they teach at school to his advantage and to that of others, especially in situations where his natural instincts may prove futile.

I hope, for the sake of our future, 'cause that's what the children are, that these standardized tests, and their score, don't mean that much to them. And by them I mean the kids.

By the way, In the color of full disclosure, due to one of my innumerable battles with my arch-nemesis Time, I missed the greater bulk of my SAT. My final score was 900-something, which, as evidenced in my writing, is largely attributable to the luck fate had in store for me on that day.

Also, Dean Young was a friendly figure in a stern setting. Sometimes we ate together at the Burger King across the street. His treat. Always.

I never, ever mentioned his toupee. Not to him, not to anyone. Until now.

*is it graphite?

[voidselfshipp]

Brooding

Cw: gif tw eye contact Mild swearing maybe?

Ask to tag. Only Moots ok to rb.

Summary: optimus is brooding silently in the middle of a sunny spot, jerico wants to help him cheer up.

Taglist: @tex-treasures @aeliusinclairs @samsbeckett

-- whats up with him?-- asked jerico, pointing at optimus who was in alt mode, brooding.

Crosshairs looked at the red and blue truck-- hes pissed

--Yeah no shit Sherlock-- answered jeri-- whats got his circuitos in a bunch now?

The green bot shrugged-- allspark knows...

Sighing, the female bot stopped leaning against the wall of their warehouse-- ill go check

Crosshairs laughed behind her-- ill plan your funeral!

She just middle fingered him and went to talk to optimus.

--uh, prime? Everything good in there?-- she asked crouching infront of the vehicle.

Silence.

She sighed, patting the trucks roof-- come on boss, yknow you can talk to me

Silence.

Jeri stood up and popped her joints-- your body is gonna hurt when you de transform, besides youre right in the middle of a sunny spot, youre gonna fuck up your ac again, cant you go in the shadow of a tree to brood in silence?

Again, no answer

While crosshairs laughed his ass off at his girlfriends useless attempt to coax their leader to talk it out, hound and drift approached.

-- whats nova trying to do?-- asked hound

--trying to get prime to Open up-- answered the green mech between tears of laughter.

Drift looked worried and distraught-- she has a death wish, look!

In that moment jerico punched the roof of the truck softly-- alright thats it!-- she said, prime make something of yourself!

And so the truck transformed into the autobots leader, optimus prime, who glared at her with anger.

--There, happy?-- he asked.

--very much so, -- jer answered almost unphased-- alright you big Teddy bear lets to to the shade and talk it out, youre still needed around here, and bottling things up doesnt work

She took his hand and dragged him away from prying eyes.

After some hours they came back, prime was in a cheery mood that made everyone both relieved and slightly disturbed.

-- and you said I had a deathwish-- jerico teased crosshairs.

-- I swear, youre the only bot crazy enough to face optimus while hes mad-- added crosshairs.

--and im the only bot who belived that she could make prime get out of his Shell, here you go sweetie, half of the money of the bet

Nova looked at bee confused-- bet?...Wait a fucking minute -- she Turned to her fellow autobots-- you guys didnt Belive I could do it?

Crosshairs, drift and hound played dumb, then she looked at ironhide, jazz and ratchet, who pretended that she wasnt there -- come on you guys...at least tell me wheelie and brains evaluated that I could--

But the look on wheelie's and brains' eyes said no.

-- oh fuck you guys!-- she stormed out of their warehouse/home.

It was her turn to brood silently under the shade of a tree.

Her alt form , a black Chevrolet impala from 1967, blasting "Fuck you" by Lilly allen.

Optimus only sighed looking at the rest of his Crew-- you are going to fix this

And so he left, and behind him his fellow autobots were choosing who would make the sacrifice of talking to a very mad jerico.

[sparkmender]

Ratchet... shaped like a friend

[kickstarter-promotion]

Another Amazing Kickstarter (NEATO® :Worlds first tool management system by Terry Scott —Kickstarter) has been published on http://crowdmonsters.com/new-kickstarters/neato-worlds-first-tool-management-system-by-terry-scott-kickstarter/

A NEW KICKSTARTER IS LAUNCHED:

A prototype is a preliminary model of something. Projects that offer physical products need to show backers documentation of a working prototype. This gallery features photos, videos, and other visual documentation that will give backers a sense of what’s been accomplished so far and what’s left to do. Though the development process can vary for each project, these are the stages we typically see:

Proof of Concept

Explorations that test ideas and functionality.

Functional Prototype

Demonstrates the functionality of the final product, but looks different.

Appearance Prototype

Looks like the final product, but is not functional.

Design Prototype

Appearance and function match the final product, but is made with different manufacturing methods.

Production Prototype

Appearance, function, and manufacturing methods match the final product.

Prototype Gallery

These photos and videos provide a detailed look at this project’s development.

What is a prototype?

About this project

       “You will see with NEATO®, there is no substitute for physical presence in quality when NEATO® is in your hands working for you”  

Jane “What an awesome concept! Coming from a family of mechanics and trades this is brilliant, i used to be my dads ‘NEATO®’ as a child.”

Marc looks like you need a NEATO®…?? “i need several of them!”

Jorden, “I have been lucky for the past 2 years to test NEATO® #inthefield The worst thing about NEATO®…?? is when you don’t have one!” 

“NEATO®… a futuristic beast, i have created amazing special effects in my years of editing! none needed here”

“NEATO® provides that extra set of hands i need when i’m working on my bike in the shed or at the track” 

“SMART business is doing the job easier & being more efficient, testing NEATO® for the past 2 years has added value to our work flow”

Taz Douglas V8 Supercar Driver

                                 + Replaceable rubber covers for teeth/mouth

+ 1 x finger release trigger

+ 3 x manoeuvrable arms

+ 3 x ball joins for positioning

+ Various lengths for adaptability

+ Quick release connection

You’ll need an HTML5 capable browser to see this content.

Play

imagine how great it would feel when you finally have your own NEATO® You can fall back in love with your daily job and even love your hobby again

PRESS PLAY

NEATO® Funnel empties a gerry can in .23 seconds

Against the gerry can funnel which took 1minute .42 seconds

Save 1 minutes .19 seconds every gerry can pour

Over 1 year that means you will save hours of your time

+ Lightweight

+ Pouring stability

+ Single size outlet

+ Quick release connection

You’ll need an HTML5 capable browser to see this content.

Play

   + 2 x lights

+ Magnetic

+ Rechargeable

+ Use + charge light at the same time

+ Robust quality + long lasting

+ Water resistant

+ Quick release connection

  + Adjustable slider to fit all phone sizes

+ Charge phone while in holder

+ Quick release connection

  + Holds any metal tool up to 1kg

+ Quick release connection  

 + Removable magnetic base

+ Quick release connection 

   + Holds any metal tool up to 1kg

+ Quick release connection  

    You’ll need an HTML5 capable browser to see this content.

Play

    You’ll need an HTML5 capable browser to see this content.

Play

  You’ll need an HTML5 capable browser to see this content.

Play

  You’ll need an HTML5 capable browser to see this content.

Play

  You’ll need an HTML5 capable browser to see this content.

Play

                                                               aircraft mechanic

GoKart mechanic

watch maker

R&D technician

office worker

the list goes on… 

    To compare your countries currency here is an exchange calculator 

https://www.ofx.com/en-au/

                  (Your NEATO® delivered)

Because people have different delivery preferences we will send out a survey at the end of the campaign to find out who wants what style of delivery service shipwire.com is one option

Be expected to pay between 

$25.00 AUD to $150.00 

Depending on country & region  We are shipping to you direct from Hong Kong Via: www.shipwire.com

Benefit:  Your NEATO® is insured & will arrive faster to your door step after manufacturing & packaging  (ShipWire is used by many other Kickstarter campaigns)

                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                       Feb 8th 2017 :NEATO® Prototype 2 celebrates 2nd bday with over 1000hrs of work

                                                                                                                      We are perfectionists with passion!!! We have done our years in our craft and the homework needed, so the risks to you are minimal. We have locked in our trusted manufacturers who helped design NEATO® who will be able to also ship successfully, so you can enjoy your very own NEATO®

      A successful campaign means everything to my team and I.

It has been 7 years since the idea began.

 15 months NEATO® was in-design and nearly 4 years ago the family was created. 

This concept/idea I call my 2000% moment, because at 110% there was still room to fail. After world research was done & knowing what our product was capable of, i went after this goal of pursuing NEATO® to become a reality for you with my biggest qualities of commitment, determination & backed with belief in myself & my team! Here we are today

The 1st Team members were introduced: Paul Smith CEO KS Environmental & Brian Goldberg specialising in IP and commercialisation through trademark.ventures

Our broader vision is for a better business & hobbyists networking environment for all of our members customers, clients & fans who will enjoy & call inurZONE® home on a daily basis using our NEATO® tool managements system product range. Your Help here today assists in thanking of all those that helped our inurZONE® family team and I achieve NEATO®, and we could not thank you more.

Over this period I lost two team members, man’s best friends: Miss my pup (she was 14 ½ years young) and Miss’s Pup Shadow (9 years young). In the space of 5 months, they are now supervising the inurZONE® family from the other side.

As the founder I am proud to still own 100% of our achievements, IP, Trademarks, product design & business structure. This project to date has been self funded & also funded with the help of some family & friends.

This is my moment to say: 

“You will always be appreciated by me & those that we will help to benefit from using NEATO®”

Kindest Regards with Many Thanks,

Terry Scott

inurZONE® Creator/Founder

 http://www.inurzone.com/contacts

You’ll need an HTML5 capable browser to see this content.

Play

  Music: purchased & used

Peter Mclsaac, Stanton Warriors.

    Risks and challenges

Is NEATO® ready to manufacture now…??

YES!!! Because i am backed with a professional team that have been there from the start & i personally have spent the extra time & money making sure that when NEATO® launched there was nothing left to do other than raise money to manufacture straight away!!!

NEATO® has been ready to manufacture since March 2015 (over the past 2 years i have been busy building the awareness to NEATO® the product & to inurZONE®’s business) On the 4th of June 2016, i had a guy come through a stop sign at high speed which nearly took my life, today i am still here to finish what i started with your help in pre-ordering (THANK YOU & BLESS)

We made prototype 1. Found all the faults, changed areas to the product that was needed & redesigned NEATO® for prototype 2. Now after testing P2 for the past 2 years we are confident that NEATO® delivers quality & functionality ready for you to use & enjoy straight away

Delivery of my NEATO®…??

Because we have gone through prototyping & testing this enables us to go straight into manufacturing as soon as funding is received from Kickstarter in April 2017. With our manufacturing team on standby, this means waiting time for your new NEATO® is cut in half (we are not like other projects that show you an idea & then have to finish prototyping & testing). We are happy to offer September/October delivery on our current knowledge & will do our best to deliver your NEATO® as early as possible without compromising quality

Purchasing NEATO® after Kickstarter…??

You will be able to purchase NEATO® through our inurZONE® website

NEATO® future attachments…??

There will be future NEATO® attachments soon to follow the success of our Kickstarter campaign. We will launch each new attachment through Kickstarter There will be an opportunity for you, yes the fans to join us & be apart of the R&D for the next attachment. Yes we want you to be involved

Branding…??

NEATO® backed with Patent pending, product design registration & trademarks we have developed a quick release system that will only allow NEATO® products to interact with our brand, similar to when you buy a Snap-on ratchet you can not interact a different brand socket like Kincrome. Our business name inurZONE® & product name NEATO®, logos icon & tag lines are all backed with registered trademarks.

You purchase here today is rewarded by buying into a brand

Current business situation…??

I Terry Scott, am a very appreciative person with an amazing inurZONE® family team that surrounds me. When we have enough funding in place from Kickstarter & wholesale opportunities, our team is already in place to start business operations immediately to care of you! our fans. Our team consists of: Terry & Brian (business growth & moving forward decisions), Renée + Cassi (marketing), Matt (logistics), Lisa (accounts) Andy + Jorden with (R&D) + (media) / Russell & Neville (R&D) Brenten (E-commerce) and other team members Russ, Darren, Haydn, Daisy, Angela + more people are all available when business is ready for growth.

We are all ready for fast growth with educated knowledge in our fields & we all have a driven passion to follow through with our dreams which is to deliver an exciting product backed with caring honesty to all our loyal fans out there for the best possible NEATO® experience you can have!!!

Your inurZONE® future of opportunity…??

We are super excited to be involved with our clients customers purchasers fans & family. inurZONE® wishes to become the world leaders in tool organisation/management systems. Through this we wish to give back to the community. Grow job opportunities, start after school programs & help kids in need. To do this, we are looking for the right people with the right attitude. We hope this reaches one of you out there that is likeminded, please present yourself & contact us today http://www.inurzone.com/contacts

Learn about accountability on Kickstarter

INFORMATION PROVIDED BY Kickstarter.com and Kicktraq.com VISIT PAGE SOURCE

[xxgoblin-dumplingxx]

Tempest in a Teacup: Three

Clint was enjoying watching you work from his spot a ways away in the grass. The dulcet tones of Kurt Cobain’s wailing drifted across the grass interspersed with some hip hop songs. One was something about being 100% that bitch. It wasn’t bad. 

Slowly, a cooler was brought out and other drifted out with lawn chairs, lounging and watching the show. Clint knew you’d be at it at least the better part of the day and he’d drift between sitting with the others and sitting on top of one of the tables with you.

You were barefoot and sitting on the table when he brought you a coke, “Looks good so far, Punk,” he said fondly. You frown, “I hate it,” you say rubbing your neck. “Baby girl,” he said, kissing your head, “you hate everything until you polish it up.” You groan and he smiles a little, “You’ll see,” he encouraged, “It’s going to be beautiful when you’re done.”

You look up at what you’d done so far, thinking. Asgard was a tall order. Especially since you’d never seen it and you were working from a few blurry cell phone pictures from Jane Foster and the stories Thor had told you. Clint watched you thinking and sat quietly next to you. He’d told you last night about the money and what he planned to do with it for you. Education and a car you could drive back home to Chicago. He’d keep your bike until you were actually old enough to drive it. And some of it for you to just have fun with. Maybe take a trip somewhere with friends and do kid shit. He was glad you were a good kid with more common sense than he’d had at your age. You’d said that that all sounded perfectly reasonable and politely asked to be able to have some money to buy tickets so your Gran could see a band she was fond of when they made it to the states in October. Good kid, he thought nodding to himself.

By the time you finished your work, you’d warmed to it a little. A panoramic Asgard as seen through a telescope. Complete with a rainbow bridge. It was pretty fantastic. And Thor thought so too. He’d pulled you into a bone-crushing hug and insisted Jane take pictures so he could print them to show his mother.  Clint was proud of you for even trying to do it. Privately Pepper told him this might be your best work and she anticipated it making quite a nice sum of money on the Auction block. Even more, now that they were going to display your previous work alongside it at the Gala. “Is Y/N still going to be your date?” Pepper teased gently. Clint had been bringing you with him for years to avoid being hit on. No woman would hit on a guy with his teenage daughter nearby. I mean, most of them didn’t want to be a stepmom anyway. And Clint was pretty sure that any woman who’d say some of the gross things women had said to him with you in earshot wasn’t the type of woman who deserved to be your stepmom. 

The rest of your visit was fun. Clint enjoyed his time with you, watching movies, playing pranks, and having him teach you how to defend yourself in different ways. 

He made himself watch you until you were out of sight. He had promises that you’d be careful and that you’d stop for the night when you got tired and that you’d call him the second you were back at your gran’s in Chicago. He hated it. Hated it when you left. He really did. He always had. He liked it when you were around. The sneaky moments of humor and knowing with 100% certainty that you were safe. He knew why he couldn’t keep you as the custodial parent. Why it wasn’t feasible. But that didn’t make him feel better about it. Natasha put an arm around his shoulder, “You okay, Clint?” she asked. He nodded, “I think I’m gonna go lie down,” he said stretching, “I’ve got a while before she’s going to call me for anything.” She squeezed his hand, “Want company?” she asked. All he could do was nod. It felt like a piece of his heart was roaming around outside of his chest. She walked with him. She knew that this would last a couple days. He’d be sad and worried until you called and told him you were finally home. 

She also knew it wouldn’t be long until he got you back for a week, for fall break and the Gala, but telling him that now wouldn’t do much good. 

________

“Hey, Punk!” Clint said firing an arrow at a HYDRA Agent, “Did you get your plane tickets?” Clint could hear you hesitating on the phone and he was struggling not to sound out of breath. You worried about him enough without hearing him at work. “I wanted to talk to you about that, actually,” you say and he can hear you taking a deep breath, bracing for fall out. Or a lecture. Or worse being shouted at. So he waited and fired a few more arrows, getting some Goons off of Steve’s back. “Can I bring a date to this thing? Just for the Gala part,” the words come out in a rush and Clint lets out the breath he was holding. He’d thought you were going to tell him you weren’t coming. “What’s his name?” he asked smiling a little. “Her name,” you correct quietly. And he realizes you’ve probably been getting shit for it for weeks trying to work up the nerve to tell him. That hurt. 

Not that you were dating a girl. He didn’t give a fuck about that. It bothered him that you felt like you couldn’t tell him. But that wasn’t a conversation for right now. “What’s her name,” he corrected himself. “Kat,” you answer. He can hear you smile and it makes him feel a little better, “Is she pretty?” he asked, teasing. “She’s really pretty,” you say softly. “I can’t wait to meet her,” Clint said, “send me a picture?” “Okay,” you say and he can literally hear the tension ratcheting back down for you and he wants to give you a hug and a cookie. “Listen, Punk,” he said gently, “I love you. I gotta go. Work’s calling.” You sigh and he can hear rustling paper, “I love you too, dad. Be safe,” you tell him. It’s a command, not a request. The line goes dead and he goes back to work, trying not to think about how desperately he wanted to go to Chicago and hug you. 

Later that night, when he was icing his shoulder and replaying his last conversation with you in his head, he looked at the picture you sent. You had your arms around this girl, Kat. You were looking up at her like she hung the moon. And she was pretty. Long blonde curls and big green eyes. Tall and curvy. But there was a coldness to her. She was looking at the camera and not at you. The longer he looked at the smirking smile on her face. “Oh, man,” he groaned, “This girl’s trouble.” He found himself hoping that when she did break your heart it was quick and she was gentle about it. Or better, he hoped that he was wrong and she just studied modeling or something and that was her picture face. 

Tags:   @lancsnerd​ @stevieang​ @golddaggers​ @blameitonthecauseway​ @qxeen-of-hearts​ @process-pending​ @xmarveled​ @beautybyfire, @etherealwaifgoddess, @mschellehitt​

[itsworn]

Brian Stockinger Runs 8.90s in a Camaro He’s Owned Since He Was 16

Brian has been in the life since his early teens. And as the shop foreman at West Bend Dyno Tuning, he’s been able to tap into a fantastic grapevine of information, resources, and like-minded individuals. He’s had the Camaro for 23 years. The current build gobbled up another three.

When Brian was 16, his dad, Jim, gladly cosigned the loan document all those years ago and Brian still feels this was the best experience he’s ever had with a car. There was a big stipulation pending, however. Father and son had the heart-to-heart where dad told him that it was a high-performance car and that Brian (with eyes appropriately downcast) was not to abuse it. Umm, then in a divine contradiction, Jim set about enabling his young son, cutting out ads from local auto-buyer rags that flaunted bigger engines, headers, carburetors, cams, rims, and tires.

The upshot? “So I kind of blame him for the need of wanting more horsepower,” Brian opined.

His dad found the four-speed Z28 in the Milwaukee Journal. Brian bought it from the original owner, who still had the build sheet, title, and bill of sale. He gave $2,000 for it. The owner obviously loved his toy. “He told me he would keep the radio off…and just listen to the sound of the engine,” Brian related. “Then, life took over for the guy and he had to part with his baby. I remember pulling away with the car and he just sat there and watched me leave with tears in his eyes. I’ve tried to find him to show him the car, but so far I’m not having any luck. The condition of the car was pretty nice, except it needed a little body work. I did the first paint job…and that experiment did not go well [but] gave me a new appreciation for prepping and painting.

“Then I blew up the stock [175hp] 350. The car sat in my dad’s backyard until I could save enough to build a better engine. It sat there so long that my brother, Mike, would use it as a target for the BB gun he got for Christmas. I had to replace all the taillights and running lights that he shot out. I still give him a hard time for that.

“I have owned the car so many years that I have redone it four times. As my skills got better, I would try different things—so much that the trends I thought were cool went out of style and would date the car. So I would start over and build it again. As I got older, my patience got better and I wouldn’t rush the project. So how you see the car today is how I had that picture in my head.”

For the current iteration, Brian kept the whole business within easy reach. All the vendors and all his helpers live in Wisconsin, so he was able to keep tabs and inspect everything, even at three in the morning if he wanted to. His very special assistance came from freelance painter Jeff Miller. Brian’s younger brother, BB Gun Mike, was always there to get dirty. Brad Riekkoff, West Bend’s sympathetic proprietor (and owner of a dark 1,000-whp 1981 Trans Am) granted him full use the dynamometer as well as the assistance of double-threat Brian Jankuski (who also built the Turbo 400 transmission). He thanks Joe Pando at MSD for the ignition components and Wegner Automotive for building the big-inch small-block. Albert Melchior supplied the custom carbon-fiber pieces. Hot-parts industry rep Ron Piasecki came on as Brian’s personal tech advisor. But behind it all, Brian’s greatest devotion and support will always be from his wife, Ann.

This dude is having fun. “The car has collector car tags and I cruise on the weekends,” he said. “The car will compete in Midnight Drags again at the Car Craft Summer Nationals and do track time chasing the never-ending elapsed time. Ultimately, I’ll convert the car and run in the PRO E85 class (8.90 index).

“There is nothing like leaving off a transbrake. This year will be a lot of chassis tuning and getting my nitrous tune dialed in.” Any regrets about the build? “I would have put in a 7.50-cert ’cage, because I believe this car will get that fast someday.”

For Brian, the journey was more important than the destination. “I really enjoyed the search for parts at all the swap meets and researching all the parts to complete the car. I will never sell it. I refuse to be that guy who said back in the day, ‘I had one of those cars, then I sold it and can’t remember what I did with the money.’ My dad had a 1969 Road Runner and all he can remember buying was a kitchen table. That is insane to me.”

Tech Notes

Who: Brian Stockinger What: 1979 Camaro Z28 Where: West Bend, WI

Engine/Transmission: No square-dancin’ here, kids. Get ready for an elbow in the eye. Brian rang Wegner Automotive for a big little-block founded on a Dart Iron Eagle cylinder case and a displacement of 434 ci. Wegner formed the rotating assembly with a Callies crank, Eagle rods, and JE slugs with 13.8:1 compression. A Howards mechanical roller stirs things beneath Pro Topline heads and Brodix HV1002 manifold fixed with a Demon 1,090-cfm fuel mixer. When stuff gets a little sideways, there’s always that 500hp NOS bump-up in the back room to get a little more sideways. The 1-7/8-inch Dynatech headers dump into Pypes 3-inch stainless pipes, a crossover, and then pulses those undeniable Flowmaster 44s. Though Brian never proofed the juice combination, naturally aspirated it makes 657 at the crank; at the wheel, it’s more like 532. Torque is transferred by an Automatic Trans Design Turbo 400 that Brian Jankuski built with a Coan 4,500-rpm stall converter and TCI valvebody. Body: Raw material is raw material, wherever you find it. “Rubber bumper” cars used to be anathema, right up to the early 2000s. Little by little, the good stuff got scraped up, leaving the former “undesirables” in an enviable place. For a modicum of rigidity, Brian built a stanchion from 1-3/4-inch stock to “support” the rubber nose. He also crafted a fuel-filler door and attached an Ed Quay wing. The Carbon Customs inner fender panels offset the shaved firewall. Brian lowered a Glasstek bonnet with a 6-inch lump on it. Then he and freelance painter Jeff Miller finished the bodywork. Miller put on his baggies, got in the booth, and addressed the two-stage PPG Surf Blue medium. Randy Gremminger, the owner of Trendsetters in Kewaskum, WI, supplied the COPO graphics.

Interior: The Camaro is basically a race car that sometimes turns up on the street, so there ain’t any artificial sound or cold-air system anywhere near it. For protection in his defensive position, Brian surrounded himself with an eight-point rollcage, TCI five-point harness, a Covan gauge panel with Auto Meter Silver Lite dials, and an Applied Racing switch panel. He climbs in that original seat, gloms that Grant Challenger Elite steering wheel, and clicks the Hurst Quarter Stick ratchet.

Chassis/Suspension: To accompany the rigidity afforded by the rollcage, Brian whipped up some frame connectors to latch the ends of the car together. Though the spindles are original, the tubular control arms and adjustable coil/over shock absorbers are QA1 issue and drop the front of the Camaro 4 inches lower than stock. Leaf springs flex in the rear and in between them and the axle are Speedway Engineering 3-inch lowering blocks. Wheel movement is damped by adjustable QA1 shocks. The car currently carries a 10-bolt built by UnderCar in West Bend that lives on 30-spline axles and 3.73:1 gears on an Eaton limited-slip. But the 8.5-incher is “on borrowed time and I am going to upgrade to a 9-inch Ford carrying 35-spline axles.” With corner-burning and slalom-slamming a moot issue, Brian naturally went easy on the brakes, putting 11.0-inch and 12.19-inch Wilwoods front and rear that fit discreetly beneath the 15-inch wheels.

Wheels/Tires: The simple but elegant Billet Specialties 15×4 and15x8 Street Lite hoops attract M&H 27×6 Front Runners and Mickey Thompson 295/65 ET Street radials.

The post Brian Stockinger Runs 8.90s in a Camaro He’s Owned Since He Was 16 appeared first on Hot Rod Network.

from Hot Rod Network http://www.hotrod.com/articles/brian-stockinger-runs-8-90s-camaro-hes-owned-since-16/ via IFTTT