#raw agent salary

[thatbanditqueen]

Come Hell or Come Sundown

A Charro! One-Shot

Summary: It is the summer of 1968 and Elvis finds himself in a New Hollywood, no more production code, just a ratings system with the promise of more sex and violence. This is good, because Elvis is in transition too! He is hot off the set of his TV special and ready to make a gritty western he can be proud of. Things are going well, he's making friends on location in Arizona, but then first they cut some of the violence, and now he's not so sure there is going to be any sex scenes in this movie. What's next, are they going to make him sing to his horse?

Inspired by the cut nude bath scene and the notes in Donna Lewis' diary that there were originally sex scenes scripted in Charro!

A response to the writing prompt: "Cowboy Elvis"

Warnings: References to past sexual harassment, minor drug use implied and kissing.

WC: 13.4K

Thanks to my lovely writing support group @vintageshanny @ellie-24 @be-my-ally @lookingforrainbows @from-memphis-with-love @missmaywemeetagain @shakerattlescroll @peskybedtime and to @whositmcwhatsit for alpha-ing most of this. It is been a crazy two months, I won't go into it, but if you are still reading my stuff let me know it.

July 29, 1968

Apacheland Arizona

Ina leaned against the back side of the sound stage listening to the cactus wren sing their sunrise melody for the desert. Off in the brush she saw a lizard scurry away. It was early, but the air was already beginning to heat up and hung there thick with promise. She took a sip of her coffee, savoring the light, sweet taste, her heart full of hopeful anticipation for the sweet day ahead. 

She ran her fingers down over her blouse, enjoying the smooth empty feeling underneath where round flesh had been a month ago. 

This picture had been the answer to her prayers, a sign that she could still land a part as the love interest role. It was a role she knew well, one she had been playing for ten years in vehicles designed to showcase male stars: John Wayne, Paul Newman, Jerry Lewis, and now Elvis. Ina rarely got a leading role in a picture focused on a couple or a strong female character, but she accepted it was still a good salary and it kept her busy on and off between modeling gigs.

Lately, however, the on and off had been more off, and her agent, Mickey, had started talking about auditioning for roles as older sisters, aunts, and even, gasp, mothers.

But then she got this and bam! She had knocked over her phone with excitement as Mickey  described this project as a “modern, gritty western.”  She’d even agreed to the nudity, accepting her agent’s advice that this was going to open up even more doors now that the production code was gone and the film industry had a new rating system that allowed for mature content.

The first American western with a sex scene. That’s how Chuck, this director, had pitched his script in their first meeting, while also assuring her it would be tasteful and artistic and mainly shot using her facial expressions. She hadn’t cared, signing anywhere they wanted if it meant staving off cinematic spinsterhood for as long as possible.

And then, after carefully examining every dimple in her bottom that night, Ina had launched into a month-long disciplined regimen of ballet classes, black beauties and one meal a day. Ina took a deep breath and inhaled the earthy, floral aroma of the Arizona desert, letting it fill her with confidence. Her tummy was svelte, her skin glowed with a healthy bronze tan, and she was ready to conquer the shoot ahead. She had a feeling about this picture. A good one. 

Hollywood was buzzing about the TV special Elvis had just finished shooting. Apparently it was raw and gritty and unvarnished, just like the script for this film. And Chuck, her director, was the king of the westerns, who had been promoting Charro! in the trade press as Peckinpah meets Leone with more sex appeal and heart. 

Ina looked out at the orange glow of the desert sky at sunrise one last time as she stomped out her cigarette butt and murmured to herself with hushed excitement.

“What a glorious start to a glorious day.”

She headed back inside and made her way around the back of the set where she bumped into Elvis’ stunt double and friend, Jerry. Ina grinned, she couldn’t help it, Jerry’s serious eyes and rugged shoulders made her heart skip a beat. 

“That was some party last night, huh?” 

Jerry looked down, his low chuckle heavy with the weight of words unspoken as they both reflected on the prior evening. Ina was sure she saw an echo of her own desire in the warmth dancing behind Jerry’s blue eyes.

“You should talk, Sandy Koufax. Charlie’s grateful he can still see.”

Ina gulped, covering her mouth.. “ Oh no! Is he really hurt? I felt so bad, I was aiming for his stomach.” Ina said, twirling her hair. “Although I didn’t feel nearly as bad after watching Elvis go after Alan with the whole bucket, intentionally, over and over. He really took it to the next level.”

“Oh, that’s just how the bossman lets off steam.”

“That’s one way to put it. Say, where is the old steam engine, anyway?”

“He just went out front to get some dirt on his clothes.”

Ina raised her eyebrow. 

“He wants to make sure he has that real cowboy look.”

“Huh, Elvis Strasberg. Who knew?” 

Ina thought of Elvis out rolling around in the dirt and tried not to giggle. This got harder and harder as she looked into Jerry’s eyes, which were also twinkling with amusement.

In a moment of vulnerability Ina decided to let down her guard and step closer, trailing her fingers over Jerry’s upper arm. His muscle flinched slightly under her hand and it made her feel a little flight of butterflies in her tummy. 

“Too bad,” she murmured in what she hoped was a sexy, flirtatious voice.  “I was beginning to hope maybe you’d have to step in for him today.”

Jerry’s eyes widened for a split second, as he ran his hand through his hair. “Uh, well, as far as I know his scenes today aren’t dangerous at all.”

“That’s what you think.” Ina smiled, walking backwards for a few steps to enjoy the slight blush coloring Jerry’s scruffy cheeks.

She couldn’t be sure, but she felt there was a spark between them, and it made her feel young and giddy. Fifteen years of having her body and self worth surveyed and scrutinized and picked apart had left Ina unsure of her seduction abilities. First it had been photographers and advertising executives, then producers and directors had joined the throng out to shatter her confidence. For some women, the brutality of the business helped them create a calloused, impenetrable outer shell and distorted sense of self worth. For Ina, it had done the opposite, and she frowned as she felt the familiar knot of insecurity tighten in her stomach and vowed not let her self doubt stop her from having fun this time. No, before the end of this shoot she’d get Jerry alone and find out if he was as quiet and soft spoken in bed as he was on set.

Twenty minutes later, Ina was still smiling to herself when she slunk into a chair in make-up and pulled her thick, terry cotton robe tighter around her body. 

“Look at you,” Bertie gushed as she toyed with Ina’s long, brown hair. “Excited for the scenes today?”

Ina paused and looked at herself in the mirror, letting out a nervous sigh. 

“As ready as I’ll ever be.” 

She awkwardly smiled up at Bertie, and told herself to relax even as her shoulders inadvertently rolled upward and she tugged at the hem of her robe.

“You know five, even three years ago, you would kiss, passionately, then the camera would pan to the bedside table and come back into focus with you smoking. But now, Blow Up, Bonnie & Clyde, the new rating system. It’s a whole new ball game out there. I’m not sure - “

“Oh, you’re gonna be fine.”

Ina looked down and studied the top of her cleavage, she felt strangely ambivalent about the nudity and the sex scenes they were shooting. She was proud that they wanted her to do them, it bolstered her self esteem and made her feel longed for and desired, special. But she couldn’t shake that nagging feeling deep down that she would get on set, bare it all and then have the director and DP exchange hushed whispers before pulling her off and recasting her role. She met her own gaze again in the mirror and tried to squelch her self doubt.

“I know, I know, and it’s all very tasteful. I trust Chuck. Still, I’m the one wearing a see-through robe. All Elvis has to do is take off his cowboy hat before he carries me to the bed. He might be shirtless in the second scene, but for the most part all we’ll see is a little bit of his ear.”

Bertie nodded into big rounds of hair she was smoothing over with oil and pinning into place with bobby pins lodged at the side of her mouth.

“Yeah, well, with most guys I’d be fine just seeing the ear, cuz women’s bodies are just more beautiful. But with Elvis, I kinda wished they’d have him nude too, you know?” She clicked her tongue and winked at Ina in the mirror,

“You should get Betty Friedan on that, it would really be a movement for sex equality. Though I bet he’d give you a private show if you asked him, Bertie. He’s making his way through the crew, two at a time I hear.”

Bertie wiggled her eyebrows into the mirror.

“Yeah, I heard about that, two of the pretty Mexican extras, right? They can have him, I just want to look at him. I don’t think I’d survive if he touched me.” She flipped her long red hair over her shoulder and bit her lip. “I don’t know how you are going to make love to him all day.”

“Oh, well, when it’s work, you sort of detach yourself. I mean, yes, Elvis is very handsome, but he doesn’t really send me, you know? You should have seen him last night with his guys. Like a pack of wild animals.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, I think Jerry is the only one who has ever opened a book, or doesn’t eat with his hands.”

Ina tried not to move as she watched Bertha pin another round hair piece in place. 

“The stunt double? He sure has that silent type thing going for him.” Bertie squinted her eyes at Ina as she stuck a few more pins in. “Ahhhh, let me guess, that’s the type you go for. Over Elvis. Are you telling me that you wouldn’t, you know, play patty cake with Elvis if he made the move? I thought he always dated his leading lady, maybe those extras are just the appetizer before the main dish..”

Ina sat up, admiring the tower of rolled hair Bertie had constructed on top of her head. Satisfied, she leveled Bertie with a friendly but stern look.

“Things can get sticky when you bed your co-star. And giving in just encourages them. You shoulda seen Jerry Lewis trailing me around off set like a creep. like I owed it to him.” 

Ina grimaced, remembering Lewis’ sweaty brow as he had pushed her against the wall of her dressing room and promised that she’d like it, that she didn’t know what she was missing. She shuddered, thinking of him and all the others: the photographers who’d grinded into her as they straddled over her during a photo shoot. The producers who had invited her to an audition and then cornered her alone. She felt sick to her stomach and reached out for the random half drunk bottle of Coke on the vanity in front of her to wash away the bad taste in her mouth.

“You ok, Miss Balin?”

“Please Bertie, call me Ina. After that party last night I think we’re all on a first name basis.”

“Ha, yeah, I guess.” She turned Ina around to finish her make up. “You know, I think you might be the only woman here who doesn’t want to sleep with Elvis.”

“Thank god Elvis seems to be somewhat of a gentleman, because I’m not looking to be another notch on his belt, I’ve worked too hard to stay in this business without a casting couch reputation, and I plan to keep it that way. Plus, with all the bed hopping that happens on location, and then having to run scenes together if things get, you know, weird. Better to keep things professional between us.”

“On the other hand, a lonely stunt man...”

Ina winked, she could feel the giddy excitement bubble up just thinking of Jerry. She tried to stifle it and stay aloof as she spoke.

“A month is a long time, even a lonely stuntman deserves some company.”

A cough interrupted their giggles and the women turned to see Elvis leaning against the doorway, one hand on his belt. He squinted his eyes, looking at them with exaggerated suspicion as he wiped his hand over his forehead leaving a dark streak of dirt above his brow.

“Uh huh, and just what’d I stumble into here, huh? You two look like you are up ta no good, boy, I tell ya what.”

Perfectly lined smoky eyes sat below Elvis’ dirty forehead and more dirt billowed off his trousers as he strode toward the two women, his hands hanging off the top of his corduroy trousers. Bertie shot Ina a cautious glance in the mirror that warned her not to laugh, even as  the sides of her lips seemed to hold back a chuckle.

“I’ve seen that look before Iny Niny.” Elvis said. “Right about the moment ya took aim and fired at poor Charlie Hodge, square the eyes.”

“I really didn’t mean to hurt him! Really.” Something about Elvis’ easy charm made it impossible not to smile broadly. “I - we - we’re not up to anything, you. Just chit chat. I was saying how I almost didn’t recognize you when I got here yesterday. On account of that beard you got, Presley.”

“I almost don’t recognize myself, honey.” He paused and looked in the mirror, taking a step closer as he rubbed the dirt into his forehead more. “That’s probably a good thing, maybe this picture actually has a chance to be something.”

Ina sat up as Bertie dusted her with a last round of hair spray and swiveled her chair around to face him. 

“Oh, now don’t say that, there’s a reason you’re the star here. I love your movies.”

Ina may not have actually seen them all, but she knew of Elvis’ desire to be in more serious dramas. It was a common topic of conversation in Hollywood when his name came up. Ok, well, one of the common topics. Maybe not as common as his reputation for fucking his costars, she mused to herself, but still, as someone who had even less clout to be picky about projects, she sympathized with that ever present double bind of needing the money, not wanting to be seen as difficult, and yet, also yearning for more creative fulfillment.

Their eyes met and he nodded to himself, pursing his lips, as if he were reading her mind,

“Huh, so you're the one.” He grinned and took his cowboy hat off, running his hand through his hair as he tried to fill the awkward silence. “Well, sorry but I can’t issue you a refund, Iner Niner. All I can promise is that this ‘un will be better than some of the stinkers, I reckon.”

Ina smiled big, thinking of the desert sunrise this morning, all the good omens. “I don’t know if I would ever describe an Elvis film as a stinker. But I do have a good feeling about this film.” 

Elvis scratched his beard, a naughty blush lighting up his cheeks as he took in the very sheer negligee peeking out from under her white terry cloth robe. 

“Huh, feeling better and better the more I look- I mean listen to you, INy”

Ina felt a chill up her spine as she looked into Elvis’ dancing eyes, lingering on his face with newfound appreciation. There was something about the way the stubbly beard he had grown out for this role accentuated his jawline and made him seem more rugged, more handsome than he had looked when he played the polished romantic lead in his previous films. She felt a flutter of something unfamiliar stir in her belly; she had never been gaga over Elvis before. 

And you are not now, she told herself, it’s just the characters and the scenes you know you are shooting today. Besides, he flirts with everyone, why he’d been flirting with you and every woman in the bar last night even when he had one or two extras on his lap. 

Elvis arched his eyebrow, and Ina pulled her robe closer with a nervous laugh.

“Yeah, I think you’re gonna be seeing a lot more of me today.” She chuckled. “I was just telling Bertie I remembered when all I had to do to film a sex scene was lead a cowboy into my wigwam, and let the camera cut to smoke coming out of the top. We left the rest to the audience’s imagination.”

“Yeah, I think I remember that one.” Elvis whistled as he plopped into the make-up chair next to her.  “Well, don’t worry, we’re only gotta pretend to make love with an audience of a hundred or so crew members watching, so no pressure.”

They laughed nervously, and then one of the production assistants peered around the door and called to Ina that the DP was ready to work out the lighting for her fully nude bath scene. She stood and gave Elvis a friendly pat, smiling inwardly as she looked over her shoulder to see Bertie trying to wipe the dirt off his forehead. 

“See you out there in the ring, Presley.”

“Ok,” he smiled.

Ina studied him for another beat, wondering if the way his beard framed his lips made them look even bigger and more luscious, but she couldn’t be sure.

Striding from the building with wardrobe and dressings back to the soundstage, Ina considered how Elvis had managed to meet and completely defy her expectations. She had never seen him at awards shows, premieres or parties, nor ran into him around town or at the studio canteens. Indeed,he had a reputation for keeping to himself in Hollywood. All she knew was the second hand information she got from people who had worked with him and the Hollywood rumor mill. There were so many contradictory descriptions of him that no, she had not known what to expect when she arrived in Arizona and discovered an Elvis she barely recognized under the scruffy beard he’d grown.

When Chuck, the director, had brought her over to introduce them, he had been shy and sweet, sheepishly sticking out his hand with an affected deep “Hullo, I’m Elvis Presley.” But then by the end of the rehearsals yesterday they had become more comfortable with each other. Something about kissing Elvis inbetween jokes she knew he was making to make her feel at ease had broken the ice between them. And he had started in with the nicknames almost immediately, helping to bring her into the camaraderie that had been established with the crew before her arrival. 

The run through yesterday had gone well, all jokes aside, and he had shown himself to be respectful and kind, never pushing or trying anything when they were in each other's arms. It’s probably good that he’s sleeping with some of the extras, Ina thought to herself. That way there would be no pent up sexual expectations and she could just focus on being a professional and perhaps even friends with Elvis. 

Yes, she could be friends with him. Ina had only been in Apacheland for a little over 24 hours, but she could tell from Elvis’ warmth that they had established a solid rapport and chemistry for their roles. She felt as safe as she could with him as she readied herself for her first nude role on film.

“Today is going to be a good day,” Ina repeated to herself as she opened the door and entered the sound stage.

Ina was walking along the corridor behind the set when she heard Jerry’s voice on the other side of the plywood and hurried to catch him and flirt a little more. But then he said her name and she stopped, listening, as she realized he was speaking with one of Elvis’ other friends. It sounded like Charlie.

“I saw y’all. Why, she had her hands all over you, ya big stud. You really ain’t gonna try to bury the hatchet in that briar patch?”

“Oh, you know how Crazy can be. All I did was apologize to Alma and Flor for blocking the doorway last night and he ‘bout split in two. I ain’t about to try no funny business with his leading lady.”

“But you heard him call her Groucho, said he could barely stand to kiss her with that mustache above her lip. Said she was so manly, you could almost mistake her for one a the cowboy extras in drag. Like a goddamn drag queen who forgot to shave, is what he said.”

Ina felt the blood drain from her face and she began to tremble, tracing her fingers above her smooth upper lip, the one she diligently waxed every two weeks. They might as well have punched her in the gut with a steel two by four. She could almost taste something metallic at the back of her throat, where a lump formed.Tears threatened to spill from her eyes, and it took all her willpower to push them back as she stood there paralyzed while Jerry and Charlie chatted away.

“Aw, well he was off his rocker, she isn’t nearly as bad as that dog from continuity he had in his room at NBC, you know, with the big knockers?”

“Nah, I think In-ahhs pretty cute myself. If she’d been pawing my chest I’d be on that like white on rice, man.”

“Heard you like drag queens, Hodges.”

“Aw naw man, see, now that ain’t fair. Sides, that’s Lamar.”

The busy sound of the crew talking and moving around the sound stage echoed up into the lights with Charlie and Jerry’s laughter, but Ina could hardly hear anything except the pounding of her heart through her whole body. Air. She needed air. Ina hurried out a side door, her mind was racing and there was no way she could stomach the idea of filming a sex scene with Elvis now. Jerry and Charlie’s words had fractured the fragile veneer of confidence she had spent the last month building up. Dieting, ballet classes, early nights, slathering her face in cold cream and plunging it in ice first thing in the morning, staying away from alcohol and ice cream. She had worked so hard to get to a place where she had been able to look in the mirror and tell herself she could do this. Now all her self doubt had returned tenfold. 

Facing the desert, she lit a cigarette and muttered under her breath, her voice cracking as tears rolled down her cheeks.

“Oh god oh god, why did I take this role? Why do I embarrass myself again and again?”

Ina pressed her hand to her throat as she sucked in deeply, willing the nicotine to steady her shaking body. She longed to run off, get in her car, and maybe drive to that bar down the road Bertie had told her about, the one where all the baseball players went. 

The very idea of male attention was like a salve, and it helped her slow her breath as she slumped against the warm, concrete wall of the sound stage and looked out at the desert, focusing on the hills in the distance.

It was like looking out at a completely different view than she had faced that morning. The land was now  desolate and unforgiving in the July heat, and the jagged peaks of Superstition mountain loomed like a giant, dark fiery sentinel in the sky. Her chest rose and fell with each inhale and exhale of smoke, her fingers trembled as she tried to quell the turmoil churning inside her. 

Just when she was sure she couldn’t walk back inside, she smelled a hint of sage in the dust, it filled her nostrils with renewed energy. The wind whispered in her ear that she was stronger than she knew, she had trudged harder paths than this.  She could put one foot in front of the other.

The door next to her exploded open and there was the fresh face of the young, blonde PA who had called to her in wardrobe.

“Oh, there you are Miss Balin, we’re ready for you.”

Ina sucked in another drag of her cigarette and took a deep breath. She could do this. Elvis and his entourage were a bunch of childish idiots. Fuck them. 

True to his promise, the director, Chuck, kept the set closed for the nude bath scene Ina was shooting first. It was just him, the cinematographer, his assistant, the boom operator, and three female PAs. One to hold the clap board and two to help Ina in and out of the tub. The scene was blocked so the camera only captured her naked from behind with the side of her breast visible as she donned a sheer blue robe lined with black lace. They would run it from the top, then Chuck would run over and tell her how stunning she was and ask for another take as she shivered. It took eleven takes in all before he and the DP were content they had the footage they needed.  

Ina reclined in her chair, trying to warm up during the short break before the next scene. She was rehearsing the dialogue as people trickled in to shoot her first love scene with Elvis, and she suddenly became paranoid that other crew members had heard Jerry and Charlie’s story about Elvis’ calling her a drag queen. She sat up and looked around. Suddenly every hushed whisper was about her, every glance her way was filled with pity. She gripped the side of her chair and told herself to get it to-fucking-gether. 

The next scene was meant to occur directly after the bath, when her character, Tracy, discovers Elvis’ character, Jess, rummaging around in her bedroom looking for his gun. They would argue, then kiss, then argue more before he carried her to the bed. After that, he would remove her robe and begin to kiss her neck, stop and then put his hat on the bedpost, before the camera moved in for an extreme close up of her face as they made love.

Then they would break the set and set up for the second sex scene that was meant to take place at the end of the film when Jess has been victorious against the band of outlaws and takes her to Mexico with him to start a new life across the border. 

Ina squeezed her hand, using her thumb as a metronome as she said her lines. “I must look new to you - toooo you  - I MUST look NEW to YOU now.” She had these little games she had learned in acting class to vary the rhythm and emphasis over and over until she was comfortable in the dialogue, in the character, and it rolled off her tongue naturally, without having to think about it.

Elvis' voice rang out high above the buzz of the crew and all the words she had ever known fell out of her head. She felt her sphincter clench up tightly instinctively as if on cue at the sound of his chuckle, and a frown formed on her lips. The air was suddenly ripe with the smell of sweaty bodies and stale coffee and cigarette smoke.

Looking over her shoulder, just the sight of him surrounded by his flunkies made Ina’s stomach sour. A spark of defiance bloomed in her belly at his smug face and she longed now to walk up to Elvis and slap him sharply across the face before telling him off for being such a rotten two-faced charming bastard. But instead she popped another black beauty to fight off the hunger she had sensed growing in her belly and steeled herself to give the performance of a lifetime.

Elvis passed by her chair as she stood, a crooked grin pushing the apples of his cheeks up above his beard. 

“Well, might as well get it over with.”

His despondency made Ina bristle. She was completely incapable of stopping the prickly voice that sprang out from her throat.

“We don’t have to shoot these love scenes.”

Elvis paused in his stride toward the set and looked back at Ina, his brow furrowed for a moment before he grinned again, bigger and wider.

“Huh? Course I want to shoot ‘em, love scenes are my specialty.”

Ina narrowed her eyes at his stupid, smirking expression as he glanced around at his friends as they whistled and chimed in with a chorus of stupid affirmations. 

“Uh huh.”

“That’s right.“

“On and off the set” 

“Well, you seem anxious to, what was it, get this over with?” She said cooly, leveling him with a glare. “So then it must be me. Maybe we could just cut them from the film altogether. CHUUCK?”

Elvis’ face began to scrunch up in a frown as Ina’s voice rang out like a knife, cutting through the chaos of a live shoot. The sound stage had been buzzing with activity as the crew readied the set, but now everyone had stopped what they were doing and turned to stare at the two leads.

Elvis’ eyes zoned in on Ina and his face clouded with concern as his hands tightened against his body in clenched fists.

“Now see here - “ then he paused and took a deep breath, smiling big. 

That broad, smooth, movie star beam. 

“Aw, now I think we got are wires crossed someplace.That’s jus my ole stage fright talkin’, honey. Gets me ev’ry time like a sonabitch. Didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Iny Tiny, come get over here. I feel very honored to work with you. I been sayin’ all week, haven’t I, Chuck? That I couldn’t wait for Ina to get here, class up this joint’?”

Ina looked at where Chuck stood, hands at his hips as he nodded, a terrified grin plastered on his face.

“That’s right, that’s right. Why, that's what we’ve all been saying, Ina, we couldn’t wait for our Tracy to get here.”

Chuck dug a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it over his big, balding head as he spoke slowly, as if talking to a spooked horse. Ina

“I think I know what’s going on, my dear.”

Chuck looked over at Elvis and then put his arm around Ina, guiding her toward her mark. 

“You’re nervous. We’ve just spent two hours during the bath scene. And this sort of  - um - delicate, shall we say, yes, delicate feminine performance is new to you, isn't it?”

“Well, yes, I suppose, but I - “ 

Chuck put his finger to Ina’s mouth

“Say no more, my dear. It’s natural to feel vulnerable in this situation. But let me assure you, everything is being shot in the most artistic technique possible. And you, well, just look at you, huh?” He spun her around in the center of the set. 

“Ina, you are a dream. My living, breathing Renoir painting. And I want you to know, that was my inspiration for your room here. The colors, the outfits, a Parisian chorus line meets the Old West. The colors, the costumes, they are meant to evoke the Belle Epoch, you know? You are wearing the same outfits Degas’ dancers wore, did you know that?”

“Uh huh, you mean if they wore anything?” Ina added in a clipped tone.

“See, and that’s exactly it! The original work of art is, of course, the beauty of the female form.”

“Cain’t argue with that.” Elvis smirked, but Ina shot him a withering look which threw him off again and once more he was frowning and searching her face.

Chuck noticed none of this and kept talking. 

“And you are an exemplary example of the female form, a perfect specimen of a woman.”

“Well, I assure you I am no drag queen.”

Elvis coughed nervously, his hands clenched in fists at his side. The quick, sharp look he shot Joe did not escape Ina’s notice and she knew then that he had said the things Jerry and Charlie had been laughing about. She narrowed her glare at him, telegraphing her contempt as he stuttered and tried to regain control of the conversation.

“No - ah-uh -er -  siree, honey, you’re the real deal, got more class than the rest of this outfit combined. Why, I reckon I’m more nervous ‘bout this scene than you are.”

Chuck nodded vigorously.

“Yes, we are all nervous shooting something that is, as I said, delicate like this. And your character is unsure in this scene, she loves Jess, but is torn, because she’s worried he is still the bandit she sent away.  Channel your feelings into the scene and let’s make beautiful artwork here today.”

Ina rolled her eyes. “Ok, ok, I’m ok. Like he said, let’s just get it over with already.” 

Elvis grinned as he walked around the set door to his mark. 

“That’s the spirit, Iny Beany.”

Chuck yelled action, directing them through the scene as the cameras rolled.

“You see him rooting through your stuff, and you think of how long it's been, how he left you without a word. You hate him because you love him, but you wish you didn’t and you are trying to keep it all bottled up. Beautiful. Indifferent. That’s it Ina, that cool, icy glare, it’s perfect.”

It was not hard for Ina to muster a cool, icy glare for Elvis as he looked down at her. Every time they started, one of the PAs would come over and spray her body and chest with water for continuity with the bath scene that was just supposed to have occurred in the storyline.

In the third run through, she couldn’t help herself when Elvis’ foot knocked into hers. She thought of that guilty grimace she saw move across his face at the words “drag queen” and she stepped on his foot. Hard. 

“Perfect! Perfect Ina, you’re nailing it!” Chuck called out from where he was watching the monitor.

“Nailing me is more like it,” Elvis said, jumping back, a hurt pout on his face. Then he reached out and stroked the side of her shoulder. 

“Say, you sure you ok? You’re not sore at me for something, are you? It’d be better if we just clear the air. If I said something this morning, or did something in passing, honey, I’m sorry. But you gotta tell me.”

Ina looked in his big blue eyes, searching hers, seeking a connection. She glanced off behind him, at the brocade pink wall paper. The air smelled of bath water, sweat and cheap aftershave. Chuck was right, she thought, this could be a cheap Parisian brothel.

“I assure you, I am fine.” Ina forced her mouth into a tight smile. “Just watch where you’re going and we’ll be fine.”

He squinted his eyes at her, but seemed to decide against whatever it was he originally wanted to say, and stepped back with his arms up in surrender. “Okay. Alright. Whatever you say, Iny,  my mistake. Let’s try again, I bet we’ll get it right somehow.”

They went through the whole scene three times, up until the part where Jess lifts Tracy up and carries her to the bed. Elvis’ eyes narrowed as he stepped toward her, uttering his lines in a stern, serious voice. But when he picked her up and hoisted her in the air, she heard Charlie’s obnoxious laughter in the background and their words from earlier began to play through her head again on a loop.

The shrill sound of his laugh sent a sharp bolt of pain down the center of her head and suddenly she felt as if ginger ale was bubbling up on to the top of her brain. She wasn’t sure if she could hold it together anymore. 

There was the taste of bile again at the back of her throat. She swallowed, running through all of the tools she had learned in the Actor’s Studio such as telling herself she was Tracy and trying to channel her anger into the tension between Tracy and Jess. She was, after all, supposed to be fighting Jess’ advances at first and pushing him off before giving in. But she could barely look at Elvis and instinctively jerked back when he placed her on the bed and began to move his fingers over her sternum. 

Her head throbbed and she could feel more tears welling up. She had to get out of there and take a little break, so she cried out, “CUT!”

Elvis jumped back, a panicked look on his face.

“Did I hurt you, Iny Beany? Wanna do it again, just to practice, from the mark by the bed?”

“No.,” she hissed under her breath, pushing him away. Maybe she didn’t need a break, maybe they could just skip this scene altogether.

“No, no no. I’m sorry, I just can’t do it. Chuck, do we really need a full love scene? We’re not making Belle du Jour here.”

Elvis had his hands on his hips, a stricken look on his face while Ina stood, straightening what was left of her dignity and snapping her fingers for the PAs to bring her thicker robe. 

“Ina, darling, we just went through this.” Chuck’s  transatlantic accent was getting thicker and higher-pitched the more he spoke. “And I hate to bring this up, you know I do, my dear, but it's in your contract.”

“Contract or not, I can’t do it. I just can’t.”

“My dear, what can I do to make you comfortable?” Chuck pleaded.

“Nothing. I would rather make love to a rattlesnake than to that man.”

Elvis stood taller, his fingers balled up into fists as his leveled, polished voice began to transform into a Southern snarl. 

“Yeah, uh huh, well I had about enough of this bull shit. Rattlesnake, huh? That can be arranged, honey, why, I’ll get it myself.”

“Well, I bet it will be small and limp, just like you.”

He staggered back when she hurled those words at him, flustered and mumbling as he looked around the set to see who had been in earshot and heard her yell out the words ‘small and limp’ at him. The answer, of course, was everybody. Because everybody in the crew was watching.

They had, of course, originally gathered around because Charro! was making film history with today’s shoot. 

All the popular European films being released had sex scenes, James Bond was having sex. Several recent westerns had initially included nude scenes, but studios had cut them at the last minute. 

But 1968 marked the dawning of a new era. The MPAA had a new rating system. Bonnie & Clyde had proven last year that audiences not only had a stomach for violence, but wanted sex. And like Bonnie, they wanted it much more than they got it. And so this picture, and about a dozen others in production, were all racing to give it to them.

Even if the plan was to pan to a hat and then just Ina’s face, Charro! was going to make history. 

Or rather, it would have made history. Instead, the entire crew watched in horror as Ina threw up her hands and stomped off in protest while Elvis coughed loudly, took a deep breath, and then announced to the crowd

“Don’t worry, folks, we’re gonna get Arthur Rankin in here and he’s gonna recreate these scenes with claymation. Make a little Elvis the Rednosed Cowboy.” His voice rang out with forced cheerfulness, followed by a ripple of nervous laughter that spread through the soundstage. 

“Boy, I tell ya what, now that would be a historical milestone, huh Chuck? Bet audiences would pay double ta see a stop motion love scene.”

The director nodded as Elvis patted him on the shoulder with a forced, playful candor and then strode out of the studio followed by his entourage.

Elvis’ motel room was dark, save for the television, an ever present companion, and the table lamp that cast shadows against the wall outlining Alma’s silhouette. The light captured every curve of her body as it lay sideways across the bed next to him. His fingers tapped absentmindedly over her bronze thigh, but his mind was otherwise occupied and failed to register the coquettish look she was giving him as she pouted and ran her hand over his arm.

He was thinking of his first film and the time had asked his co-star, Richard Egan, the secret to good acting.

“You. You already got it kid, in spades. Why do you think they renamed this picture after your song? Just be you, unaffected, unadulterated. You’re a natural.”

But what good had natural ability been without opportunity? He’d had such high hopes back then, hopes to be in real movies about real people, stories with an edge that packed a punch. And for a time, it seemed like he was. Dramas in which the singing was a plausible part of the premise.

But somewhere along the way the edge had been sanded off and his plans had all gone wrong. He’d gotten himself typecast as the type of character he hated, a romantic lead who broke into song during an appointment with the IRS. Those roles were fine for Rock Hudson, but not for him. He knew he could do better. Better than dumb musicals, better than all this. 

He had those same high hopes for this picture when he first read the script.

“Guess I should be happy this western’s actually being filmed in the goddamn desert and not in some California shrub valley,” he mumbled, balling his hands into fists as he spoke.

“What was that, baby?”

Elvis looked up at the woman lying next to him, he had forgotten she was even there. Her warm body next to him had become just another amenity of the room, like the mini fridge or the Gideons Bible. The puzzled look on her young, naive face reminded him how truly alone he was. 

Oblivious to Elvis' existential crisis, Alma decided maybe he needed some prompting after their kisses had dissolved into still silence. She moved her hand to Elvis’ thigh, stopping when he flinched and jumped up almost as if he were trying to escape her touch. She frowned, then flipped her hair as she adjusted and lay prone over the polyester orange bedspread, fashioning a come hither look on her face. She could tell he was rattled by the onset fight and was trying everything in her bag of tricks to laugh it off and redirect him to something better. Her. 

“Ha, small and limp. That bitch has no idea what she’s missing. It took all my self control not to cry out in front of everyone that you have an anaconda in your pants, Elvis.”

A grimace passed over his face, and Elvis started to button up his shirt and mumble to the floor.

“Don’t, baby - just-” He softened his voice at the rejection he saw in her eyes. “Honey, I can’t stand it when women do that.”

“What, what am I doing wrong?” Alma sat, her face falling as she scooted back against the pillows.

Elvis pulled on the red bandana around his neck and paced the other way, looking back at her as he tucked his shirt back into his clean, brown corduroy pants. His shoulders stiffened.

“Insincerity. I can’t, I jus hate it when women go overboard trying to puff up my ego. I’ve had my share of lovers, no one ever complained. That’s not the point.”

“It isn’t?”

“Nah, honey. What that bitch is really saying is she don’t take me serious, I’m not man enough for this fucking role, for her New York high society standards. Fat lot of good any a that did her, thinks I don’t know she’s been in what, five pictures? Jerry Lewis? Try twenty five, sister. Give me a goddamn break. She’s wound so tight, she could start a fight in an empty house, I tell ya what, boy, and that’s the god honest truth.”

He began to pace the room, wringing his hands over as he walked.

“This un’ is gonna be different, Chuck said, more raw, Chuck said, more real.” His voice trilled between a high falsetto and a deep growl. “Then first they cut the violence, and now this bullshit. What’s next? Bet they gonna try and have me sing to my fuckin horse!” 

He punched the wall. “Fucking cowboys don’t fucking sing!” He screamed to the ceiling, then began to pace again, his hands now balled up in fists.

He turned and looked at Alma. “You ever see John Wayne sing? Gary Cooper? ‘Fore they walked over to the OK corral to shoot the bad guy?”

He punched the wall again and then turned and tried to compose himself when he saw Alma flinch.

“Ok ok ok ok.” He took a deep breath. “I  - uh - this picture’s got me all keyed up.”

“Want some grass? Flor has some killer grass, make you forget today even happened.”

“Nah, honey -  now, good lil girls like you should know better than to mess with that stuff.”

Alma pulled her hand through her hair and struck what she thought was a glamorous, come hither pose.

“Want me to give you a blow job? Help you relax?”

Elvis frowned. “Man, like a goddamn cat in heat and twice as willing. Don’t you think of nothing else?” 

Alma sat up and started to put her clothes on, her voice as low as her hopes for the evening.

“You’re the one who invited me up here and had me undress while you watched. I’m just trying to do what I thought you wanted.”

“Well stop tryin’ to think, you’ll wear yourself out.” 

Alma grabbed her shoes and opened the door, finding Joe on the other side with one hand about to knock and another holding up a tray of food in his hands.

“Oh, hey -”

“Hey yourself.” Alma said with a huff and a very aggressive hair flip, her long brown tresses smacking Joe’s cheek.

Elvis shrugged as Joe looked after Alma, whistling to himself. 

“Man o man, EP, you got the prettiest girl here. What’s up her butt?”

“I don’t know - Something up with the chicks on this picture, man, stuck up and crazier than a sack full a possums.”

Elvis looked at himself in the mirror hanging on the wall across from the bed as Joe mumbled about how many crazy women they had met on their journeys, half-listening as he stroked his beard and reassured himself that he looked just as fit as Clint Eastwood. And more handsome. He winked at himself and straightened his belt buckle, then looked over at Joe.

“Now hold on a second, son, jus’ what in high heaven is that?”

Elvis lifted his hands from his left hip and pointed at the cheeseburgers and fries Joe had laid out on the table, fixing him with a dark glare.

“You said dinner, EP, brought you dinner.”

“Tryin’ to get me back in the 200 club like you? Don’t think I haven’t noticed you been auditioning for the part of lardass of the group.”

“But last night - I thought you - 

“I thought, I  thought - you ain’t thought shit, and that’s the problem. I’m supposed to be shirtless on film tomorrow and you fixin’ to get me fat as a boarding house cat.”

Joe frowned, furrowing his brow for the split second it took him to plaster a smile back on and nod. Now he understood what was up Alma’s ass, and what was about to be up his too if he didn’t turn this around.

“Right, boss, my mistake, tell me what you want and I’ll go get it.”

“What I want, what I want. Ain’t nobody cares what I want, and that’s the goddamn problem. Save a whole lotta time and money if you just thought to ask first.” 

Elvis put his hands on his waist and cried out an inaudible growl to the ceiling. 

“Jus… just bring me a caesar salad. A big one.”

Joe hurried out and Elvis went over to cover up the burgers, but the smell was too tempting, so instead he sat down and began to devour them one after another, mumbling to himself in between bites.

“Goddamit, if I look fat tomorrow it’ll be Joe’s goddamn fuckin’ fault.”

There was a knock at the door, and he yelled for whoever it was to come in as he went to wash up.

“Joe told me to come get rid of the - uh - food tray.”

Charlie’s voice trailed off as Elvis emerged from the bathroom and followed Charlie’s eyes to the table and the plates that were empty, save for a handful of cold fries.

“Well, have at it - wait.”

Elvis stepped back and looked around, grabbing one of the guns from the night stand and put it in his belt. He had all this nervous energy running up and down his body, he needed to just get out of this room, out of this motel, get as far as possible to just breathe some fresh air and think. He snapped his fingers at Charlie.

“Grab Gee Gee, we’re going for a drive.”

Charlie’s face softened into a big goofy, excited grin. “Okee dokee artichokee, where we heading?”

“Anywhere that ain’t this goddamn motel, numb nuts.” Elvis started to head down the exterior stairs, running his hand over the warm, wrought iron bannister. He looked back over his shoulder and clapped.

“Bring the cigars, too, then meet me at the car. Chop chop.” 

A renewed sense of purpose guided his steps as Elvis walked down the corridor of motel rooms that lined the pool,and he ran his hands up and down the front of his shirt. He mulled over what he wanted to do that didn’t involve eating more hamburgers. Or eating anything. 

When he looked up, he realized he had stopped outside Ina’s room. There, through the curtain, he could see the back of her through the curtain where she sat on her bed, talking to someone on the phone. 

“No no no, Mickey, of course I understand. Yes, well, I don’t know, I think you have to have been on top to get back on top, but your meaning is not lost on me. I get it. Yes. Opportunity of a lifetime. I know. Elvis Elvis.  Don’t worry. I’m gonna go make it right, right now.”

She looked up at the ceiling and wiped the sides of her eyes, summoning a mask of quiet cheer Elvis recognized well as she clutched the phone tight. 

“Yes, no  - I’ll be a good girl, Mickey. I promise. I know, I know, no bread.”

He was transfixed, enjoying the power he felt watching her unaware, and pressed closer to the glass, careful not to draw attention to himself. A small front section of her long, flowing hair fell out from behind her ears and she absentmindedly began to twist it nervously. She looked like a fragile little girl, like a beautiful flower someone had stepped on. The sight of her anxiously talking away pulled on his heart strings.

He shook his head. What the fuck had happened? Why was she so angry at him?  He'd played the part of the funny, affable host from the minute they met, introducing her to the crew and having Gee Gee get her screwdrivers as they all yukked it up in the bar. He'd about busted his gut when she lobbed a handful of ice at Charlie and knocked him over the back of the couch. 

He stood there watching as her big brown eyes lit up while she told her agent how nice the desert was. He almost believed her. Goddamit, why couldn’t she just be a good girl and get along? She’d been sweet and flirty in make-up and then what, an hour or two later, her claws were out and she’d aimed them at him. 

He whistled and thought about the fickleness of women as he turned to walk the long way around the pool. 

Thirty seconds later he heard the thud of a door opening followed by Ina’s voice calling out for him.

Elvis stopped, his hands moved out as if to balance himself as he swiveled around, slowly, to face her. A sense of dread settling in his stomach. Up above him, he saw Charlie and Gee Gee making their way down the staircase, while to his left a group of crew members were heading for the pool. The smell of chlorine wafted through the open air hallway.

He cautiously trudged back toward the doorway to where Ina stood, each footfall a slow thump of his cowboy boot against the hard concrete sidewalk. 

“Oh good, I’m glad I caught you, Elvis.” She swallowed, there it was again, that cheerful mask settling over her face as she exhaled a nervous laugh. “Could I talk to you for a minute?”

Elvis straightened up, looking around again before pulling on the red bandana at his throat. He definitely didn’t want to be alone with Ina. She was unpredictable and he couldn’t stand the awkward energy that flickered between them. However, he also didn’t want another public scene and he could already hear their names being whispered by some of the crew at the pool.

So he did what he always did with an audience, he mustered a wide, beaming smile and spoke in a nonchalant, cool voice:

“Hey honey, you ain’t gotta worry bout me, I’m all good. You get your beauty sleep and I’ll see you tamarra onset an - “

Ina’s lip trembled, she looked like she might fall apart at any moment.

Shit he thought, unable to stop himself from walking over to her and stroking her shoulder.

“There there, been a rough day. This desert heat, I tell ya what, baby, does things to ya head. Now go ahead and listen to ol’ Elvis -”

Ina put her hand over his where it squeezed her shoulder.

“Could we just talk - just for a moment?” Her eyes pleaded with him. “Alone. I -  I won’t take much time, I just - I’d like to apologize and clear the air if you’ll let me. Otherwise, otherwise I won’t be able to sleep and then you’ll be making love to a haggard old zombie first thing in the morning.”

Elvis' eyes softened and he looked around once more before nodding. “Ok.” 

As soon as the door closed he was an obedient puppy letting her lead him by the hand to sit on the bed, where he took off his cowboy hat and toyed with it in his lap. 

Ina stepped away, backing toward the dresser where she lifted herself to sit next to the TV, but then changed her mind. She felt like a ship adrift, unmoored and out of her comfort zone. Sitting and swinging her legs about was too casual, she decided, so she stood back up and swept the hair that had fallen out of her high ponytail behind her ears.

Just make it short, sweet, earnest, she reminded herself, you’re no stranger to eating humble pie. Indeed, Ina reflected on the number of times she had apologized unnecessarily just to smooth things over with her mother or sister, a producer, an ad executive. This was one of the first times she felt she actually had behaved badly and now she was lost for words.  If only there was a script for life. 

“I - um - thanks for seeing me - I - I - I.”

All the words left her head when she found Elvis’ dark blue eyes studying her beneath his long lashes. He was rotating his cowboy hat in his lap. The smell of the heavy floral cleaning products the maids had used lingered in the air, stronger now that the air conditioner cycled on with a heaving, mechanic whomp. She swallowed again, and counted to ten, trying to ignore the way the back of her neck seemed to prickle as a chill went down her spine. She steadied herself, forcing her eyes to connect with his. 

“Elvis, I am so very sorry. I mean it. I -  I - I - ’ve never lost it before onset, it is so unprofessional I can barely stand to look at myself.” 

She felt a release of tension as she watched his hands relax. He took a deep breath and stroked his beard.

“You don’t have to worry about me, Ina,  I been making two to three pictures a year since 1933. I can roll with the punches, ain’t nothing I can’t handle. ThoughI gotta admit you threw me off back there.” 

The register of his voice changed from rougher to softer as he looked down at the floor and then back up at Ina’s face. 

“Be honest, did I do anything to offend you or make you mad at me?”

His softer side was almost harder to withstand and his eyes seemed to penetrate her very being, seeking out the secrets she kept hidden in her heart. She shook it off with another nervous chuckle,

“No, no, this was 100% me. I’ve been so nervous about these love making shoots. Chuck’s is telling everyone back in Hollywood this is the first the first film with a sex scene - “

“Isn’t it?”

“Well, I mean, since the production code, maybe, but they’ve shot plenty of them. It’s just that the studio always pulls out at that last minute -”

Ina covered her mouth and gasped when she watched Elvis’ lip curl up at her words but said nothing. He didn’t need to. The glint in his eye said it all and when he waggled his eyebrows up and down Ina laughed out. She was grateful for the levity, it seemed to crack through Elvis’ cool bravada and made this conversation easier.

“Stop, you know what I mean.” 

She blushed, and looked out her window, watching as the silhouettes of two people walked by. It was getting dark, she needed to wrap it up. 

“But yes, today I was nervous, I haven’t been eating or sleeping much, but I promise you - “ 

Her voice wavered as she turned back to find his steady gaze. 

“ - um - no more fights, no more difficult behavior. I am so grateful for this opportunity to work with you and I just hope you can forgive me for my lapse of judgment.”

Elvis stood up, his fingers were once more busy fiddling with his cowboy hat and he spoke in a low whisper.

“Ok. I forgive you. So long as you really ain’t mad at me.”

The breath hitched in Ina’s throat when Elvis looked up at her, biting his lip in a way that made the top jut out a bit as he searched her face once more, as if she were a puzzle he needed to solve.

She gulped. “I - uh - I - no, I just need some sleep - I “

“Honey I can’t help feeling like you’re holding something back here, and if we’re gonna get along, I need you to be completely honest with me.”

Ina looked away. Damn him, he was like one of those fortune tellers back on Coney Island who she had believed as a kid. As a teenager she had learned the truth: they had no supernatural talents, they were just extremely gifted at reading their marks. Like Elvis was reading her right now.

“Oh, I may have been upset about something but it doesn’t matter, it was silly and stupid, like me. I - I was wrong, and I apologize. I’ll happily apologize to you in front of the whole crew tomorrow if you want. Really. If that is what it will take to make amends with you Mr. Presley.”

Elvis clenched his fists. 

“I don’t give a damn about a public apology or the crew or any of that. But I can’t bear it when a woman is sore at me and won’t say why. Ticks me off to no end.”

Tension hung in the air, and Ina sighed. Recounting the whole ordeal made it seem so juvenile now, though it still stung.

“I - I am, I heard some of your friends talking. They -”

“Which friends?”

“Jerry, Jerry and Charlie. I told you, it’s like high school and I can’t believe I let them upset me.”

“Well now you started, better lay it all out for me. Go on.”

“I - I well, I heard them laughing about how you had said I looked like - like drag queen that needed a shave. And they were calling me Groucho and saying I had big feet.”

Ina let her shoulders drop and forced a smile, but she couldn’t stop her hand from pulling on the necklace at her chest.

“Ha, actually now that I say it is kind of funny, you see I - um - I usually have a great sense of humor. Any of my friends would tell you. Some of them are drag queens, actually. They’d probably feel more slighted being compared to me. Your boys just, they  - they just caught me right before I was filming my first nude scene and well - “ 

Ina’s voice trailed off as she watched Elvis get up and pace towards the bathroom growling. 

“Those fucking nitwits, pulling a stunt like that and gummin up tha works -” he turned and his face fell at the pained look on Ina’s face. “You know I never said nothin’ like that.” 

Ina quickly shook her head, summoning the calm veneer that usually came so easy to her. She immediately regretted telling Elvis, now she felt as raw as she did after she had a full waxing appointment at the salon.

In her heart she knew he was lying, she knew from the way he had grimaced, albeit it briefly, on set when she’d said she wasn’t a drag queen. 

Yet there was something earnest and pleading in his eyes that made her question her own grip on reality. This got worse when he bit his lip and looked up at the ceiling, all vulnerable and apologetic, as if searching for the right thing to say. It made her stomach flip up into her throat. Then looked at her, his eyes wide with a newfound warmth as he sought a connection from across the room, as if he were seeing her for the first time. Ina knew right then that she needed to get him out before anything changed.

“Oh, yeah, sure, I know. And, well  it doesn’t matter anyway, right? I mean it’s none of my business what you think of me - like I said, I knew some knockout drag queens, so it’s a compliment really. Ha so - “

Elvis stode over as she spoke and grabbed her hands, his thumb delicately soothing the top of her knuckles. The spicy smell of his aftershave entered her nostrils as he spoke in a low, soft voice.

“Here’s the thing now, Iny Beany, I just need you to know though that I didn’t say none a that. Ya right, them boys still in high school, and they been playing pranks like we’re still in high school. I guar-an-TEE you they knew the assistant had just called for you, and they set that whole thing up to ruin my first sex scene shoot. Have half a mind to fire 'em. They need to learn some goddamn respect."

Ina found herself transfixed, unable to step away or pull her hands from his. She looked him over. He somehow looked like a cowboy who had let a bunch of drag queens dress him. 

He wore a fresh pair of dark green slacks, a thick leather belt and a long sleeve white linen shirt. Over his hands sat several jewel-encrusted rings matched by the two necklaces that lay underneath his red bandana, tied much like a silk ascot through a cravat. His foundation make-up was impeccable, and his hair was styled in a high quiff perfectly slicked back above his forehead. It made him look cavalier and polished at the same time. 

Then there was the way his smokey eye makeup was now smudged around his waterline made him look even more ruggedly attractive. Sweat glistened underneath his beard, almost like glitter.  There, in the dim light of her motel room he looked like the prettiest cowboy she had ever seen.

“Know what I mean?”

Ina shook her head, realizing she’d gotten caught up staring at his scruffy chin and lost track of what he was saying.

“Um, I’m sorry, what did you say?”

A sly grin tweaked up the corners of his lips.

“I said, you cain’t listen to a word outta those boys' moufs, ‘specially Charlie. His elevator don’t go all the way up, if you take my meaning.” 

Elvis stepped in closer to her, cautiously, waiting to see if she stepped away or flinched.  But it was all Ina could do to just keep breathing, each stroke of Elvis' thumb over her hand now sent a bolt of electricity down her chest.

“How I could I say something like that about you, Iny? Ya so beautiful, I could barely look at you too long before turning into mush.”

Ina rolled her eyes, but she could feel her own resolve waver as his hand moved to her hips and a blush crept over her face.

“Stop, you don’t have to lie to me.”

He shook his head, his nose tickling over hers.

“How can you say that Iny Meany? You have no idea, no idea what you do to me.”

Ina’s heart skipped a beat when she felt his thumb at the indent of her girdle. The air between their bodies seemed to crackle now with heat, and he pulled her closer, nuzzling his nose over hers. A tear rolled down her face and he lifted his finger to catch it.

“Ssshhhh, s’ok baby, s’ok. I got you. And I promise ain’t no one gonna talk like that about you again.”

He pressed his cheek against hers and she pushed back,willfully embracing the harsh scruff of his beard. She could feel herself teetering on the precipice of something dangerous. If she crossed this line with Elvis it would change the dynamic of their work together, it would change her reputation. She had vowed to herself she wouldn’t be susceptible to his charms, him, of all people. He was so obvious, so cliche. And yet here she was, nuzzling her nose back along his.

Emboldened, Elvis gently pressed his lips to her skin, peppering her jaw with light kisses. Ina eagerly moved to give him access to her neck and he instantly took the hint and suckled at her nape, pausing to grin as she moaned out a high, breathy unladylike moan.

Her chest heaved as their lips met and the faint aroma of mustard filled Ina’s nostrils.

“Oh my god, you taste like hamburger.”

Elvis chuckled, unsure of himself for a moment. Ina enjoyed watching him become self conscious.

"I’m sorry baby, you want me to go brush my teeth?”

She shook her head, pulling him closer and speaking between kisses.

 “No - mmmm - it’s amazing — mmm - haven’t had a mmamburger in months.”

Elvis let out a nervous laugh. 

“Ok, ya kook, I’ll be sure and eat hamburger every day.” 

"Ha! I'm gonna hold you to that, Presley."

His fingers brushed over her thighs as he lifted her onto the dresser and Ina trembled.

“You ok? Just say the word, and I’ll stop.”

She shook her head, stopping was the last thing on her mind. Though she suddenly thought of crew members at the pool who’d seen her call Elvis into her room to apologize.

“I wonder what everyone outside thinks we’re doing in here.”

“Hmmm, whatever they’re thinking, I guarantee it's not nearly as good as what I’m thinking.”

“Elvis - I - I don’t want to have sex.”

He arched his eyebrow.

“Whoo now, who said anything about sex?”

“I mean, of course I want to have sex with you.”

He stoked her thighs, a faint smile on his face.

"Relax Iny, we’re just having some fun. Don’t overthink it. We ain’t gonna do nothin’ you don’t wanna do.”

Ina released a nervous giggle. “OK, you see, I um, well, actually the thing is that I sometimes break out when I - I do it.”

“Really? You know that Max Factor stuff will cover anything.”

“Ha! I know - I just think tonight, no matter what I say later, we should just keep it simple.”

“I gotcha Iny girl. Sweet. Simple.”

Ina’s pulse quickened at the way he leaned into her chest, his hands worked up from her thighs. She felt like a giddy teenager as she smiled gleefully into his face, her right hand fiddling with his ear.

“You have a great earlobe, you know that? I can see why you’re a movie star.”

“Huh. That right? Cuz of my earlobe?”

He leaned in and kissed the top of her nose.

“Oh yeah, it's very photogenic. I see why this is the only part of you in frame during the sex scene. I mean the rest could as ugly as Boris Karloff -” Ina waved her other hand in front of Elvis face. “But this lobe, right here, it’s a million dollar lobe.” 

Elvis chuckled. “That right?”

“Uh huh. I hope you have it insured - oh god.” 

Elvis' right hand moved over her breast, flicking her nipple. 

“Hmm, well, maybe I should stop whateva this is and go call the colonel, get him right on that, uh huh.”

He moved as if to leave, smirking at how quickly Ina pulled him back into her arms.

“Don’t go.” 

She squeaked out, voice cracking.

“You sure? You don want me to fetch a rattlesnake to kiss instead? See if you like making love to his earlobe?”

“Stop.” 

Ina swatted him, straightening the line of his bandana. 

“Please don’t repeat what I said earlier, I was tired and nervous and upset and I hate myself for that whole scene. I really am sorry, Presley.”

“I know, baby, I know. I'm just teasing.”

He pressed his lip son hers once more and Ina rocked forward into him, following the slow, tender rhythm of Elvis’ body. She felt like a buoy, still unmoored and adrift in the ocean, but now she didn’t want to come into shore. She wanted to stay like this, swaying back and forth to the ebb of Elvis’ tide,  delighting in the wet smack of Elvis’ lips every time they smashed into hers. Again and again.

Her whole body buzzed when his fingers trailed down to her hem and absentmindedly began to work their way under her dress. He had notched himself between her legs, fitting snugly against her knee caps. She made a small squeak of surrender as she opened her hips to bring him in closer. The taste of onions and pepsi and meat filled her mouth as he took her with the tip of his tongue, slowly owning and consuming her completely. 

Elvis moaned into her and deepened their kiss.

Ina lost herself in the sweet supple cushion of his lips. His hands moved over her bosom,  fanning the spark in her belly into a flame. Then his fingers moved under her skirt and feathered over the warmth of her panties. Ina felt the bulge begin to swell at her thigh and then Elvis jerked back.

Every cell in her body cried out to pull him back into her embrace and then until he was inside her and they were melting into each other. Vows and boundaries be damned. Thank god he had some sense of self control.

“Whooa, whoa whoa.” He muttered slowly, almost painfully.

Ina nodded, licking her lips as she met his eyes.

“You ok?’

“Yeah, you?”

Elvis took a deep breath. “Course, honey, I - I - I just think we better put the breaks on for tonight.”

“Yeah, sure, no. Totally. This was exactly what I wanted.”

He wiped his mouth, shooting her an impish smile, like he knew exactly what she wanted.

“Guess I should clear out, huh?”

“You don’t have to leave, I mean, I enjoy your company. Is what I mean. But if you are looking to get lucky, then yes, I suppose you should find one of those extras you've been playing patty cake with.”

“Huh, okay, well I'll be on my way then. Catch ya later.” 

But he didn't move, just stayed there hovering above her. His forehead leaning into her as he pushed in even closer, pressing the air out of her lungs.

“You do have a reputation to keep up. I understand.”

"Mhmmmm."

Elvis shook his head and went to sit on her bed, up against the head board.

“Look, I'm willing to put my reputation aside, jus for one night. I promise, no funny business. Clothes stay on.” 

He smirked.

“Unless you’d feel more comfortable without your dress on.”

Ina hesitantly moved to perch next to him. She could still taste the mix of Elvis’ salty sweat on her tongue as she wiped her raw lips.

“That’s awfully accommodating of you, Presley.”

“What can I say, Iny Beany, I’m an open minded guy. Always say, if a girl wants to take her own dress off, who am I to say she can’t?’

“Well, if it’s all the same to you I think I’ll keep mine on. For now. There’s still time for you to make an exit.”

“Aw, now shut up with that exit junk already and get in here.”

Elvis pulled Ina down into the curve of his arm, and she sighed, embracing the cozy warmth of his body and rubbing her hand over the trim stretch of his stomach as he spoke to her in a soft, friendly voice.

"Alright now, I want you to tell me everything there is to know about you. How did  the hell you end up in a god forsaken Elvis Presley picture, huh?”

“Hmmm, poor life choices? But Elvis, I thought you liked this film? I thought you were the one who made it happen.”

“Aw, well, sure, the first script was pret-tee fantastic. It was gritty and had guts, ya know, but then these damn producers been wittlin' it away to nothing, man. Chuck cornered me this afternoon once you'd left and started in on nagging me to sing the title song.”

“You don’t want to sing? Just the title? it would be so good.”

“So you like the way I sing, Iny?” 

Elvis’ eyes danced but then he remembered what they were talking about and was solemn once more. 

“Yeah, naw man, that would set it up as another Presley musical, the next they’ll be trying to get me to sing to my horse. No self respecting cowboy sings, you ever heard of a singing cowboy? Never seen John Wayne sing.”

“OK, sure, but what about Roy Rogers, Gene Autry, Hank Williams was the Driftless Cowboy, right?” Elvis leveled her with his blue eyes and pinched her side. 

“Hmmm - guess you got me there. But it’s 1968, I’d like to see Gene Autry sell a movie in today’s economy. My boy my boy. Today it ain't no joke. Can you see him in The Good, The Bad and The Ugly?”

Ina tilted her head in agreement back onto Elvis' shoulder, she felt the same way she did sinking into a pair of comfy, worn-in slippers, and founding his chest as relaxed and welcoming,

“Trust me, I get it, I’m just grateful I don’t have to do a rape scene in this film.”

He squeezed Ina tighter, kissing her cheek.

“Yeah, me too, honey, real grateful. Boy. Don’t know why anyone want ta see that.”

 “The old west ain’t what it used to be.”

“You can say that again.”

Elvis' arms closed around Ina tighter as they murmured the hours away, comparing diet pills, LA taco huts and favorite movies while their limbs easily intertwined into one another. The closest he got to undressing her was the moment around midnight when he stealthily undid her pony tail and played with her hair while she pretended to be miffed. Then he kissed her forehead and told her he had done her a favor, because it looked better this way, and she should just be a good girl and do as he said. Which got him a light slap and a big “HA!”

They spent the next hour enjoying a playful, cozy respite together in the dim orange glow of Ina’s hotel room. It was well past one in the morning when he gave her a parting kiss that turned into a series of parting kisses before he snuck back up to his suite. 

Shooting began the next day at 7 a.m., and you could have knocked the director, Chuck, over with a long, pink gaudy boa feather as he found Elvis and Ina in good spirits ready to work. They exchanged playful barbs and their onscreen chemistry sizzled when they went through each sequence, pausing between takes for Ina’s chest to be spritzed while another batch of assistants dabbed Elvis’ forehead with dry unused coffee filters. The industry’s secret weapon against perspiration.

Elvis found Ina in her dressing room during a break and their lips met with stifled giggles as they kissed now with away from the ever present surveillance of the crew, laughing and talked into each other’s mouths.

“Oh my god, now you taste like bacon. I swear Elvis, you’re gonna have me off my diet and then I’ll swell up like a balloon and then Charro! will be a very different film about a cowboy and his pregnant saloon madam.”

“Baby, you gotta let yourself have one hamburger now and then, trust me now, I been doing this longer than you. It will help the cravings.”

Ina kept her mouth shut as she calculated that she had been in this business just as long as he had, since she began modelling at 15 in 1955.

“Ok. I give in. I have no willpower around you. I will have one hamburger this week.”

“Tonight, honey. Imma have you for dinner.” He winked. “Over for dinner, I mean.  I’ll have one a my guys come get you and bring you up to my room later. ”

“Ok. Dinner. Tonight. Your room.” She grinned as she chased the taste of bacon on his tongue and the salty scent of his body as it enveloped her until a knock on the door brought them back into their roles on set as Jess and Tracy.

That night Elvis went through his usual routine after a shoot, which began with a shower to wash off the desert and the dust and the sweat of the set off his body. He took extra care in how he dressed, selecting a light blue dress shirt and a white suit, capping off his outfit with a small black porkpie hat. He doused himself in aftershave and the smell of Old Spice smacked Joe in the face when he came in to set up Elvis’ calls to Memphis and LA.

Once Elvis hung up his phone he leaned over and banged on the wall for Joe to come back in.

“You want me to get that sweet little Mexican gal boss? Alma?”

“Did I tell you to do that? That gal ain’t nothing but a big phony, naw man. Wait for me to tell you what to do, son."

Elvis stood up and went to slather more after shave on, exchanging one ring for another at his toiletry bag.

"Go down stairs and invite Ina up to join me for dinner.”

Joe let out a loud cackle. “What, Groucho?”

Elvis paused, taking in the look of disbelief on Joe’s face. His heart sank and he rubbed his hands over one another as he remembered how they all were howling at his jokes about her a few nights ago. 

He hadn’t even really meant it. He’d just said those things after watching Alma and Flor look at Ina with envy during rehearsals. All he had wanted was to put them at ease, make them understand he was attracted to them. Saying what he thought they wanted to hear. But then the boys had chimed in and now they all thought she was a dog. 

Elvis forced a low chuckle and ran his hand through his hair.

“Nah, man, not Ina - I meant Flor. Goddamn it,  this picture messin’ with my head.”  

He swallowed hard, thinking of the way Ina's beautiful big brown eyes looking up at him. They their legs had seemed to fit together, the way conversation had seemed to flow effortlessly. He smiled to himself thinking of the way she had blushed when he snuck into her dressing room. How her breasts had felt beneath as they ran their love scenes. He pushed away the pang of guilt for now and tamped down his desire to hold her once more. Maybe he'd sneak down to her room later if he could get away. But for now he had an image uphold. These guys looked up to him, and his control over them as their boss rested on the how cool they thought he was.

He snapped his finger at Joe. 

“But I don’t wanna hear y’all calling her that no more. Tell the others. Like I said this morning, y’all shitwads talking like that is what got me in trouble in the first place.”

And with that, Elvis spent another night surrounded by people and utterly alone.

I don't really think I did Ina justice here, look at how great they looked together. We were robbed of their sex scenes.....

taglist:

@i-r-i-n-a-a @ab4eva @eliseinmemphis @richardslady121 @artlover8992 @ashtag6887 @karolshungary @j-v-9-2 @waiting4brucewayne2adoptme @notstefaniepresley @dollette02 @dkayfixates @everythingelvispresley @velvetelvis @moonchild-daniella @lialocklear @obsessionisthecure @louisejoy86 @arrolyn1114 @literally-just-elvis-fics

i don't really have a taglist for one-shots and I apologize if you don't want to be tagged, just let me know and I'll take you off.

[saintsenara]

At what age do you think Snape joined the death eaters? And when do you think he got the dark mark? (it's hard for me to believe that all death eaters got them right when they joined, but if you think differently, I'm open to reading why)

thank you very much for the ask, anon!

i'm currently writing a big "snape's experience in the first war" fic - scylla and charybdis [don't be put off by the pairing! it's really all about politics! don't be put off by that either!] - so this is, unsurprisingly, a question i've spent a lot of time musing on.

the timeline i'm laying out in the fic is that snape's first contact with the death eaters as an organisation comes in the summer of 1976 - when he's just finished his fifth year of school and is, since his relationship with lily has only just broken down, raw and angry and unmoored, and primed for radicalisation.

it's clear in canon that the death eaters were recruiting openly at hogwarts during the 1970s, especially within slytherin, by exploiting not only the social networks caused by all the pureblood families being interrelated, but also the social ties which existed between recent graduates and those still at school. lucius malfoy - for example - is heavily implied in the text to be one of voldemort's primary sources of new recruits, and to be the person responsible for putting snape in touch with the dark lord specifically.

[it's also clear that this is an element of voldemort's recruitment process that the order are spectacularly naive about - the reaction to harry's belief in half-blood prince that draco malfoy has been marked as a death eater is a case in point. slughorn's complete unwillingness to do anything about the death eaters looking for fresh meat is a key part of this - but dumbledore's failure to intervene is also significant.]

i decided, then, to have lucius tell voldemort - whose operation would need potions for all sorts of reasons [poisons, healing potions for terrorists who can't just rock up at st mungo's, illicit brews for the black market] - that he knows a potions prodigy who, as he's uncovered through his network of contacts at hogwarts, is sympathetic to the dark lord's cause. voldemort then begins a long, multi-stage vetting process to test if this is true - snape is instructed to make a potion of dubious legality and deliver it to one of voldemort's agents, who reveals the criminal use it will be put to. when snape doesn't contact the aurors, the process repeats, with him gradually moving up a chain of command - from a low-level petty criminal [voldemort's version of mundungus fletcher] up to the dark lord's spymaster general, augustus rookwood. having passed the test with rookwood, he is then permitted to meet voldemort.

my view is that snape spends the final two years of his schooling being subjected to a voldemort-sanctioned charm offensive, the most important part of which is the dark lord promising him a salaried job as a potioneer once he leaves hogwarts.

i say this a lot, but it's clear in canon that snape was particularly susceptible to voldemort's propaganda because he believed [not incorrectly!] that the dark lord would offer him opportunities which his blood status and class background would ordinarily deny him - and i think we can assume that the wizarding version of academic science [which - as i've said here, in a longer meta on snape's training, seems to retain its early-modern structure, and therefore rely on personal wealth rather than institutional settings] is one of the things he believed he had no chance of pursuing.

and so, when snape graduates in 1978, i think he becomes a death eater full time - working for voldemort on a stipend paid by the malfoys.

i don't think that he's given the dark mark until he's been in voldemort's service for several months. but i don't think he's kept from it for too long either.

[not least because snape's entire relationship with the mark is hubristic - he's so ashamed of it in the second war because he was so proud of it in the first - which means that he has to be given it before voldemort settles on harry as the child referred to in the prophecy in the latter half of 1980.]

my view is that voldemort doesn't have a set timeline for granting the mark, but instead offers it to his followers whenever he thinks it will be most useful [to him] for him to do so.

draco malfoy, for example, is clearly marked the second voldemort decides to use him to kill dumbledore - and voldemort does this as a way of emphasising the utter disregard in which he holds lucius malfoy following the prophecy debacle, through taking ownership of [and quite literally branding] his son. i think regulus is given the mark similarly quickly after joining the death eaters - not because voldemort has any particular interest in him but because, as i've said in this meta on him, regulus is evidently accepted into voldemort's inner circle because he's related to other prominent death eaters, and so giving him the mark is a way for voldemort to keep these death eaters [bellatrix in particular] happy.

on the other hand, i am certain that peter pettigrew doesn't receive his dark mark until 1994, after he's restored voldemort to the semi-body which allows him to be moved, brought him to england, and helped him contact barty crouch jr. and put the plan to kidnap harry in motion - and i also think that voldemort dangled the promise of the mark [without ever seriously intending to grant it] over him in 1980-81, as a way of keeping him loyal, deferential, and eager to please. he's implied to be doing something similar with fenrir greyback in deathly hallows.

voldemort, master manipulator that he is, will have been very well aware that snape's fundamental pathology is a desire for respect. the teen snape wants to be recognised for his brilliance - and, indeed, his superiority - by those who currently consider him beneath them. he wants james and sirius to cower before him because they recognise that he's fundamentally better than them - despite their wealth and their social position - and he wants lily to choose him over james because she recognises this too.

and so i think snape would regard a quick dark mark as a participation trophy - something someone like regulus gets because they're a toff, but not something which indicates that voldemort holds the bearer in high esteem. but he's also not going to be prepared to wait for years with the mark dangling over his head like a carrot, because he'd regard that as voldemort being perfectly willing to give the posh the mark just for being rich and annoying, but not being willing to recognise that he's the superior recruit.

what he'd want - and what, i presume, he gets - is to be rewarded with the mark for doing something specific for voldemort which he thought displayed his brilliance perfectly, and which voldemort was happy to indulge him in thinking.

and i have two suggestions for what that could be:

a. snape assists voldemort in the creation of the potion which guards the locket-horcrux [not, of course, knowing exactly what it would be used for], which adds another layer to his involvement in dumbledore's death [and - which is relevant in scylla and charybdis at least - also involves him in regulus']. b. voldemort gives him the mark for reporting the prophecy.

[messengersfolly]

There is no means to an end.

(a self-para for Malachi Howahkan. TW blood, gore, murder)

It's the endless drone of old fluorescent lights and the maniacal beeping of the fire alarm, low-battery. Everything ends, but it doesn't mean you know when.

And the annoyance will continue, and continue, and melt your mind away, until you put a stop to it.

It's with this thinking that Malachi Howahkan murders his wife with an axe in the back of their small Prairie-style Craftsman in mid-January.

His life has not been his own.

It has been Alice's, turned to dinner parties and board game nights. Stockings hung with care, two tiny tots, soccer practice, and the backyard grill. The ole ball and chain. "Can't live with him, can't live without him!" The baby showers, the anniversaries. A mini-van and a house with a foyer.

He works as an insurance agent. 9-5, casual Fridays, water cooler chatter and group synergy. "Workin' hard or hardly workin'?"

One day it's easy to just take the axe and swing it.

Easier than the time it takes to type in his client's yearly salary and figure out the percentage still owed.

Easier than picking up Bobby from violin.

Prison is not easy. It's threats and shouting and shoving. Too much time alone to think about every aspect of his wife's dead body, the blood coming from the chunks he cut out of her. Officers with too much power, men with too much anger. And boredom.

When he gets a letter, he assumes it's one of his kids. But it reads of a man infatuated. Questions about his life and how it fell apart, and more importantly, how he can piece it back together for Malachi.

This meager connection is a life raft in a tsunami. Mal holds to it like a man possessed. Until his fingers go raw and bloodied, he'll cling to every letter sent.

Polaroids on sun-bleached film, chopped brown hair tied with an old rubber band. Tales from the outside.

It's back and forth for years.

One day, the folded letter Malachi sends has a piece of twine tied into a little loop perfect for a finger enclosed inside. He asks him to marry him, and promises a better ring when he's out.

It's years later that Malachi Howahkan walks out of the New York State Penitentiary in the dirty clothes he walked in with over 20 years ago. Released early on good behavior. Cash that Mik had sent for snacks from the commissary buys a bus ticket straight to his husband's apartment.

Once he's there, he never leaves.

[micahpittard]

Unlocking the Magic Behind Talent Agencies - A Closer Look with Micah Pittard

In the dazzling universe of showbiz, talent agencies like New Standard Branding (NSB), led by veteran branding agent Micah Pittard, are the unheralded champions orchestrating the spectacle. These agencies, with visionaries like Pittard at the helm, discover, cultivate, and catapult talent into the limelight. But what exactly is the role of a talent agency such as NSB? How does it navigate and adapt in this vibrant and ceaselessly transforming industry?

Talent agencies, in essence, are talent magnets. They actively seek out individuals with raw talent, charisma, and potential star power. Scouts attend talent showcases, auditions, and even browse social media platforms to identify promising prospects. Once they spot someone with the "it" factor, they offer them representation.

Representing talent is a multifaceted endeavor. It begins with an initial meeting between the talent and the agency. During this stage, the agency evaluates the individual's marketability, skillset, and potential for growth. Contracts are negotiated, outlining the terms of the partnership. Talent agencies then craft a personalized strategy to develop and promote their clients' careers.

A talent agency like New Standard Branding (NSB), under the dynamic leadership of Micah Pittard, is principally tasked with procuring viable employment prospects for their clients. With a far-reaching network of industry affiliates encompassing casting directors, producers, and executives from advertising, Pittard and his team at NSB are instrumental in securing distinguished roles in films, television series, commercials, and other rewarding undertakings.

Talent agencies take on the responsibility of marketing their clients effectively. This includes creating and maintaining a compelling portfolio, a dynamic resume, and a strong online presence. Additionally, agencies work on branding and image management to ensure that their clients project the right image to resonate with audiences and industry decision-makers.

Negotiating contracts is a crucial aspect of what talent agencies do. Whether it's negotiating salaries for acting roles, appearance fees for endorsements, or the terms of recording contracts for musicians, agencies advocate for their clients' best interests. They aim to secure the most favorable terms, ensuring their clients receive fair compensation for their work.

In addition to securing job opportunities and negotiating contracts, talent agencies provide invaluable guidance and career advice. They help clients make strategic decisions about their careers, such as which projects to pursue and which to pass on. They offer insight into industry trends and help clients navigate the complex terrain of the entertainment world.

One of the most essential roles of talent agencies is talent development. They invest in their clients' growth by providing coaching, training, and resources to help them hone their skills and expand their repertoire. This includes acting classes, vocal coaching, dance training, and more. The goal is to continually elevate their clients' abilities and marketability.

Talent agencies often serve as a protective shield for their clients. They shield them from unscrupulous industry practices and help them avoid pitfalls that can derail their careers. This protective role extends to handling legal matters, ensuring that their clients' rights and interests are safeguarded in all contractual agreements.

Talent agencies, like Micah Pittard's New Standard Branding (NSB), expertly manage the intricate logistics of their clients' careers. They masterfully coordinate schedules, handle travel arrangements, and ensure that their clients, whether high-demand artists or burgeoning talents, are precisely where they need to be, exactly when they need to be there. This level of organization, a specialty of Pittard's NSB, is critical in the entertainment industry, particularly for high-profile clients who balance a multitude of projects and commitments.

Another integral function of talent agencies is talent promotion and publicity. They work tirelessly to raise their clients' profiles by securing media appearances, interviews, and magazine covers. Public relations efforts help keep their clients in the public eye and maintain their relevance.

Financial management is another vital aspect of what talent agencies do. They oversee their clients' finances, ensuring that income is managed wisely. This includes budgeting, investment advice, and tax planning. By taking care of these financial aspects, talent agencies help their clients build and maintain financial security.

Talent agencies are not only concerned with their clients' careers but also their well-being. They provide emotional support and counseling when needed, recognizing the unique challenges that come with fame and public scrutiny. Agencies often have a team of professionals, including therapists and wellness coaches, to address their clients' mental and emotional needs.

While talent agencies do charge a commission for their services, they are incentivized to maximize their clients' earnings. This means they are constantly seeking opportunities to increase their clients' income, which aligns their interests with those of their clients.

In recent years, the role of talent agencies has evolved in response to the changing landscape of the entertainment industry. The rise of digital media and social platforms has created new avenues for talent to gain exposure and monetize their content. Talent agencies have adapted to this shift by incorporating digital strategies into their services, helping clients navigate the complexities of online branding and content creation.

Talent agencies like New Standard Branding (NSB), with leaders such as Micah Pittard, are the unrecognized pillars in the realm of entertainment. They function as talent attractors, steering celebrities towards their destined prominence in the industry. Ranging from talent discovery and representation to career growth and financial supervision, agencies like NSB play a diverse role in molding the professional journey of artists and sports personalities. Their proficiency, network, and unyielding backing are indispensable components in the formula for triumph in the entertainment sector. Therefore, when you next witness your preferred actor on the cinema screen or listen to a top-rated song on the airwaves, be reminded that there's a talent agency like NSB, under the guidance of an accomplished individual like Micah Pittard, operating persistently behind the curtains to make it all possible.

[tanishasharmasblog]

Salary of Raw Agent

RAW stands for Research and Analysis Wing. A RAW agent is a member of the Research and Analysis Wing. It is an Indian foreign intelligence organisation that gathers foreign intelligence, combats terrorism and proliferation, advises Indian policymakers, and advances the country's foreign strategic interests.

The organization's headquarters (RAW) are in New Delhi, India. If you're looking for information on RAW Agent Salary, Pay Scale, and Allowances in India, you might already know "Who is a RAW agent?" "What is the role of a RAW agent?" and "How to Become a RAW Agent."

We will not bore you with mediocre information in this article; instead, we will discuss the Salary of a Raw Agent, Payscale, Allowances, and Other Perks Offered to Him/Her.

RAW Agency Designations

The raw agent salary in India per month will also vary depending on the designation and level on which the agent is posted. The designations at RAW Agency are based on his/her area of expertise as well as his/her prior experience and achievements in civil services.

RAW Agent Benefits and Allowance

In addition to the lucrative salary of a RAW agent, the candidate will be rewarded with various types of allowances and benefits.

You can find information about Raw Agent Salary, Payscale, and Allowances in India below. In addition to a lucrative salary package, an individual (RAW agent) receives other benefits and allowances from the Government of India.

As you may know, RAW Agents are supposed to work across or within the borders of India; however, there is a greater chance that he/she will have to relocate to another country, in which case all expenses will be borne solely by the government.........Read More

[kritiguptasblog]

Salary of Raw Agent

RAW Agent Benefits and Allowances: In addition to the lucrative salary of a RAW agent, the candidate will be rewarded with various types of allowances and benefits.

You can find information about raw agent salary in india per month, Payscale, and Allowances in India below. In addition to a lucrative salary package, an individual (RAW agent) receives other benefits and allowances from the Government of India.

As you may know, RAW Agents are supposed to work across or within the borders of India; however, there is a greater chance that he/she will have to relocate to another country, in which case all expenses will be borne solely by the government.

RAW Agency Designations

The raw agent salary in India per month will also vary depending on the designation and level on which the agent is posted. The designations at RAW Agency are based on his/her area of expertise as well as his/her prior experience and achievements in civil services.

RAW Career Opportunities - RAW Roles

RAW, like any other research and intelligence organisation, necessitates the services of stenographers, clerks, analysts, desk officers, administrative officers, and, most importantly, field officers.

However, the organisation neither conducts a direct recruitment process nor hires younger candidates. Reason? It is National Security! A lack of experience and proper management training can pose a serious human resource challenge, resulting in blunders such as data breaches and jeopardising the agency's overall functioning......Read More

[finiffy]

Another headcanon, but I don’t think Mikell became a foundation agent because it was expected of the family or wanting to follow in his parents’ footsteps or anything like that; it was because of money.

He was a high school dropout, still not even an adult yet, working 2-3 jobs and supplementing with shoplifting and whatever charity he could guilt out of their neighbours, and it was still just not enough to keep himself and three younger siblings afloat. Then he’s approached by the foundation cause he’s relatively fit and has a good handle on guns and with who his parents are it’s not considered a risk, and all he can find himself looking at in the paperwork is the salary amount. Claire is just old enough that he can get her into the youngest level of schooling if he fudges her paperwork a bit. If he can get his siblings up in the morning, send them off to school, and each has an after-school activity of some kind, that gives him 6-7 hours of time before he has to go pick them up and the foundation says they can work with that limitation.

What they don’t mention are the nightmares that start waking him up in a cold sweat, the way it gets harder to touch his siblings because he feels like he’ll taint them, the time Jack found him washing his hands over and over and over again at the sink at 2am in a trance until his skin was red raw and Mikell doesn’t even remember getting out of bed. But he can’t quit, because for the first time in a very very long time, all their bills are somewhat up to date, he was able to get clothing for his siblings that wasn’t repaired hand-me-downs, they finally can afford enough food that he doesn’t have to skip meals to make sure the others get enough to eat. So he stays quiet and toughs it out. Because, what other choice does he have?

Holy shit AAA. I think once Mikell started to be able to get money and able to buy better things for his siblings it felt like it a normal family but Jack of course knew something was up. They are getting way more expensive things than what Mikell could have afford even if he saved up for months. And the fact he sees Mikell's personality change so much and how jumpy he's become. Jack tried so many times asking where all of this money is coming from because it is terrifying him, Tj and Claire are happy about getting new things and so is Jack but not in the expense of his brother changing so much. He wants to stop Mikell from doing whatever he was doing to get all this money cause it was clearly hurting Mikell but it was the first time in their lives where they didn't have to eat scraps or steal or be huddled up together shivering to keep warm in the night. So he doesn't say anything.

Jack tries so hard to graduate as fast as he can, get a good job, be there to share the burden for Mikell so he could once in his life to just relax and to take care of himself instead of worrying about them

[itsheibai]

—byzantium

pairing: markren | rating: M | smut, angst, spy au | wc: 3.7k

Part 0 | Part 1 | Part 2

summary: “Wanna spend the night together, Huang?” “Hm? Like, with Chenle? Like a sleepover?” “Like, you and me.”

Sexual relationships between agents are not frowned upon. That’s true. But feelings? Feelings more than that of professional, perhaps casual friendship, between agents? Illegal.  Completely and truly illegal. 

warning(s): drunk sex, first time, mild language, description of physical injuries. 

.

“Come on. I’m not dismissing you until you finish your drink.”

“But sir,-“

“Oh come on. As you said yourself, you owe me your life. The least you could do is drop this sir nonsense around me.” 

Chenle looked at him in a desperate move to seek an ally who would back him up on this debriefing turned unauthorised hazing session, but Renjun could only give him a shrug. ‘He’s right, you know,’ he mouthed. It was successful in forcing Chenle to let out a defeated sigh. 

“But… Mark,” Chenle’s voice hitched at the end and Renjun would’ve burst into an endeared giggle if Mark didn’t give his thigh a sharp pinch, “we’re not supposed to indulge in intoxicating substances during a mission.”

Mark’s eyes widened, as if challenging Chenle to also open his eyes and observe more clearly the evidence lying in front of him on the corner table of a fancy hotel bar.

A fancy, empty hotel bar that they broke into because Mark insisted for them to find a new environment to do their first debriefing as a team. 

“What do you think these glasses held? Water?” 

“I’ve been holding on to a prayer that it was coca cola.” 

It was unfair that Mark allowed himself to let out a free laugh while underneath the table he used the heel of his boots to dig into Renjun’s shin, when he must’ve seen the sliver of a smirk flickering onto the corner of his mouth. 

Bad cop, good cop dynamic is fun and all. Renjun just found it unfair that they were doing it this way, especially after everything that's happened earlier in the day.

‘Chenle is my mentee,’ he coded a stealth message with a frantic tapping on Mark’s knee. ‘How dare you.’

‘Calm down.’ Mark responded. Not with a code, but only with a fleeting squeeze of Renjun’s fingers. No further elaboration needed. 

“Fair. I like your style, kid,” Mark huffed, before finally discarding his formal stance by leaning back into the plush backing of the corner booth they were all huddling on. He cocked his chin, and sent Chenle away from their brief meeting after throwing him the unopened can of coke that Renjun was planning to mix with the rest of his rum. 

Chenle shot one last thankful look at Renjun before shooting out of his stool so quickly he nearly sent it skidding across the parqueted floor. 

Lucky, that Chenle excused himself so hastily. Because not even three seconds later, Mark unravelled at his seams. Their newbie tech assistant hasn’t even exited the room and already he crumpled, like a balled tissue paper, onto Renjun’s shoulder. 

“It was so close.” Mark’s trembling sigh was hot against his neck, and to that Renjun’s hand shot up, without even him commanding it, to land protectively over his temple. “It was his first mission, Renjun, his first.”

An avoidable mistake. Them, not being able to command their injured limbs to move faster than humanly possible. A miscalculation on their enemy’s motives. 

Three slips. They were lucky it was only three. They were lucky their last second desperate effort to keep their mission from imploding in on itself worked. Four, and this mission would’ve been Chenle’s last. 

Mark’s smile was gone. His ease, his calm, his confidence, his… lies. All gone. Taking their place was lips scrunched and bitten to kingdom come, and tears. Streaming freely down his deathly pale face. 

Renjun didn’t need to see all that to know what was happening. He didn’t need to feel the warmth of Mark’s tears seeping into the sleeves of his shirt. Not even the nearly negligible shake of his shoulders, as he’s known it too well. They’ve gone through so many days like this that it was nothing more but a normal occurrence. 

He remembered clearly their first day. Not their first day at work, no. But their first day that something went terribly, terribly wrong and they have to live their life with one less brick to protect them from falling to oblivion. 

They lied on their backs at their safe house. Side by side. Way too close but not enough at the same time. They spent the night staring at the ceiling and letting the waves of tears nearly drown them. 

Time passed way too quickly and none whatsoever that night that sometimes, Renjun felt that he would blink and find himself there again. On the cold concrete floor of the abandoned warehouse, with Mark’s nails digging firmly into his palm as the sole reminder for his humanity.

Since then, he’s learned to stop crying. Not on near misses, not on complete losses. Not when he has to fill in the damage report, nor when he has to be the one to push the button to clean all evidence. 

But Mark, on the other hand?

Mark. Stoic, dependable Mark. Mark who has his back covered in raw notches so deep they reveal his bones. Yellowing and brittle. Signifying all the failures he thought only he must bear. 

He cries. Always. 

“I’ll book us all a spot for psych eval tomorrow.”

Mark let out a nasal laughter before discreetly wiping the tears off his cheeks. He picked his head up and away from Renjun’s shoulder before tipping it back to allow his fifth dose of whiskey to slide through his throat in a path of least resistance. “You and your psych evals.”

“You and your uncontrolled emotions.” Renjun quipped back.

“Crying is better than having a fucking lobotomy, Huang.”

Renjun tensed at that, just minutely. A brief, nearly unnoticeable second of pure animosity before everything went back to normal. But Mark felt it. He must have. Because he handwaved it with a drunken chuckle and forcibly pulled back the drape that Renjun’d so carefully put over the topic with a loud thud that his glass made when slammed against the wooden table. 

“Wanna spend the night together?”

“Hm? Like, with Chenle? Like a sleepover?”

“Like, you and me.”

Renjun frowned. But not because of his preposition. Oh, no.

Sexual relationships between agents aren’t frowned upon. Everyone knows that when you just gotta do it, you gotta do it. Besides, it’s easy. As your partner is more often than not a. The only person with you at a month long stakeout or b. The only person who is allowed to know you exist. 

He frowned because it was Mark who asked him for the favour. Chenle, he could even probably understand better. But Mark? 

Five years they’ve been paired together in missions of varying difficulties, and each time Mark would rather risk a penalty for spending an unauthorised night in town than to do it with the only other person stuck with him in a cabin in the woods. 

Not even once. 

“Are you sure?” He tried to clarify. Maybe, to see if Mark was joking and he would be spared of any disappointment.

Mark only responded with an easy shrug, head lolling heavily from one side to the other with a careless smile propped on his pale lips. ‘You’re my only option here,’ he seemed to say, with how easy he stood up from the sofa before offering a helping hand to Renjun. ‘You’re easy.’ 

Insulting, but Renjun wouldn’t want it any other way.

_

 The walk to Mark’s room was painfully uneventful, even if in all actuality Renjun was there, being the mental embodiment of a raging hurricane. Thoughts flying around, anticipation, worry, excitement, fear. From the lock breaking to his chest of denial that contained all the guilt he felt from spending the last five years of working with Mark fantasising about this happening to him, one day. 

To silence it, he took charge. 

The moment Mark closed the door behind him, Renjun charged at him and hounded relentlessly at his whiskey tinted lips. Tongue, forcing them to open. Teeth, biting them until they both tasted blood, not stopping until he felt a set of strong fingers grabbing his hair near his roots and pulling them back, hard enough that he finally let go. 

“I never remember being taught that during our honeypot course,” Mark laughed, very easily, and Renjun forced himself to match it with something similar. 

“I take a few liberties.” 

Mark seemed to get that Renjun wished to take the lead, as he didn’t resist when Renjun practically dragged him to the bed and tossed him on it so easily. Just as easy as how he went and discarded Mark’s civilian clothes in one fell swoop. 

He didn’t let even a single peep during the entire process. Not even a single witty quip.

At first Renjun found it to be odd, but not for long. The sight of a poorly healed wound on the side of Mark’s lower stomach, bumpy and raised and covered in strings of silvery skin, reminded him that they’ve actually done this quite often in the past. Undressing the other and holding them by the skin they were born in, that this, should be just another walk in the park. 

Although, well, context matters. Usually, when that happened, the person being undressed would be teetering on the verge of death. The subtlety of this conditioning brought a bitter taste to the back of Renjun’s tongue, but he ignored it with a quick swallow. 

“Will you take yours off?” Mark asked, fingers absently fiddling on the hem of Renjun’s shirt.  

He swatted it off with a snip. “Of course.” 

Mark raised his hands in defence and carelessly flung himself back to the bed. The way he rested on his folded arms with a peculiar crook on his eyebrows made Renjun feel as if he was being judged in the way he chose to undress himself. Which was hasty, and emotionless. Borderline clinical. 

“That was depressing,” Mark scoffed. 

“Give me 25% of your next salary if you want a performance.” 

“Fair,” he said, followed by a hearty laugh, “I have no use of ‘em anyway.” 

But contrary to his brazen words, Mark’s action was marred with uncertainty.

Renjun went on to straddle him and he could see Mark’s expression flickering briefly to one of panic.  

His fingers teetered dangerously close to Renjun’s naked thighs, as if Mark was waiting for some sort of unneeded guidance, and it pulled an odd smile onto his lips. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been with a man before.” Feeling suddenly brave in the face of Mark’s flustering, Renjun took his hands and boldly pressed it on the dip of his waist. Pressing them down as he also lowered himself so his inner thigh was fully pressing against Mark’s firm stomach.

His palms were cold. Clammy. Would’ve shook with nerves if they still had the nerves that allowed their hands to do such a thing. 

Mark’s nervous gulp was audible and it only further widened Renjun’s smile. “Things have never worked in that favour.”

“Lucky you.”

“Lucky me because I’ve always gotten a catch, or lucky me because you’re my first?”

Renjun rolled his eyes and used the bed of his palm to push on Mark’s forehead. “You’re way too drunk. Just shut up.”

He then reached for the hotel room’s rickety bedside table. Rummaging through the complimentary knick knacks for that small bottle of lube because such a gaudy hotel must have provided one, right?

Absolutely. 

He palmed the cheap plastic bottle and returned, only to see Mark had started to anxiously chew on his bottom lip. 

Such an off character tick, he thought amusedly. 

“Don’t worry, just think of this as your usual recourse. I have it all covered.” Renjun threw those reassurance while he busied himself with preparing for the activity ahead. The lube was cheap, and more sticky on his skin than anything else. But it’d make do. 

He was so preoccupied with his action that it took him a good minute before noticing that Mark was still lying there with a worried expression on his face. 

It caused him to chuckle. With pity, and nothing else. “Just do what you usually do, Mark. I got this.” 

That one seemed to work. As soon after, his eyebrows began to untangle from the creases of his forehead in a moment of clarity. But Mark’s lightening of mood proved to be a hindrance soon enough. Because he then snatched the plastic bottle from between the creases of the bedsheet, poured the content onto his fingers, and forcefully replaced Renjun’s hand in their preparation with his. 

To that, Renjun looked at him with surprise that bordered on alarm. But Mark didn’t share such sentiment. 

“You told me to do what I usually do,” he said with such ease. A complete one eighty to the confusion he sported not even half a minute ago. At the same time, easily, he enacted a surprisingly needy gasp out of Renjun with an easy curl on his fingers. “Did you think I only ever lay down and ask my partner to do all the work?”

Renjun had to force out a scoff to stop the situation from taking a worse turn from the bad place he found himself in, “sorry for assuming. I was only basing it on your professional track record.” 

“Oh fuck you.” Mark mumbled, before he easily flipped their positions around so that he was then straddling Renjun in turn. 

Even if he was drunk, Mark still had a sharp eye in observing what buttons he should push to make Renjun unravel in his arms. One finger to two. One hand pushing him to two. Teeth nibbling at his ear, and a knee absentmindedly rubbing against his erection.  

Too little turned too much in record time and Renjun had to wrangle all his willpower with all his might only to push Mark away so he could roll himself around to his belly and force the sludge of an unnecessary foreplay away from their session. 

Renjun raised his hips, and commanded Mark to start with an easy tilt of his head. “Do it.” He added, when he didn’t sense any movement coming from his partner. He instantly regretted it. Speaking, in this case. Because his voice sounded so weak, then. Far too weak. A reedy, trembling tone completely betraying the wall of carefully constructed confidence that were actually made out of nothing but shredded sheets of paper bound together with school glue. 

A wall which instantly crumbled down with something as easy as Mark’s hands coiling around his waist in a sure grip. 

None of the walls remained when Mark entered him, so slow and carefully, giving Renjun an undeservingly long breathing period with his chest pressing flush against his feverish back. 

Renjun had to resort to his own strength by biting down onto his lips until droplets of blood fell on the pristine bedsheet when he felt Mark’s breath hot against his nape as he began to move. Slowly, at first. Before picking up in pace when he didn’t sense any resistance coming from Renjun, who was actually struggling to stay on his elbows beneath his drunken weight.

And, lastly, damningly, he couldn’t stop a choked moan from escaping him when Mark gave his earlobe a tender kiss before he whispered, “I want to see you.”

“It’s fine.” Damned if he does, damned if he doesn't. Renjun’s words were trapped in the back of his throat, forced out in fragmented gasps everytime Mark were to drive himself far enough within him. “You don’t have to force yourself.” 

“I want to see you.”

Mark took things into his own hands when Renjun was left petrified at his request. Dragging his shoulders so they rolled to the side, before pushing down on his wrists together with him reentering Renjun in one fluid motion. It pulled a shamefully blissful sigh and Renjun wished that he could sublimate to nothing at that very second. 

But clever Mark, he didn’t let go, didn’t even make any moves until Renjun’d stopped resisting. Which was, coincidentally or not, the right thing to do. Because Renjun would’ve let his instinct overtake him and rushed away from the scene so fast if Mark wasn’t there, trapping him in a cage that for once he couldn’t find a way to escape from.

Mark wiped the thin stream of blood from Renjun’s chin before he captured his wounded lips in a deep kiss.

Life, wasn’t it? All this just so he could feel alive, to show that he is alive. To know that Renjun is alive, too. Making sure that he’s ok, with his hands roaming and lingering at tender spots that were beginning to bloom in purples and reds, tracing over tight skin that surrounded shallow cuts dyed brown with iodine. You’re alive. It was so clear. His desperate celebration, ringing each time Mark pressed his fingers onto the skin of his neck, memorising the beat of his racing heart. 

Because at the end of the day, they only had each other. Nothing existed before their five years of working together. So nobody else understood their fear. A fear, they’ve discussed this before, but a fear that they won’t have any recollection of their partnership if one of them were to succeed the other. 

If Mark wasn’t there to remember him, who would? If Mark wasn’t there to remember him, nobody would. 

So each time, without fail, they would find themselves clinging to each other when the fear became too much to bear. Of how easily it would be for their memories, for their very own essence of being, to be ripped out of their hands together with the life of a person that you hold with much more reverence than even you would to a lover (if, they could have lovers).

Difference was, they’ve never done it physically. The clinging, that is. General presence was usually enough. Warmth, that seeped past their uniform to remind themselves that they were not alone, a luxury.  

This? 

Mark’s forehead pressing against his as he breathlessly mouthed his name to the rhythm of their movement?

Sexual relationships between agents are not frowned upon. That’s true. 

But feelings? Feelings more than that of professional, perhaps casual friendship, between agents? Illegal. 

Completely and truly illegal. 

In an uncharacteristic moment of panic, Renjun regrettably lost control of his inhibitions. Body tensing up and face contorting into an expression of apprehension. Fear. Because he wanted this so much and yet… loathed it at the same time.

It was regrettable as it caused Mark to notice him even more than before. He slowed down and gave all his attention to Renjun, who, at that moment, wished for nothing more than to be treated as a worthless, mindless piece of toy for Mark to seek his pleasure in.

Too late for that, though.  

‘Did I hurt you?’ The way Mark gingerly traced his fingers up along the length of his arms seemed to spell these questions. ‘What’s wrong?’ 

Mark paused, and the palm that caressed his cheeks felt too natural, too practiced, (too soft), that it pulled a tight knot within Renjun’s stomach. 

Having no other choice, he answered Mark’s silent question with a silent answer of his own. With a hand on his nape, Renjun pulled him back down so his burning forehead was pressed against the nook of his shoulder. He forced Mark into action with an urgent whisper, 

“Faster.” 

_

 Mark wouldn’t stop until he was sure that Renjun, too, finished.  

Mark wouldn’t stop, not until he fell on Renjun in a heap of drunken, exhausted, snoring mess. 

Renjun could only stare at the dusty ceiling until the warmth spreading over his stomach has turned gummy and cold. Embarrassing. 

To let Mark see him in such a vulnerable moment. 

Illegal. 

Renjun carefully slipped away from underneath him, spending a total of three seconds scrubbing the extreme fatigue away from his brain (the ones who begged him to fuck it all and just lay down beside Mark and to deal with whatever would be the aftermath of such action come next morning), and dragged himself the the ensuite to do some very needed clean up. 

Because of course Mark, that lazy bastard, finished inside of him. 

Renjun nearly left him as he was for revenge, once he walked out of the shower fresh, warm, and sleepy as all hell and saw that Mark had belly flopped to the edge of the bed. Let him be, and Renjun was sure Mark would wake up with an annoying sore neck. Serves him right.

But no. Nah. Nope. Regretfully, he couldn’t allow their best asset to be compromised after such a petty reason. So Renjun, the kind man that he is, went and gently repositioned Mark so his head no longer lolled halfway on the firm pillow. Went and wet a small towel and cleaned him up. Took his pants and put it back on him, gently. 

If Mark was awake during all that, he acted accordingly. Softly snoring and fully compliant. Didn’t stop Renjun when after he spent a good fifteen seconds admiring his handiwork, he bailed out of the room at the speed of light. 

(Oh, he must’ve been awake. He must have. Mark wakes to the sound of a twig breaking from miles away. To the change in the air current of the room. To the sound of Renjun’s thought rattling within his brain. 

He was awake, Renjun was sure of it. Mark only pretended to be asleep because he was being kind.)

Renjun reached his room after trudging through what felt like an endless corridor from hell. The scratchy dust covering felt comfortingly plush against his tired cheek, and his fractured hip bone sunk into the faulty springs of his bed like an anvil dropped into a pool of water. 

He spent the rest of the night like that. Lying face down on the bed, feet dangling over the sunken edge. 

His breath came about ragged and dry within his lungs, forcing them against his ribs so hard he thought he would suffocate. It was only then that Renjun finally admitted. 

He never cried, not anymore, not since that night, because it allowed Mark to bear one less wound on his heart. 

It allowed Mark to think that he’s not affected. To think that he’s sane. Guiltless. Clean. 

If it’s the very least he could do, then he swore he would never fail to do it. For as long as he could bear and another day on top.

[grigori77]

2019 in Movies - My Top 30 Fave Movies (Part 3)

10.  HOW TO TRAIN YOUR DRAGON: THE HIDDEN WORLD – while I love Disney and Pixar as much as the next movie nut, since the Millennium my loyalty has been slowly but effectively usurped by the consistently impressive (but sometimes frustratingly underappreciated) output of Dreamworks Animation Studios, and in recent years in particular they really have come to rival the House of Mouse in both the astounding quality of their work and their increasing box office reliability.  But none of their own franchises (not even Shrek or Kung Fu Panda) have come CLOSE to equalling the sheer, unbridled AWESOMENESS of How to Train Your Dragon, which started off as a fairly loose adaptation of Cressida Cowell’s popular series of children’s stories but quickly developed a very sharp mind of its own – the first two films were undisputable MASTERPIECES, and this third and definitively FINAL chapter in the trilogy matches them to perfection, as well as capping the story off with all the style, flair and raw emotional power we’ve come to expect.  The time has come to say goodbye to diminutive Viking Hiccup (Jay Baruchel, as effortlessly endearing as ever) and his adorable Night Fury mount/best friend Toothless, fiancée Astrid (America Ferrera, still tough, sassy and WAY too good for him), mother Valka (Cate Blanchett, classy, wise and still sporting a pretty flawless Scottish accent) and all the other Dragon Riders of the tiny, inhospitable island kingdom of Berk – their home has become overpopulated with scaly, fire-breathing denizens, while a trapper fleet led by the fiendish Grimmel the Grisly (F. Murray Abraham delivering a wonderfully soft-spoken, subtly chilling master villain) is beginning to draw close, prompting Hiccup to take up his late father Stoick (Gerard Butler returning with a gentle turn that EASILY prompts tears and throat-lumps) the Vast’s dream of finding the fabled “Hidden World”, a mysterious safe haven for dragon-kind where they can be safe from those who seek to do them harm.  But there’s a wrinkle – Grimmel has a new piece of bait, a female Night Fury (or rather, a “Light Fury”), a major distraction that gets Toothless all hot and bothered … returning writer-director Dean DeBlois has rounded things off beautifully with this closer, giving loyal fans everything they could ever want while also introducing fresh elements such as intriguing new environments, characters and species of dragons to further enrich what is already a powerful, intoxicating world for viewers young and old (I particularly love Craig Ferguson’s ever-reliable comic relief veteran Viking Gobber’s brilliant overreactions to a certain adorably grotesque little new arrival), and like its predecessors this film is just as full of wry, broad and sometimes slightly (or not so slightly) absurd humour and deep down gut-twisting FEELS as it is of stirring, pulse-quickening action sequences and sheer, jaw-dropping WONDER, so it’s as nourishing to our soul as it is to our senses.  From the perfectly-pitched, cheekily irreverent opening to the truly devastating, heartbreaking close, this is EXACTLY the final chapter we’ve always dreamed of, even if it does hurt to see this most beloved of screen franchises go. It’s been a wild ride, and one that I think really does CEMENT Dreamworks’ status as one of the true giants of the genre …

9.  TERMINATOR: DARK FATE – back in 1984, James Cameron burst onto the scene with a stone-cold PHENOMENON, a pitch-perfect adrenaline-fuelled science fiction survival horror that spawned a million imitators but has never truly been equalled.  Less than a decade later, he revisited that universe with a much bigger and far bolder vision, creating an epic action adventure that truly changed blockbuster cinema for the better (or perhaps worse, depending on how you want to look at it), but, with its decidedly final, full-stop climax, also effectively rendered itself sequel-proof.  Except that Hollywood had other ideas, the unstoppable money machine smelling potential profit and deciding to milk this particular cash cow for all it was worth – on the small screen, it was the impressive but ultimately intrinsically limited Sarah Connor Chronicles, while on the big screen they cranked out THREE MORE sequels, Sony Pictures starting with straightforward retread Rise of the Machines and following with post-apocalyptic marmite movie Salvation, while Twentieth Century Fox then tried a sort-of soft reboot follow-up to T2 in Genisys.  These were all interesting in their own way (personally, I like them all, particularly Salvation), but ultimately suffered from diminishing returns and whiffed strongly of trying too hard without quite getting the point. Cameron himself had long since washed his hands of the whole affair, and it looked like that might well be it … but then Skydance Productions founder David Ellison thought up a new take to breathe much needed new life into the franchise, and enlisted Cameron’s help to usher it in properly, with Deadpool director Tim Miller the intriguing but ultimately inspired choice to helm the project.  The end result wisely chooses to paint right over all the pretenders, kicking off right where Judgement Day left off, and as well as Cameron being heavily involved in the story itself, draws another ace with the long-awaited ON-SCREEN return of Linda Hamilton in the role that’s pretty much defined her career, hardboiled survivor Sarah Connor.  I’ll leave the details of her return for newcomers to discover, suffice to say she gets caught up in the chase when a new, MUCH more advanced terminator is sent back in time to kill unassuming young Mexican factory worker Dani Ramos (Natalia Reyes).  Of course, the future resistance has once again sent a protector back to watch her back, Grace (Blade Runner 2049’s Mackenzie Davis), a cybernetically-enhanced super-soldier specifically outfitted to combat terminators, who reluctantly agrees to team up with the highly experienced Sarah in order to keep Dani alive. Arnold Schwarzenegger once again returns to the role that truly made him a star (of course, how could he not?), and he for one has clearly not lost ANY of his old love or enthusiasm for playing the old T-800, but revealing exactly HOW he comes into the story this time would give away too much; the new terminator, meanwhile, is brilliantly portrayed by Gabriel Luna (probably best known for playing Ghost Rider in Marvel’s Agents of SHIELD), who brings predatory menace and an interesting edge of subtle, entitled arrogance to the role of Rev-9.  Ultimately though, this is very much the ladies’ film, the three leads dominating the action and drama both as they kick-ass and verbally spar in equal measure, their chemistry palpably strong throughout – Hamilton is as badass as ever, making Sarah even more of a take-no-shit survivalist burnout than she ever was in T2, and she’s utterly mesmerising in what’s EASILY her best turn in YEARS, while Reyes goes through an incredible transformative character arc as she’s forced to evolve from terrified salary-girl to proto she-warrior through several pleasingly organic steps … my greatest pleasure, however, definitely comes from watching Mackenzie Davis OWN the role of Grace, investing her with an irresistible mixture of icy military precision, downright feral mother lion ferocity and a surprisingly sweet innocence buried underneath all the bravado, thus creating one of my favourite ass-kicking heroines not just for the year but this past decade entirely. Unsurprisingly, in the hands of old hand Tim Miller (working from a screenplay headlined by Blade and Batman Begins scribe David Goyer) this is a pulse-pounding thrill ride that rarely lets its foot up off the pedal, but thankfully the action is ALWAYS in service to the story, each precision-crafted set piece engineered to perfection as we power through high speed chases, explosive shootouts and a succession of bruising heavy metal smackdowns, but thankfully there’s just as much attention paid to the characters and the story – given the familiarity of the tale there’s inevitably a certain predictability to events, but Miller and co. still pull off a few deftly handled surprise twists, while character development always feels organic.  Best of all, this genuinely feels like a legitimate part of the original Terminator franchise, Cameron and Hamilton’s returns having finally brought back the old magic that’s been missing for so long. I’d definitely be willing to sign up for more of this – such a shame then that, thanks to the film’s frustrating underperformance at the box office, it looks like this is gonna be it after all. Damn it …

8.  DOCTOR SLEEP – first up, before I say anything else about this latest Stephen King screen adaptation, I HAVE NOT yet got round to reading the original novel yet, so I can’t speak to how it compares.  That said, I HAVE read The Shining, to which the book is a direct sequel, so I DO know about at least one of the major, KEY changes, and besides, this is actually a sequel to Stanley Kubrick’s MOVIE of The Shining, which differed significantly from its own source material anyway, so there’s that … yeah, this is a complicated kettle of fish even BEFORE we get down to the details.  Suffice to say, you don’t have to have read the book to get this movie, but a working knowledge of Kubrick’s horror classic may at least help you get some context before watching this … anyways, enough with the confusion, on to the meat of the matter – this is a CRACKING horror movie by any stretch, and, for me, one of the strongest King horrors to make it to the big screen in quite some time.  Of course it helps no end to have a filmmaker of MAJOR calibre at the helm, and there are few working in horror at the moment with whom I am quite so impressed as Mike Flanagan, writer-director of two of this past decade’s definitive horrors (at least for me), Oculus and Hush, as well as a BLINDING TV series adaptation of The Haunting of Hill House for Netflix – the man is an absolute master of the craft, incredibly skilled with all the tricks of this particular genre’s trade, and, as it turns out, a perfect fit with King’s material.  Following on from The Shining, then, we learn what happened to the kid, Danny Torrance, after he and his mother left the Overlook Hotel in the wake of his father’s psychotic break driven by monstrous apparitions “living” in the cursed halls, following him from childhood as he initially shuns the psychic gifts (or “shine”) he was taught to use by the hotel’s late caretaker, Dick Halloran.  It’s only in later years, as he fights to overcome his alcoholism and self-destructive lifestyle, that he reconnects with that power, just in time to discover psychic “pen-pal” Abra Stone, an immensely powerful young psychic.  Which leads us to the present day, when Abra, now a teenager, becomes the target of the True Knot, a group of psychic vampires who travel America hunting and killing young people with psychic abilities in order to consume their “smoke” (basically the stuff of their “shines”), thus expanding their already unnatural lifespans – they’re tracking Abra, and they’re getting close, and only her “Uncle Dan” can save her from them.  Ewan McGregor is PERFECT as the grown-up Dan, delivering one of his career-best turns as he captures the world-weary seriousness of someone who’s seen, felt and had to do things no-one should, especially when he was so very young, the kinds of things that colour a soul for their entire life, and he’s clearly DESPERATE not to become his father; newcomer Kyleigh Curran, meanwhile, is an absolute revelation as Abra, bringing depth and weight far beyond her years to the role, but never losing sight of the fact that, under all the power, she’s ultimately still just a child; there are also excellent supporting turns from the likes of Cliff Curtis as Dan’s best friend and AA sponsor Billy Freeman, Zahn McClarnon (Longmire, Fargo season 2) and Emily Lind (Revenge, Code Black) as True Knot members Crow Daddy and Snakebite Annie, and Carl Lumbly (Cagney & Lacey, TV’s Supergirl), who beautifully replaces deceased original actor Scatman Crothers in the role of Dick.  The film’s tour-de-force performance, however, comes from Rebecca Ferguson as Rose the Hat, leader of the True Knot – they’re an intriguing bunch of villains, very well written and fleshed out, and it’s clear they have genuine love for one another, like a real family, which makes it hard not to sympathise with them a little bit, and this is none more true than in Rose, whom Ferguson invests with so much light and warmth and intriguing, complex character, as well as a fantastic streak of playful mischief that makes her all the more riveting in those times when they then turn around and do some truly heinous, unforgivable things … as horror movies go this is the cream of the crop, but Flanagan has purposefully kept away from jump scares and the more flashy stuff, preferring, like Kubrick in The Shining, to let the insidious darkness bubble up underneath good and slow, drawing out the creepiness and those most unsettling, twisted little touches the author himself is always so very good at.  Intent can be such a scary thing, and Flanagan gets it, so that’s just what he uses here.   As a result this is a fantastic slow-burn creep-fest that constantly works its way deeper under your skin, building to a phenomenal climax that, (perversely) thanks in no small part to the differences between both novels and films, pays as much loving tribute to Kubrick’s visionary landmark as the original novel of The Shining.  For me, this is Flanagan’s best film to date, and as far as Stephen King adaptations go I consider this to be right up there with the likes of The Mist and The Green Mile.  Best of all, I think he’d be proud of it too …

7.  SPIDER-MAN: FAR FROM HOME – summer 20019 was something of a decompression period for fans of the Marvel Cinematic Universe, with many of us recovering from the sheer emotional DEVASTATION of the grand finale of Phase 3, Avengers: Endgame, so the main Blockbuster Season’s entry really needed to be light and breezy, a blessed relief after all that angst and loss, much like Ant-Man & the Wasp was last year as it followed Infinity War.  And it is, by and large – this is as light-hearted and irreverent as its predecessor, following much the same goofy teen comedy template as Homecoming, but there’s no denying that there’s a definite emotional through-line from Endgame that looms large here, a sense of loss the film fearlessly addresses right from the start, sometimes with a bittersweet sense of humour, sometimes straight.  But whichever path the narrative chooses, the film stays true to this underlying truth – there have been great and painful changes in this world, and we can’t go back to how it was before, no matter how hard we try, but then perhaps we shouldn’t. This is certainly central to our young hero’s central arc – Peter Parker (Tom Holland) is in mourning, and not even the prospect of a trip around Europe with his newly returned classmates, together with the chance to finally get close to M.J. (Zendaya), maybe even start a relationship, can entirely distract him from the gaping hole in his life. Still, he’s gonna give it his best shot, but it looks like fate has other plans for our erstwhile Spider-Man as superspy extraordinaire Nick Fury (Samuel L. Jackson) comes calling, basically hijacking his vacation with an Avengers-level threat to deal with, aided by enigmatic inter-dimensional superhero Quentin Beck, aka Mysterio (Jake Gyllenhaal), who has a personal stake in the mission, but as he’s drawn deeper into the fray Peter discovers that things may not be quite as they seem. Of course, giving anything more away would of course dumps HEINOUS spoilers on the precious few who haven’t yet seen the film – suffice to say that the narrative drops a MAJOR sea-change twist at the midpoint that’s EVERY BIT as fiendish as the one Shane Black gave us in Iron Man 3 (although the more knowledgeable fans of the comics will likely see it coming), and also provides Peter with JUST the push he needs to get his priorities straight and just GET OVER IT once and for all.  Tom Holland again proves his character is the most endearing teenage geek in cinematic history, his spectacular super-powered abilities and winning underdog perseverance in the face of impossible odds still paradoxically tempered by the fact he’s as loveably hopeless as ever outside his suit; Mysterio himself, meanwhile, frequently steals the film out from under him, the strong bromance they develop certainly mirroring what Peter had with Tony Stark, and it’s a major credit to Gyllenhaal that he so perfectly captures the essential dualities of the character, investing Beck with a roguish but subtly self-deprecating charm that makes him EXTREMELY easy to like, but ultimately belying something much more complex hidden beneath it; it’s also nice to see so many beloved familiar faces returning, particularly the fantastically snarky and self-assured Zendaya, Jacob Batalon (once again pure comedy gold as Peter’s adorably nerdy best friend Ned), Tony Revolori (as his self-important class rival Flash Thompson) and, of course, Marisa Tomei as the ever-pivotal Aunt May, as well as Jackson and Cobie Smoulders as dynamite SHIELD duo Fury and his faithful lieutenant Maria Hill, and best of all Jon Favreau gets a MUCH bigger role this time round as Happy Hogan.  Altogether this is very much business as usual for the MCU, the well-oiled machine unsurprisingly turning out another near-perfect gem of a superhero flick that ticks all the required boxes, but a big part of the film’s success should be attributed to returning director Jon Watts, effectively building on the granite-strong foundations of Homecoming with the help of fellow alumni Chris McKenna and Erik Sommers on screenplay duty, for a picture that feels both comfortingly familiar and rewardingly fresh, delivering on all the required counts with thrilling action and eye candy spectacle, endearingly quirky character-based charm and a typically winning sense of humour, and plenty of understandably powerful emotional heft.  And, like always, there are plenty of fan-pleasing winks and nods and revelations, and the pre-requisite mid- and post-credit teasers too, both proving to be some proper game-changing corkers.  Another winner from the Marvel Cinematic Universe, then, but was there really ever any doubt?

6.  US – back in 2017, Jordan Peele made the transition from racially-charged TV and stand-up comedy to astounding cinemagoers with stunning ease through his writer-director feature debut Get Out, a sharply observed jet black comedy horror with SERIOUS themes that was INSANELY well-received by audiences and horror fans alike.  Peele instantly became ONE TO WATCH in the genre, so his follow-up feature had A LOT riding on it, but this equally biting, deeply satirical existential mind-bender is EASILY the equal of its predecessor, possibly even its better … giving away too much plot detail would do great disservice to the many intriguing, shocking twists on offer as middle class parents Adelaide and Gabe Wilson (Black Panther alumni Lupita Nyong’o and Winston Duke) take their children, Zora (Shahadi Wright Joseph) and Jason (Evan Alex), to Santa Cruz on vacation, only to step into a nightmare as a night-time visitation by a family of murderous doppelgangers signals the start of a terrifying supernatural revolution with potential nationwide consequences.  The idea at the heart of this film is ASTOUNDINGLY original, quite an achievement in a genre where just about everything has been tried at least once, but it’s also DEEPLY subversive, as challenging and thought-provoking as the themes visited in Get Out, but also potentially even more wide-reaching. It’s also THOROUGHLY fascinating and absolutely TERRIFYING, a peerless exercise in slow-burn tension and acid-drip discomfort, liberally soaked in an oppressive atmosphere so thick you could choke on it if you’re not careful, such a perfect horror master-class it’s amazing that this is only Peele’s second FEATURE, never mind his sophomore offering IN THE GENRE.  The incredibly game cast really help, too – the four leads are all EXCEPTIONAL, each delivering fascinatingly nuanced performances in startlingly oppositional dual roles as both the besieged family AND their monstrous doubles, a feat brilliantly mimicked by Mad Men and The Handmaid’s Tale-star Elisabeth Moss, Tim Heidecker and teen twins Cali and Noelle Sheldon as the Wilsons’ friends, the Tylers, and their similarly psychotic mimics.  The film is DOMINATED, however, by Oscar-troubler Nyong’o, effortlessly holding our attention throughout the film with yet another raw, intense, masterful turn that keeps up glued to the screen from start to finish, even as the twists get weirder and more full-on brain-mashy.  Of course, while this really is scary as hell, it’s also often HILARIOUSLY funny, Peele again poking HUGE fun at both his intended audience AND his allegorical targets, proving that scares often work best when twinned with humour.  BY FAR the best thing in horror in 2019, Us shows just what a master of the genre Jordan Peele is, and it looks like he’s here to stay …

5.  KNIVES OUT – with The Last Jedi, writer-director Rian Johnson divided audiences so completely that he seemed to have come perilously close to ruining his career.  Thankfully, he’s a thick-skinned auteur with an almost ridiculous amount of talent, and he’s come bouncing back as strong as ever, doing what he does best. His big break feature debut was with Brick, a cult classic murder mystery that was, surprisingly, set in and around a high school, and his latest has some of that same DNA as Johnson crafts a fantastic sleuthy whodunit cast in the classic mould of Agatha Christie, albeit shot through with his own wonderfully eclectic verve, wit and slyly subversive streak.  Daniel Craig holds court magnificently as quirky and flamboyant Deep South private detective Benoit Blanc, summoned to the home of newly-deceased star crime author Harlan Thrombey (Christopher Plummer) to investigate his possible murder and faced with a veritable web of lies, deceit and twisting knives as he meets the maybe-victim’s extensive and INCREDIBLY dysfunctional family, all of whom are potential suspects.  Craig is thoroughly mesmerising throughout, clearly having the time of his life in one of his career-best roles, while the narrative focus is actually, interestingly, given largely to Ana de Armas (Blade Runner 2049 and soon to be seen with Craig again in the latest Bond-flick No Time To Die), who proves equally adept at driving the film as Harlan’s sweet but steely and impressively resourceful nurse Marta Cabrera, whose own involvement in the case it would do the film a massive disservice to reveal. The rest of the Thrombey clan are an equally intriguing bunch, all played to the hilt by an amazing selection of heavyweight talent that includes Jamie Lee Curtis, Michael Shannon, Toni Collette and It’s Jaeden Martell, but the film is, undeniably, DOMINATED by Chris Evans as Harlan’s black sheep grandson Ransom, the now former Captain America clearly enjoying his first major post-MCU role as he roundly steals every scene he’s in, effortlessly bringing back the kind of snarky, sarcastic underhanded arrogance we haven’t seen him play since his early career and entertaining us thoroughly.  Johnson has very nearly outdone himself this time, weaving a gleefully twisty web of intrigue that viewers will take great pleasure in watching Blanc untangle, even if we’re actually already privy to (most of) the truth of the deed, and he pulls off some diabolical twists and turns as we rattle towards an inspired final reveal which genuinely surprises. He’s also generously smothered the film with oodles of his characteristically dry, acerbic wit, wonderfully tweaking many of the classic tropes of this familiar little sub-genre so this is at once a loving homage to the classics but also a sly, skilful deconstruction.  Intriguing, compelling, enrapturing and often thoroughly hilarious, this is VERY NEARLY the best film he’s ever made.  Only the mighty Looper remains unbeaten …

4.  CAPTAIN MARVEL – before the first real main event of not only the year’s blockbusters but also, more importantly, 2019’s big screen MCU roster, Marvel Studios president Kevin Feige and co dropped a powerful opening salvo with what, it turns out, was the TRUE inception point of the Avengers Initiative and all its accompanying baggage (not Captain America: the First Avenger, as we were originally led to believe).  For me, this is simply the MCU film I have MOST been looking forward to essentially since the beginning – the onscreen introduction of my favourite Avenger, former US Air Force Captain Carol Danvers, the TRUE Captain Marvel (no matter what the DC purists might say), who was hinted at in the post credits sting of Avengers: Infinity War but never actually seen.  Not only is she the most powerful Avenger (sorry Thor, but it’s true), but for me she’s also the most badass – she’s an unstoppable force of (cosmically enhanced) nature, with near GODLIKE powers (she can even fly through space without needing a suit!), but the thing that REALLY makes her so full-on EPIC is her sheer, unbreakable WILL, the fact that no matter what’s thrown at her, no matter how often or how hard she gets knocked down, she KEEPS GETTING BACK UP.  She is, without a doubt, the MOST AWESOME woman in the entire Marvel Universe, both on the comic page AND up on the big screen. Needless to say, such a special character needs an equally special actor to portray her, and we’re thoroughly blessed in the inspired casting choice of Brie Larson, who might as well have been purpose-engineered exclusively for this very role – she’s Carol Danvers stepped right out of the primary-coloured panels, as steely cool, unswervingly determined and strikingly statuesque as she’s always been drawn and scripted, with just the right amount of twinkle-eyed, knowing smirk and sassy humour to complete the package.  Needless to say she’s the heart and soul of the film, a pure joy to watch throughout, but there’s so much more to enjoy here that this is VERY NEARLY the most enjoyable cinematic experience I had all year … writer-director double-act Anna Boden and Ryan Fleck may only be known for smart, humble indies like Half Nelson and Mississippi Grind, but they’ve taken to the big budget, all-action blockbuster game like ducks to water, co-scripting with Geneva Robertson-Dworet (writer of the Tomb Raider reboot movie and the long-gestating third Sherlock Holmes movie) to craft yet another pitch-perfect MCU origin story, playing a sneakily multilayered, misleading game of perception-versus-truth as we’re told how Carol got her powers and became the unstoppable badass supposedly destined to turn the tide in a certain Endgame … slyly rolling the clock back to the mid-90s, we’re presented with a skilfully realised mid-90s period culture clash adventure as Carol, a super-powered warrior fighting for the Kree Empire against the encroaching threat of the shape-shifting Skrulls, crash-lands in California and winds up uncovering the hidden truth behind her origins, with the help of a particular SHIELD agent, before he wound up with an eye-patch and a more cynical point-of-view – yup, it’s a younger, fresher Nick Fury (the incomparable Samuel L. Jackson, digitally de-aged with such skill it’s really just a pure, flesh-and-blood performance). There’s action, thrills, spectacle and (as always with the MCU) pure, skilfully observed, wry humour by the bucket-load, but one of the biggest strengths of the film is the perfectly natural chemistry between the two leads, Larson and Jackson playing off each other BEAUTIFULLY, no hint of romantic tension, just a playfully prickly, banter-rich odd couple vibe that belies a deep, honest respect building between both the characters and, clearly, the actors themselves.  There’s also sterling support from Jude Law as Kree warrior Yon-Rogg, Carol’s commander and mentor, Ben Mendelsohn, slick, sly and surprisingly seductive (despite a whole lot of make-up) as Skrull leader Talos, returning MCU-faces Clark Gregg and Lee Pace as rookie SHIELD agent Phil Coulson (another wildly successful de-aging job) and Kree Accuser Ronan, Annette Bening as a mysterious face from Carol’s past and, in particular, Lashana Lynch (Still Star-Crossed, soon to be seen in No Time To Die) as Carol’s one-time best friend and fellow Air Force pilot Maria Rambeau, along with the impossibly adorable Akira Akbar as her precocious daughter Monica … that said, the film is frequently stolen by a quartet of ginger tabbies who perfectly capture fan-favourite Goose the “cat” (better known to comics fans as Chewie).  This is about as great as the MCU standalone films get – for me it’s up there with the Russo’s Captain America films and Black Panther, perfectly pitched and SO MUCH FUN, but with a multilayered, monofilament-sharp intelligence that makes it a more cerebrally satisfying ride than most blockbusters, throwing us a slew of skilfully choreographed twists and narrative curveballs we almost never see coming, and finishing it off with a bucket-load of swaggering style and pure, raw emotional power (the film kicks right off with an incredibly touching, heartfelt tear-jerking tribute to Marvel master Stan Lee).  Forget Steve Rogers – THIS is the Captain MCU fans need AND deserve, and I am SO CHUFFED they got my favourite Avenger so totally, perfectly RIGHT.  I can die happy now, I guess …

3.  JOHN WICK CHAPTER 3 – needless to say, those who know me should be in no doubt why THIS was at the top of my list for summer 2019 – this has EVERYTHING I love in movies and more. Keanu Reeves is back in the very best role he’s ever played, unstoppable, unbeatable, un-killable hitman John Wick, who, when we rejoin him mere moments after the end of 2017’s phenomenal Chapter 2, is in some SERIOUSLY deep shit, having been declared Incommunicado by the High Table (the all-powerful ruling elite who run this dark and deadly shadowy underworld) after circumstances forced him to gun down an enemy on the grounds of the New York Continental Hotel (the inviolable sanctuary safe-house for all denizens of the underworld), as his last remaining moments of peace tick away and he desperately tries to find somewhere safe to weather the initial storm.  Needless to say the opening act of the film is ONE LONG ACTION SEQUENCE as John careers through the rain-slick streets of New York, fighting off attackers left and right with his signature brutal efficiency and unerring skill, perfectly setting up what’s to come – namely a head-spinning, exhausting parade of spectacular set pieces that each put EVERY OTHER offering in every other film this past year to shame.  Returning director Chad Stahelski again proves that he’s one of the very best helmsmen around for this kind of stuff, delivering FAR beyond the call on every count as he creates a third entry to a series that continues to go from strength to strength, while Keanu once again demonstrates what a phenomenal screen action GOD he is, gliding through each scenario with poise, precision and just the right balance of brooding charm and so-very-done-with-this-shit intensity and a thoroughly enviable athletic physicality that really does put him on the same genre footing as Tom Cruise.  As with the first two chapters, what plot there is is largely an afterthought, a facility to fuel the endless wave of stylish, wince-inducing, thoroughly exhilarating violent bloodshed, as John cuts another bloody swathe through the underworld searching for a way to remove the lethal bounty from his head while an Adjudicator from the High Table (Orange Is the New Black’s Asia Kate Dillon) arrives in New York to settle affairs with Winston (Ian McShane), the manager of the New York Continental, and the Bowery King (Laurence Fishburne) for helping John create this mess in the first place.  McShane and Fishburne are both HUGE entertainment in their fantastically nuanced large-than-life roles, effortlessly stealing each of their scenes, while the ever-brilliant Lance Reddick also makes a welcome return as Winston’s faithful right-hand Charon, the concierge of the Continental, who finally gets to show off his own hardcore action chops when trouble arrives at their doorstep, and there are plenty of franchise newcomers who make strong impressions here – Dillon is the epitome of icy imperiousness, perfectly capturing the haughty superiority you’d expect from a direct representative of the High Table, Halle Berry gets a frustratingly rare opportunity to show just how seriously badass she can be as former assassin Sofia, the manager of the Casablanca branch of the Continental and one of John’s only remaining allies, Game of Thrones’ Jerome Flynn is smarmy and entitled as her boss Berrada, and Anjelica Houston is typically classy as the Director, the ruthless head of New York’s Ruska Roma (John’s former “alma mater”, basically).  The one that REALLY sticks in the memory, though, is Mark Dacascos, finally returning to the big time after frustrating years languishing in lurid straight-to-video action dreck and lowbrow TV hosting duties thanks to a BLISTERING turn as Zero, a truly brilliant semi-comic creation who routinely runs away with the film – he’s the Japanese master ninja the Adjudicator tasks with dispensing her will, a thoroughly lethal killer who may well be as skilled as our hero, but his deadliness is amusingly tempered by the fact that he’s also a total nerd who HERO WORSHIPS John Wick, adorably geeking out whenever their paths cross.  Their long-gestating showdown provides a suitably magnificent climax to the action, but there’s plenty to enjoy in the meantime, as former stuntman Stahelski and co keep things interestingly fluid as they constantly change up the dynamics and add new elements, from John using kicking horses in a stable and knives torn out of display cases in a weaponry museum to dispatch foes on the fly, through Sofia’s use of attack dogs to make the Moroccan portion particularly nasty and a SPECTACULAR high octane sequence in which John fights katana-wielding assailants on speeding motorcycles, to the film’s UNDISPUTABLE highlight, an astounding fight in which John takes on Zero’s disciples (including two of the most impressive guys from The Raid movies, Cecep Arif Rahman and Yayan Ruhian) in (and through) an expansive chamber made up entirely of glass walls and floors.  Altogether then, this is business as usual for a franchise that’s consistently set the bar for the genre as a whole, an intensely bruising, blissfully blood-drenched epic that cranks its action up to eleven, shot with delicious neon-drenched flair and glossy graphic novel visual excess, a consistently inspired exercise in fascinating world-building that genuinely makes you want to live among its deadly denizens (even though you probably wouldn’t live very long).  The denouement sets things up for an inevitable sequel, and I’m not at all surprised – right from the first film I knew the concept had legs, and it’s just too good to quit yet.  Which is just how I like it …

2.  AVENGERS: ENDGAME – the stars have aligned and everything is right with the world – the second half of the ridiculously vast, epic, nerve-shredding and gut-punching MCU saga that began with 2018’s Avengers: Infinity War has FINALLY arrived and it’s JUST AS GOOD as its predecessor … maybe even a little bit better, simply by virtue of the fact that (just about) all the soul-crushing loss and upheaval of the first film is resolved here.  Opening shortly after the universally cataclysmic repercussions of “the Snap”, the world at large and the surviving Avengers in particular are VERY MUCH on the back foot as they desperately search for a means to reverse the damage wrought by brutally single-minded cosmic megalomaniac Thanos and his Infinity Stone-powered gauntlet – revealing much more dumps so many spoilers it’s criminal to continue, so I’ll simply say that their immediate plan really DOESN’T work out, leaving them worse off than ever.  Fast-forward five years and the universe is a very different place, mourning what it’s lost and torn apart by grief-fuelled outbursts, while our heroes in particular are in various, sometimes better, but often much worse places – Bruce Banner/the Hulk (Mark Ruffallo) has found a kind of peace that’s always eluded him before, but Thor (Chris Hemsworth) really is a MESS, while Clint Barton/Hawkeye (Jeremy Renner) has gone to a VERY dark place indeed. Then Ant-Man Scott Lang (Paul Rudd) finds a way back from his forced sojourn in the Quantum Realm, and brings with him a potential solution of a very temporal nature … star directors the Russo Brothers, along with returning screenwriters Christopher Markus and Stephen McFeely, have once again crafted a stunning cinematic masterpiece, taking what could have been a bloated, overloaded and simply RIDICULOUS narrative mess and weaving it into a compelling, rich and thoroughly rewarding ride that, despite its THREE HOURS PLUS RUNNING TIME, stays fresh and interesting from start to finish, building on the solid foundations of Infinity War while also forging new ground (narratively speaking, at least) incorporating a wonderfully fresh take on time-travel that pokes gleeful fun at the decidedly clichéd tropes inherent in this particular little sub-genre.  In fact this is frequently a simply HILARIOUS film in its own right, largely pulling away from the darker tone of its predecessor by injecting a very strong vein of chaotic humour into proceedings, perfectly tempering the more dramatic turns and epic feels that inevitably crop up, particularly as the stakes continue to rise.  Needless to say the entire cast get to shine throughout, particularly those veterans whose own tours of duty in the franchise are coming to a close, and as with Infinity War even the minor characters get at least a few choice moments in the spotlight, especially in the vast, operatic climax where pretty much the ENTIRE MCU cast return for the inevitable final showdown.  It’s a masterful affair, handled with skill and deep, earnest respect but also enough irreverence to keep it fun, although in the end it really comes down to those big, fat, heart-crushing emotional FEELS, as we say goodbye to some favourites and see others reach crossroads in their own arcs that send them off in new, interesting directions.  Seriously guys, keep a lot of tissues handy, you really will need them.  If this were the very last MCU film ever, I’d say it’s a PERFECT piece to go out on – thankfully it’s not, and while it is the end of an era the franchise looks set to go on as strong as ever, safe in the knowledge that there’s plenty more cracking movies on the way so long as Kevin Feige and co continue to employ top-notch talent like this to make their films. Eleven years and twenty-two films down, then – here’s to eleven and twenty-two more, I say …

1.  THE IRISHMAN (aka I HEARD YOU PAINT HOUSES) – beating smash-hit superhero movies and unstoppable assassin action-fests to the top spot is no mean feat, but so completely blowing me away that I had NO OTHER CHOICE than to put this at NUMBER ONE is something else entirely.  Not only is this the best thing I saw at the cinema this past year, but I’d be happy to say it’s guaranteed to go down as one of my all-time greats of the entire decade. I’ve been an ardent fan of the filmmaking of Martin Scorsese ever since I first properly got into cinema in my early adolescence, when I was first shown Taxi Driver and was completely and irrevocably changed forever as a movie junkie.  He’s a director who impresses me like a select few others, one of the true, undisputable masters of the craft, and I find it incredibly pleasing that I’m not alone in this assertion.  Goodfellas and The Departed are both numbered among my all-time favourite crime movies, while I regard the latter as one of the greatest films of the current cinematic century.  I’ve learned more about the art and craft of filmmaking and big-screen storytelling from watching Scorsese’s work than from any other director out there (with the notable exception of my OTHER filmmaking hero, Ridley Scott), and I continue to discover more about his films every time I watch them, so I never stop.  Anyways … enough with the gushing, time to get on with talking about his latest offering, a Netflix Original true-life gangster thriller of truly epic proportions chronicling the career and times of Frank Sheeran, a Philadelphia truck driver who became the most trusted assassin of the Northeastern Pennsylvania crime family and, in particular, its boss (and Sheeran’s best friend) Russell Bufalino, particularly focusing on his rise to power within the Philly Mob and his significant association with controversial and ultimately ill-fated Teamster boss Jimmy Hoffa.  It’s a sprawling epic in the tradition of Scorsese’s previously most expansive film, Casino, but in terms of scope this easily eclipses the 1995 classic, taking in SIX DECADES of genuinely world-changing events largely seen through Sheeran’s eyes, but as always the director is in total control throughout, never losing sight of the true focus – one man’s fall from grace as he loses his soul to the terrible events he takes part in.  Then again, the screenplay is by Steve Zaillian (Schindler’s List, Moneyball, Fincher’s The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo), one of the true masters of the art form, with whom Scorsese previously worked with on Gangs of New York, so it’s pure gold – tight as a drum, razor sharp and impossibly rich and rewarding, the perfect vehicle for the director to just prep his cast and run with it.  And WHAT A CAST we have here – this is a three-way lead master-class of titanic proportions, as Scorsese-regular Robert De Niro and his Goodfellas co-star Joe Pesci are finally reteamed as, respectively, Sheeran and Bufalino, while Al Pacino gets to work with the master for the first time as Hoffa; all three are INCREDIBLE, EXTRAORDINARY, on absolute tip-top form as they bring everything they have to their roles, De Niro and Pesci underplaying magnificently while Pacino just lets rip with his full, thunderous fury in a seemingly larger-than-life turn which simply does one of history’s biggest crooks perfect justice; the supporting cast, meanwhile, is one of the strongest seen in cinema all year, with Ray Romano, Bobby Canavale, Anna Paquin, Stephen Graham, Harvey Keitel, Stephanie Kurtzuba (The Wolf of Wall Street), Jack Huston (Boardwalk Empire) and Jesse Plemmons among MANY others all making MAJOR impressions throughout, all holding their own even when up against the combined star power of the headlining trio.  This is filmmaking as high art, Scorsese bringing every trick at his considerable, monumentally experienced disposal to bear to craft a crime thriller that strongly compares not only to the director’s own best but many of the genre’s own other masterpieces such as The Godfather and Chinatown.  It may clock in at a potentially insane THREE HOURS AND TWENTY-NINE MINUTES but it NEVER feels overlong, every moment crafted for maximum impact with a story that unfolds so busily and with such mesmerising power it’s impossible to get bored with it.  The film may have received a limited theatrical release, obviously reaching MOST of its audience when unleashed on Netflix nearly a month later, but I was one of the lucky few who got to see it on the big screen, and BELIEVE ME, it was totally worth it.  Best thing I saw in 2019, ONE OF the best things I saw this past decade, and DEFINITELY one of Scorsese’s best films EVER.  See it, any way you can.  You won’t be disappointed.

[orbitariums]

press | sebastian stan

      Your debut Hollywood film had made its way to theaters and nothing could be more eye-opening. Your first taste of fame and it was everything you could've imagined it to be. You weren't very preoccupied with fame though. In the beginning, although the idea of fame was like the runner-up of a marathon, just barely catching up to the finish line, the real winner of the race was your appreciation for art and your desire to have a successful career. To you, success didn't mean making an eight figure salary, winning awards or being recognized in the world of fame. 

     To you, success was playing roles in and being a part of a work you were truly invested in, something that wasn't just entertainment but truth, and meant something. That was why when your agent presented to you a script for a rom com/ drama movie about a distancing couple dealing with the reality of their love, their children and their own personal turmoils only to work together and grow as best as they could, you went for it. Not because it was Hollywood, but because it was a raw, real, and passionate story that wasn't even just about two lovers, but went far beyond that. 

     You were working with famous actors who had already established their dominance in the Hollywood world, and had already "made it." This didn't really hit you until you got onset and started to really make connections with them, and when the movie got so much buzz was when the marathon thought in your mind became more apparent— you were going to be famous.

     You were famous, what the tabloids were flagging as "the hottest new thing." You hated that phrase, it made you feel more like hot garbage, but it was inevitable in the media. You made your mark and there was no escaping it, only tolerating it, for now at least. You didn't hate all of the buzz, you just didn't really care for it much. All you wanted to do was remain being yourself, and you knew you'd be fine, or so you hoped. 

     All this fame seemed to really hit you one day at a press interview for the movie, called "Before I Fall Again." You hadn't really been to many of these, or any at all. All of your interviews before this had been quite intimate, just an interviewer and a few camera people in a room while you answered questions or your costar, Sebastian Stan answered questions with you. Sebastian had noticed your antsiness backstage though, and made it his point to assure you that these weren’t as intimidating as they seemed and that you would kill it. And from then on, your slightly frazzled nerves were soothed.

     With each interview though, the media couldn't help but take note of your chemistry with Sebastian Stan. It was inevitable- you'd known each other for months now and were in a movie together where you had to pretend to be in love, so of course you had an amazing friendship with him. But you had never taken the next step, for unspecified reasons- you wouldn't be bad as a couple, in fact if there was one thing the media got right, it was that you two looked great together.

     You weren't together of course, but it seemed that way, and the two of you definitely slathered on the charm like sunscreen at the beach whenever you were together, to increase movie ratings and amp up promotion for the movie. Sebastian was really just a great person altogether though, and he thought the same of you. 

     For the press interview, you, Sebastian and some other co-stars for the film, as well as well-known director Ava Duvernay were seated in chairs on a stage, out in the open, answering questions from raucous press who had just seen a screening of the film and were buzzing with questions and praise.

      After introducing everyone, and Ava getting her chance to speak on the movie and her intentions with it, you were asked a question, and since you were asked a question, automatically Sebastian had to answer it too.

     "So, YN, you are an up and coming actress and all this fame is relatively new for you, right?" asked a woman in the front row. 

     You smiled and nodded, polite as always, and the journalist continued,

    "And so, I wanted to know, what is it like as a new star working with a star who's already made his mark in this industry, and in such an intimate role? I mean, you two are practically on top of each other one half of the movie and yelling and screaming at each other the next. Were you at all intimidated by any of it, did you think at all about how the media would react?"

Before you could answer, Sebastian opened his mouth to say,

     "I just wanted to say, before YN answers. Even though she's young and up-and-coming and new to this whole Hollywood scene you would never be able to tell, and I mean that in the best way possible of course. She's very talented, very mature, very able and willing to do whatever it takes. I mean she creates notes more than taking them, and if she feels like getting in my face she'll do it, no problem. I mean, I was scared to do the things she was doing without anyone telling her or without being given notes. So yeah, I would say she has already really honed her craft and her newness in this industry has nothing on her talent at all whatsoever." Sebastian paused, glanced at you and smiled, and out of instinct you smiled back. Then he cleared his throat and looked out into the audience, and jokingly muttered, "And she's beautiful."

     You snickered. Besides the last part, every time Sebastian opened his mouth to compliment you he was being genuine, and you could say the same thing. While you two definitely tried to appear very loving and affectionate for the sake of the press and ratings, the love was most definitely there and it didn't take acting or notes to be provided.

     In the midst of "awws" and cherishing applause from audience members, you smiled at Sebastian and the two of you made eye contact, and he mouthed "love you" (which, unbeknownst to the two of you, would be the biggest thing in the tabloids and both your social medias that week.) You rolled your eyes playfully at him but bit your lip, and forced yourself to face the journalist so you could give an answer before you blushed. 

     "Um, I definitely think..." you gripped your mic, trying to remember what it was that the question was asking.

     Though you knew why Sebastian said what he said, he still made your heart flutter, even this far along into your new yet intricate and loving friendship. He was devastatingly handsome and as professional and non-materialistic as you were, this was something you couldn't ignore, especially when he was so highly-regarding of you in interviews and in general. 

You continued, getting a grip,

     "Well, it's easy to say I wasn't intimidated, which for the most part, I honestly wasn't. I've always loved to act and so I've done so many fucked up things - am I allowed to say that?" 

     You didn't even realize you said it at first, and you thought it was stupid that you had to monitor your language with all this newfound fame or during interviews even though there was literally a naked scene in the movie of both you and Sebastian, and countless language in the movie. Everyone laughed and you assumed you were okay, and continued on. 

     "I've just done so many fucked up things with people and even though what Sebastian's character and my character do in this film isn't necessarily fucked up but is very deep and just grim, it's still not so bad. I just think overall nothing really scared me. I didn't really think about how famous everyone was until I was getting to know everyone and I realized I was seeing Sebastian outside of like, Gossip Girl and the Marvel movies so it was more strange than scary. But no, there were some things that scared me a little. But like Seb said, I definitely wasn't scared to do a lot of stuff."

     "That means she was very willing to scream in my face and slap me," Sebastian nodded into the microphone, faking dread.

Everyone laughed and you nudged him playfully, and the interviewer carried on with another question,

     "What were some things that did put you out of your comfort zone?"

     "Well, just like, the very intimate scenes, just because I'd never done much of that since beforehand I was always in short films and indie movies and plays. But clearly it wasn't that bad."

     "My favorite part," Sebastian added, joking yet again and eliciting more laughter, and you just pointed your thumb at him, smiling wide.

     "I'd just like to know, how much of that intimacy has been carried out into your real life relationships with each other? Please, both of you are open to answer,” another asked.

     "Well I- you wanna go?" Sebastian faced you, and without meaning to, a smile crept onto your lips as you gazed at him and shook your head contently,

     "You can go."

Sebastian just smiled at you and took his bottom lip into his mouth, holding his gaze at you for longer than he should've before he answered the question,

     "Well YN and I have hate sex every night, just like in the film.”

The audience roared with laughter and your face heated up. If you were alone you’d push him off his chair only to hold out a hand for him to grab onto and get back onto his feet again. You side eyed him with a mischievous smirk and he just smiled and laughed your way, then shook his head.

     “No, I’m kidding. But really though, sometimes it feels like we are a couple. Like without all the insane problems we went through during the movie but our intimacy is not too far off from what you see onscreen. She’s definitely very close to me now and I really only want to see good things for YN, she has a special place in my heart and I feel very proud to be watching her blossom like this, like I thought she would. She keeps me on my feet which is amazing considering how much longer I’ve been doing this than her. She’s really just... amazing.”

     Again you couldn’t help but feel flattered at his words, and knowing that he meant it and would say those things to you in private was so important to you. Even though you were now too busy cooing to give an cohesive answer, you answered as well,

    “Sebastian is actually the perfect coworker, especially for the first time working on such a project because he’s so lovely and so attractive.” Everyone laughed and Sebastian made the “call me” signal with his hand and mouthed it at you, making you giggle before you continued on. “Really though, everything he said I could say about him. He’s incredibly humble and never once doubted me, and is always giving me amazing advice and he feels like my mentor. And I think that’s the greatest form of intimacy anyone can really ever receive.”

     The interview continued on and the two of you had plenty of eye catching moments such as those, and at some points you just got caught up in each other’s conversations and drifted away from actually answering the question. You were acting like you were alone and having a one on one conversation, not in front of a hundred people.

     Even with all the flirty moments and the sincere gestures of appreciation towards each other, you couldn’t help but think you didn’t even need to date him to have a relationship connection. It came naturally for you two, a kind of friendship for soulmates.

Of course when you did start dating not long after, no one was really surprised.

[breanime]

Heartworm (Part Four)

Man, I never know how long any of my series are gonna be...but here’s Part Four! 

*gif not mine*

Billy felt like his whole body was tingling. He was here, in your home, with you. You let him in. You spoke to him like he was still…still himself. When he said he couldn’t remember something, you told him the memory he was missing. And you were so…you. Just the sound of your voice had been enough to bring tears to his eyes.

He rolled his neck, letting the warm water ease his aching muscles. They never let the temperature get past lukewarm in the hospital, they were committed to making every second there as unpleasant as possible. He rotated his shoulders next. That made sense, if he thought about it. It’s not like he was a regular guy in some average hospital; he was a murderer who was under constant surveillance. But he still didn’t know why…

He wanted to ask you, but the thought of you detailing his crimes to him made Billy feel sick. He licked his lips, swallowing water as he did so. He had kissed you, and you let him. A quick glance downwards showed that he was very excited at that small show of affection, but he wouldn’t dare push for more. To Billy, you were still his. You would always be. But he knew, in his messed-up head, that you weren’t his anymore, and what’s worse: he let you go. Still, he didn’t like the look of that guy in the picture, the one with his arm around you. Billy should be the only man to touch you, to be close to you. He should be the one to provide for you and protect you and… Billy’s train of thought was interrupted when he noticed some of the water from the shower was leaking onto the floor. He took a look around, taking stock of the maintenance and aesthetic issues. The building itself wasn’t that old, as far as Billy could tell, but your apartment could definitely use some improvements. He scowled. If he hadn’t been such an asshole, if he would have been here with you… Maybe it wasn’t too late. Maybe he still had a chance with you, maybe he could make things right.

Billy weighed his chances as he finished cleaning up. He thought about what he would do if you called the police as he turned the water hotter. He considered how he could get some money in your hands—he was pretty certain the government had hold of his assets, but he knew himself. He always had contingency plans in place. Billy watched, detached, as Arthur’s blood circled the drain. All Billy had were the clothes you gave him, his mask, the knife he took from the asshole from the bus, and some singles he took off of Arthur. He went over the places he might have some money hidden but wasn’t sure if it was worth going all over the city for. Billy got out of the shower a little reluctantly; it was so warm, and it had been so long since he’d had a proper shower. But getting out meant he could see you, and that got him moving quickly.

He paused when he saw his reflection in the mirror. The scars were stark against his skin. He was impressed with how well you reacted to them. He had expected horror, disgust, maybe even a little dash of pity, but you had just glanced over them without a second thought. Billy shrugged on his clothes and surveyed himself in the mirror. He was thinner than he had been, but his muscles were more defined. He pulled at the Anvil shirt, wondering when his company had gotten so big that it warranted having clothes with the logo on them. Billy frowned when he noticed your bathroom mirror was askew and wouldn’t close all the way. He messed around with it for a while and came to the conclusion that the cabinet the mirror was connected to wasn’t the same size as the mirror. Who the hell was your contractor? Billy’s frown deepened as he glared at the water on the floor. He bought you this place? Then it hit him: the place was probably fine, top-notch even, four years ago when he got it for you. Clearly it had deteriorated, and Billy knew for a fact that you couldn’t afford a nice, new place in this area on your salary alone. Billy hummed to himself. He had an idea.

You weren’t in the living room when Billy finished in the bathroom. He turned when he heard movement in the kitchen and felt himself grow weak at what he saw. You were standing in front of the stove with your hair pulled back. There was a plate on the table next to a glass of water. He inhaled deeply; Billy loved your cooking, and it smelled like home.

“Hey,” you greeted him casually, “I made you something to eat.”

“Yeah,” he said, a tint of awe clear in his voice, “Uh, thanks.” He sat down at the table, pulling his knees close. Billy tried to commit everything he saw, smelt, and felt to memory. He didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to live this fantasy, and he wanted to be able to relive it as much as he could in his head. He watched you move around the kitchen and was hit with the strangest déjà vu…

“You know,” Billy was sitting on the kitchen table, grinning over at you, “give it a few months, and we’ll be able to hire a professional chef to cook for us.”

You giggled, cutting the stove off and turning to regard your boyfriend. You were wearing one of his old shirts, a look he loved on you. “I thought you liked my cooking.”

“I love it,” he held his hand out, grin widening when you moved into his space, “but I want to take care of you.”

“You do,” you wrapped your arms around his shoulders, “You always put so much stock in money, Billy. We’re not doing so bad.”

He scoffed. “We’re living in a one-room apartment that’s only one broken outlet away from being a crackhouse, you work like a dog every day of the week, and I’m up to my ass in paperwork trying to get clearance to start a damn contracting business and we’re not doing so bad?”

You kissed his cheek, and Billy relaxed against you. “You’re so dramatic,” you chuckled, “How about we have something to eat, and then you take me to bed in our horrible one-room apartment, and we can ignore the paperwork together?”

Billy had laughed then, he couldn’t help it. He captured your lips in a sweet, deep kiss and thought to himself: I would do anything for this woman.

Billy blinked, looking down at his plate. The memory came out of nowhere. The emotions were so real and raw, it felt like his heart was going to burst out of his chest. He looked back up at you and his muscle memory conjured up the feel of you in his arms, of the way your lips felt against his while you laughed into the kiss, of the warmth he felt when he was buried inside you, making you both scream with pleasure. Suddenly he felt so lonely, so lost. You were staring at him across the kitchen, but it felt like you were a world away. He ate in silence; the food was delicious, much better than what he was given in the hospital, but he couldn’t let himself get too comfortable. He had a plan, he needed to make sure—no matter what happened to him, no matter if the cops took him out or the skull did—that you would be taken care of.

“So,” your voice brought Billy back to reality, “how was it?”

Billy looked down at his plate. He had eaten it all and not even realized it. He licked his lips. “Good,” he cleared his throat, “I, uh, I really appreciate it, Y/N.”

“You don’t have to keep thanking me,” you leaned against the kitchen counter, “But, um, Billy? Can I ask you something?”

He sat up. “Yeah, of course. Ask me anything,” he shrugged, “I don’t remember a lot, but some things are coming back to me.”

“Yeah? Like what?”

He put his hand through his hair. “I remember our place, the one before the penthouse,” he clarified, “you helped me with the paperwork,” he popped the collar of his shirt, “for Anvil.”

“Yeah,” you smiled softly, and Billy melted, “you were so anal about how we filled out every application. You were so excited.”

“I remember some things about Anvil,” he confessed, “it comes and goes, but I know we started getting more contracts and the staff was growing…”

“It ended up being really successful,” you said, “All the big-name companies and rich guys were falling over themselves trying to hire you. You even had contracts outside of the U.S. It was really impressive.”

“Wasn’t worth losing you, though,” he said, staring over at you. “I don’t… I don’t know how I let myself throw you away, I…” He shook his head. “You were the only thing that made me happy, made me worth anything. I mean, you, and Curt, and Frankie are my family,” he didn’t miss the way you flinched at his words. Interesting. “What were you gonna ask me?”

You didn’t miss a beat. “I always wanted to know how you paid for Anvil. You told me you used the money you got from the Marines, but I always thought that was a lie…”

“It was,” he answered quickly, “I didn’t want you to know,” his foot was tapping now, “The shit I did to get that money… It was bad, Y/N. It was bloody and violent…but,” he took a breath, “I wanted the money, so I did it.”

“What did you do?” Your voice was only a few degrees above a whisper.

Billy swallowed. Things were still hazy in his head, still fractured, but this he remembered. “There was this guy…he had really deep pockets. He hired me to assassinate a few people overseas, help him overthrow a few governments, shit like that. Called himself Agent Orange,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “I met him in Afghanistan; me and Frank knew he was dirty the moment we met him, but he had what I needed.” The sound of his foot tapping was starting to make his head hurt, but Billy couldn’t stop himself. “I never told Frank what I did.” You looked away from him. “I’m sorry.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Don’t… You don’t have to apologize,” you said, “I asked you a question and you answered it. I just… Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you want me to know?”

Billy’s head was pounding now. He rolled his neck, trying to relax himself. He wanted to answer you, if nothing else, Billy wanted to be able to give you at least that. But he didn’t know. He remembered lying to you, remembered deciding not to tell you about Agent Orange, but he couldn’t figure out why. He knew himself well enough to know that he didn’t want you to look at him differently, to be afraid of him or disgusted by his greed, but he also knew he trusted you. He loved you, and you loved him once. Billy told you everything about his life, but he for some reason didn’t tell you this one thing. Why? What made this any worse than any of his other failings or shady deals? He clenched his fists on his bouncing knees. “I can’t remember,” he said through clenched teeth, “I—I know there was a reason, and it’s not, it’s not that I didn’t trust you. I did. I do, I… I can’t remember…” He put his head in his hands. “Why can’t I remember?” He squeezed his eyes shut.

You were kneeling in front of him when he opened his eyes again. “Hey,” your voice was low but firm, “it’s okay. You don’t have to remember right now, Billy.” Carefully, as if you were afraid you’d hurt him, you put a hand on his knee. “Can we talk about something else?” He nodded, not taking his eyes off of you. “Let’s talk about tonight. I have to work in the morning, but I want you to stay.” You licked your lips and Billy’s eyes tracked the movement. “Please stay.”

He stared down at you, heart beating in his chest. He put a hand over yours on his knee. “I will,” he promised, and he meant it, “but I have to go somewhere in the morning.”

“Where?”

He shook his head. “I’ll come back, but I gotta handle something first.”

You stood up, frowning over at him. “Handle what?”

Billy sighed. “I don’t want to argue with you.”

“Then don’t. Just tell me what you’re planning.” You said back.

“I have to check on some things,” he explained, “there’s questions I have that you can’t answer.”

“Try me.”

Billy sighed again. He knew what that look on your face meant; his memories were fractured, but he would always remember that determined look on your face. He loved that look. “Y/N,” he said carefully, “I’m going to look into some of my old contacts, see what I can find out. It could be dangerous, but,” he looked you in the eye, “I promise I’ll come back.” He watched your body relax a little bit and had to stop himself from getting up and pulling you towards him. It wasn’t his place anymore. He wanted to…but it wasn’t his place.

“I can come with you,” you offered.

He shook his head, standing up and taking a few careful steps towards you. He would be lying if he said he wasn’t relieved that you didn’t back away from him. “I need to do this alone,” he explained, “but I swear, I’ll come back, Y/N.”

“But what if you don’t? You said you escaped, and you already killed someone—the police are probably looking for you…”

“They won’t find me,” Billy took another step towards you, and you let him, “But we should talk about what we should do if they do.” He took a breath. “You’re gonna have to tell them I kidnapped you or held you hostage or something.”

“Right,” you moved over to the sink, so your back was facing Billy, “Anyway, you should get to rest. You can have the bed, I’ll sleep on the couch—”

“—That’s not happening,” he stepped back and leaned against the table, “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“Fine,” you didn’t argue, “I have to leave early, but I’ll leave you a key…” You looked down at your hands before bringing your eyes up to meet Billy’s. “…since you’re coming back.”

Billy smiled. You brought him some blankets and a pillow and helped him set up a sleeping space in the living room. It took everything in him not to touch you as you stood shoulder-to-shoulder, to hold you close to him when you said goodnight, to bring his lips to yours, to press you close to him and drag you onto his couch-bed with him. But he didn’t. He knew better. Billy was a selfish man, but he also knew how to be grateful. It would have been enough just to see you, but you gave him more—you always did. He thought about his memories with you and what you’d told him about your breakup. He wanted—so badly—to have another chance with you, to make everything up to you, to provide for you and protect you. But Billy lived in the realm of reality, he knew he could want those things all the livelong day—and he did—but wanting and having were worlds apart. He knew that. Billy folded his hands over his stomach as he stared up at the ceiling. He tried to be happy in the moment, but he couldn’t help the anxiety creeping in. He wanted to stay there with you, to shut out the rest of the world and forget about the pain, his scars, the skull…but he knew that would never happen. At best: he would have this night with you, his last memories of your smile and the feel of your soft lips against his, of the way you said his name, how you looked at him with love even after everything he’d done…

At worst: this would be the last time he saw you. He couldn’t place the feeling, but his instincts told him that there was a chance that, after he left in the morning, he might not make it back like he promised. He had no idea what he’d done to earn his scars or the pain they brought him, but he knew someone who did. Someone who would tell him the truth, no matter how ugly. Someone who he knew wouldn’t be afraid of him or try to call the cops. Someone he loved…

…but he had no idea how Curtis would react to him.

**********************************************************************************

I know this chapter was kind of filler, but let me know what you thought of it. Also, I know some of you have sent in requests, and I think I might be able to address some of them in this series--I’ll tag you if/when I do that. Requests, by the way, are still open, they’re just slow. Thanks for reading!

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[if-you-fan-a-fire]

“By the mid-1920s Hulbert could boast that over 75 percent of the prisoners at Jackson were gainfully employed, half of them on projects outside the prison walls. The mainstay of prison industry at Jackson was the binder twine plant, originally established in 1907 as an experiment in state-account production. A new mixture of sisal, manila, and hemp made the quality of Jackson twine extremely competitive in the early 1920S, and Hulbert ran the plant "night and day" to produce 14 million pounds a year. Most of this was sold out of state, through agents and consignments across the northwest, and, while there was significant annual variation, profits averaged around $90,000 a year. Hulbert expanded the brush shop, producing over fifty kinds of brushes and brooms for sale to hardware stores and wholesale suppliers; he started up a tombstone and marker shop, expanded production in the chair factory to over three hundred kinds of furniture, and added a cot factory, manufacturing the steel frames for folding beds. He developed an aluminum stamping operation, making utensils for sale to institutions across the country; he started up a brick and tile works at Onondaga and took over control of the Chelsea Cement Plant, which with the boom in highway construction was earning a profit of $180,000 by 1925; he expanded the output of the cannery, marketing over four hundred thousand cans of vegetables a year to groceries and institutions, and added a cider works that made vinegar for commercial sale. Under Hulbert's hand Michigan took a lead in that new, now universal staple of prison production, the manufacture of license plates and road signs for the state; he invested over $60,000 in new stamping and enameling equipment, and, while output was largely for "state use" in Michigan, he stood ready to take orders from states as far away as Vermont. But it was the textile plant upon which Hulbert lavished most hope, attention, and capital. After a visit to Pennsylvania in 1922, Hulbert convinced his superiors of the potential for making cotton cloth and turning out shirts, sheets, toweling, and other staples both for state institutions and for sale on the open market. He even explored the possibility of a direct trade between Michigan and prison systems in the South that raised cotton with convict labor, exchanging raw materials for finished goods. By the end of his tenure Hulbert had invested nearly $150,000 in plant and equipment for textile production. 

In all of this Hulbert was quite in step with national trends. Binder twine, textiles, and license plates emerged, along with commercial farming, as the leading lines of prison production across the country by the early 1920s. Hulbert took to attending national conferences as an expert on prison industry, extolling-at times rather incoherently-the innovations and successes of the Michigan system. As he described them, the problems he faced were familiar ones to his colleagues in the American Prison Association: finding product lines that did not compete too openly with local or state industries but for which there was a good market; developing operations that did not require complex machinery or skilled labor; and establishing a method of bookkeeping that covered the cost of mate- rials and equipment, provided for the upkeep of the labor force, and paid some sort of wage to inmate workers as well as salaries to super- visors, guards, and sales staff-without dissolving all profits into overhead. There were tricky trade-offs here, which Hulbert, for the most part, finessed with various kinds of accounting fraud and legerdemain. His "main thought," he said, was "to put inside of prison walls factories that would be a profit to the state."

But there was a good deal more: "My dear Governor," he wrote in making his case for a textile plant, 

there is a great possibility of expansion in this industry and at any time that you want to talk with me, I would be very glad to go over the situation with you as I think we can put Michigan's prison industries on the map so that when you leave office the state will look up to you as doing something that no other Governor ever did.

What Hulbert had in mind was to insure that Jackson prison was able to pay for itself. As we have seen, the dream of self-sufficiency was widely shared among early advocates of prison industrialization in the 1920s; their model was the Minnesota State Prison at Stillwater, which was the other leading producer of prison-made binder twine in the country, as well as of farm equipment, and which made claims of profitability that were legendary in the profession, though never adequately documented. There was nothing particularly outrageous in Hulbert's ambition; Jackson prison had managed to cover expenses from industrial profits off and on for years and, most recently, during Simpson's wartime administration. The trick that Hulbert had to turn was to sustain a rapid expansion of profits in step with a burgeoning inmate population. Groesbeck was apparently always skeptical of Hulbert's lavish promotions and blatant ambitions, but he had no reason to refuse Hulbert enough leeway to chase his dream of a self- sustaining penitentiary. In 1921 the governor struck a deal with his warden: the state would provide $300,000 from the General Fund for operating Jackson prison in each of the next four years (1922-25), and Hulbert agreed to meet the balance of operational expenses from the profits of prison industries. 

This gave Hulbert, briefly, in 1922, 1923, and 1924, a virtual carte blanche to pursue his dreams. His superiors on the commission, knowing that he had the governor's endorsement, made him head of Michigan Prison Industries in 1923, a post that doubled his income and expanded his powers, and they approved all the equipment purchases and improvements of facilities that the warden recommended. There was no sign in these years of an impending move to a new prison, as Hulbert invested $450,000 in developing the plant and equipment of the old prison facility, actually spending more on industrial buildings than on additional dormitories for the growing inmate population. And there was a general inclination in Lansing to ignore a rising chorus of complaints about Hulbert's energetic efforts to boost sales. A former warden of Stillwater prison was hired as sales manager for binder twine, earning $25,000 a year in salary and commissions to develop markets out of state. Although the man was clearly an "expert" in the field, not a few Michigan Republicans felt they had been cut out of a lucrative post. More troublesome was the grumbling of businessmen around the state as they ran across the new competitor in town: food and hardware wholesalers complained that Prison Industry salesmen were undercutting their markups by going straight to retailers with lower prices; grocers complained that some competitors were being allowed to carry extensive credit (including the husband of one of Hulbert's secretaries, who opened a grocery in Jackson on what amounted to a subsidy from prison industries); two hard- ware stores in one small town protested that they had both been given "exclusive" rights to prison-made utensils and brushes on con- dition that they place a large order.129 There was nothing illegal in any of this: the state was in business, and good business often involved deals at the expense of loyal taxpayers and Republican voters. Thus, when Mack and Company of Ann Arbor made inquiries about furniture prices from Prison Industries, in connection with a big sale to a  fraternity house, and then found that a salesman from the prison had gone straight to the fraternity house and sold the furniture at a better price, Mack and Company could not complain about the business practices of Prison Industries, but it could insist, through political channels, that the prison keep out of its business. 

Hulbert's business antics were the result not only of his personal ambition and braggadocio but of his deal with the governor. Ultimately, this proved his undoing. While his efforts to foster jobs made him, in the eyes of the Prison Commission, an ideal warden -"the discipline of the prison has been excellent. No outbreaks, mutinies or riots have occurred" - his financial arrangement with Groesbeck forced him into a heedless expansion, committing more and more resources to prison industry in order to boost output and sales. Yet he could never keep up with his obligations. The rapid increase in prison population after 1922 drove up the annual cost of maintenance, from $675,000 in 1922 to $840,000 in 1925. At the same time, Hulbert poured nearly $300,000 into new equipment and another $150,000 into structures for his expanding industries. Perhaps inevitably, start- up delays plagued the textile plant, which lost $63,000 in its first three years of operation, while a statewide boycott of bricklayers, responding to appeals from private manufacturers, brought production at the Onondaga facility to a standstill in 1925. Hulbert met his obligations in 1922, but, thereafter, industries at Jackson failed to come up with its share of operating costs until 1926, when it paid $148,000 against an accrued deficit to the General Fund that now totaled over $1.3 million. This was the biggest operating debt the prison had ever sustained. Hulbert's financial difficulties angered the governor, who wrote the resident commissioner at Jackson, Mark Merriman, that "the business end of this institution has not been properly looked after." Under political pressure from his enemies, as we have seen, Groesbeck was forced to conduct an audit of prison industry books. What the accountants found was a "real mess," and, while nothing was ever said officially or publicly, Robert Davidson, the accountant in charge, attributed the mess to a "willful manipulation" of the accounts. After meetings with the auditors in Detroit and several heated exchanges with Hulbert, Groesbeck let his warden know that "his resignation was looked for." The governor was engaged in a salvage operation, trying, as we saw, to protect his political position against the sniping of his enemies; by removing Hulbert as warden, he prevented a legislative investigation or legal proceedings and probably salvaged Hulbert's reputation. But the warden had him- self also been engaged in a cover-up; he had launched an ambitious expansion of prison industries and promised great profits, yet he was unable to meet his obligations under the operating agreement with the governor. Trying to show a profit while explaining his inability to pay forced the warden to "cook" his books, and in a prison it was not hard to find experts skilled in juggling accounts and fixing the books. The inmate in charge of industrial records, an accountant by profession and a convicted embezzler, could of course explain the elaborate ploys of double bookkeeping-twine sent out on consignment was designated "sold" and entered as profit, the nonexistent cash was entered as accounts relievable or unpaid, and merchandise recovered from the jobber was then logged as inventory on hand-but, on balance, he had to admit "the whole accounting system was a fraud and a delusion."

Always running just ahead of the game, Hulbert carved out a good career for himself and made his contribution to three Groesbeck electoral victories. When he finally tripped up, it was not because the goal itself was discredited but because Groesbeck had lost faith in Hulbert's methods, or, more exactly, was no longer able to shield those methods from hostile scrutiny. Locked in a close primary fight, the governor had to avoid the taint of corruption or waste. But he still needed Hulbert and so transferred him down the road to the new prison project that the warden had begun in 1924 largely as an extension of his efforts to keep his retainers and charges fully employed. The scale of this project, and its annual budget, was a good deal larger than Prison Industries, and, while Hulbert took a cut in salary when he gave up his posts as warden and director of Industries, he had, as we saw, ample scope in the construction project for his rest- less energies and ambitions. From what we know of his activities on the site, Hulbert did not slow down or change his habits in the least. His instincts for empire building were fully engaged on the building project and quite in step with, and of use to, Groesbeck in his battle for political survival during 1925-26. 

Yet, while Hulbert's conduct at the new construction site expressed both his continuing personal ambitions and his determination to serve his longtime political mentor, his drive to build a bigger and better prison may have also been an effort to solve the problems of profitability that he had encountered at the old prison and that had wrecked his deal with Groesbeck. Hulbert forged ahead with his dream of a completely industrialized, self-sufficient penitentiary. Indeed, to his way of thinking the failure to meet his obligations under the pact with Groesbeck had been due entirely to the rapid rise in the operational costs of the old prison. The growing number of inmates had strained the capacity of the old facility and had forced him to distribute his population to the farms, dormitory annexes, road camps, and factories outside the walls, thus greatly increasing the costs of guarding and feeding his charges. Moreover, the effort to expand productive facilities and jobs within the old main prison had run up against limitations of space and antiquated structures, raising at every turn the start-up costs for new operations. Even with these impediments to success, and despite the rigidities of his deal with Groesbeck, Hulbert could claim that Prison Industries had managed to make a total profit of nearly one million dollars under his direction and, from these proceeds, to finance entirely the purchase of new plant and equipment for expansion. Such a return from an old, dilapidated prison gave fair promise that a new prison might be able to sustain itself, provided enough land, labor, and machinery could be brought together and used effectively. There was no necessary limit to the size of such an operation. Indeed, in an era when Henry Ford was achieving notable efficiencies and highly publicized economies of scale at his mammoth new River Rouge plant, it was not difficult for Hulbert to conclude that a larger facility and greater concentration of men and equipment might serve the ends of economy and even, eventually, of self-sufficiency. Reasoning in this way made the grandiose seem practicable.

It was also politically persuasive. We may consider Hulbert foolish or blindly ambitious to commit himself to creating a self-supporting, industrial prison. But, ultimately, as the terms of his deal with Groesbeck make clear, he never claimed that the prison did, or even would, pay for itself, only that it ought to try. It was (if the word is not too solemn to apply to Harry Hulbert) his aspiration to make the prison a productive enterprise, and it was this that resonated politically. His goal was entirely in step with the role of punishment in the prohibition era. What, after all, was prohibition all about, if not to salvage and harness the energies of labor for production, to steer the shiftless into the orderly and disciplined ways of industrial life? What better use could prison make of the rising number of convicted bootleggers and mobsters, tavern keepers and moonshiners, than to put them to productive work? Correction or reformation was not the crux of the matter here, although Hulbert could talk a progressive line when called upon; at issue was the creation of a carceral practice that affirmed, through punishment, the social priorities of sobriety and industrial discipline and anchored the legitimacy of authority not in the policing of drunkards but in the construction of orderly and productive institutions capable of serving the people with efficiency and the most up-to-date methods. Cost-effective and businesslike administration were the perennial slogans of Groesbeck's campaigns. 

The new prison at Jackson was thus, in many ways, a monument to Harry Hulbert's persistent ambition and Alex Groesbeck's needs of the moment. The dreams of self-sufficiency, which served so well the ideology of punishment under prohibition and which seem to em- body the presumptive links between profit and uplift, and the requirements of patronage, which continually expanded outward the networks of obligation necessary to sustain competition for power at the center, joined to fashion this white elephant of corrections. Even the fiercest critics of Hulbert and Groesbeck had to admit that "the taxpayers of Michigan need not fear faulty design, workmanship, or  construction, as the work built to date is superfine." It was easy enough to complain that the single-man cells with hot-and-cold running water and "push button control vitreous china water closets" sported "more conveniences than in the rooms of some of our finest hotels." And the terrazzo floors and glazed brick walls seemed unnecessarily ostentatious for a penitentiary. Yet critics waxed wistful before the enormous walls that, however grandiose, would "be admired by those who know a beautiful piece of work when they see it." Ambition and self-aggrandizement had combined with the calculations of patronage and the pressures of political competition to produce high quality from great waste. As with some great enterprise of the ancien regime, the corruption that surrounded the construction of the new prison reflected, on the one hand, the expanding resources of the state and, on the other, the inadequacy of its institutional apparatus to control or manage the tasks it had undertaken. Graft and venality filled the gaps of incomplete state formation, and, while Fred Green might attack the corruption of the Groesbeck administration and Harry Jackson might shake his head at the heedless and high-handed ways of Harry Hulbert, the epigoni were not essentially different from their predecessors, reapplying the same appeals for efficiency and administrative accountability and replaying the same rules of political combat with, perhaps, a little more caution and a little less flamboyance.”

-Charles Bright, The Powers That Punish: Prison and Politics in the Era of the “Big House”, 1920-1955.Lansing: University of Michigan Press, 1996. pp. 84-93.

[lokisgame]

Enchanted Forest [8]

[part 1] [part 2] [part 3] [part 4] [part 5] [part 6] [part 7]

Water washed down her face and hair, breast and back, rinsing off last remnants of the dream, and leaving her with nothing but scraped raw logic and reason. She read too much last night. All the Faeries, gods and spirits filtered through her subconscious, mixed with fresh memories and emotional unease, and created this vision, a figment of her imagination. She never actually met Mulder before she was assigned to work with him, but Quantico was a big place, with agents coming and going all the time, from all places. BSU, VCS, ISU, Mulder worked with all of them, and there was a good chance they passed each other in the hallway, just as she passed thousands of people, every day over the twenty one weeks in training or even later, when she was teaching. Maybe she wondered about it, or maybe they even discussed it, killing time on some long, boring stakeout. It probably did happen.

The house on the other hand, troubled her more, slipping from memory the harder she tried to hold on. All she had left was the feeling of warmth, not just physical, but emotional. Safety of a place of her own.

Wrapped in a warm bathrobe, with a towel piled on top of her head, she sipped coffee and looked around her brightly lit apartment. All light wood and pale blue, pinstriped furniture, books neatly arranged in a bookshelf; this was her home, spacious and comfortable. Yet the feeling of arms around her and the warmth of fire in the hearth, stirred something inside her, that she didn't quite understand. She was happy with her freedom and life in general, was she not?Mulder's words echoed in her head, as if whispered in the darkness.

Dreams are answers to questions we haven't found out how to ask yet.

Waving off the thought, she dressed and locked the doors, thankful, that it was finally Friday.

She was about to take a sip of coffee, when Mulder came in, looking considerably better. Only evidence of his illness was the rare addition of a green scarf to his smile and the usual dark coat, dark suit, bad tie ensemble. "Hi." She said over the mug. "Hi yourself." He crossed the room in four long strides and rounded the desk, presenting her with a paper cup. "What's this?" "Triple, venti, half sweet, non-fat, caramel macchiato." She was smiling before he reached the half-sweet part. "You noticed." Mulder grinned and reached into his coat pocket, producing a small paper bag with a flourish, "and, a cookie." Scully laughed, popping the lid on her drink. "Keep it." "Thanks." It was what she always ordered, when felt like treating herself, including the chocolate chip cookie she got for Mulder. "How are you doing?" "Only slightly used," he said, going back to hang up his coat, "thanks for the soup." "You're welcome." "I owe you lunch," he added, taking her usual chair and accepting the coffee she didn't need anymore. "Coffee's fine." Scully watched him break the cookie in half, so they could share it, also part of the ritual. "What did you mean by Yule, yesterday I didn't have a chance to ask." "Some believe," he explained, reaching out and letting her pick the piece she liked, "that on the night that Christians celebrate as Christmas Eve, Anglo-Saxon and Germanic peoples used to celebrate Mother's Night or Mōdraniht." "An event dedicated to female deities, usually appearing in trios," she said, cookie half way to her mouth, filling in the gaps for him, "like Matres and Matronae." "Or like victims in our case. A pattern appearing often in many religions, not only in Europe, but here I'd focus mostly on the Scandinavian Norns, goddesses of fate." "Wyrd, Verdandi and Skuld, past, present and future." "Exactly," wiping crumbs with the side of his hand, he took a sip of coffee, before continuing. "Some believe, that sacrifices might have occurred during the event, possibly currying favour." "And you think that the dead body was part of some ritual?" Mulder shrugged, noncommittal. They both knew the statistics on murder and the occult. "If you know of any Wicca practitioners that suddenly became vampires, I'm all ears." Scully snorted and bit into the cookie, keeping the dream to herself. "Anyway, these are just loose theories, and since they found only one body this year and that suicide note." "We might have another year, before any new evidence shows up." "Not that I would wish that on anyone, but I guess, yeah." He washed down the rest of the cookie with coffee and smiled. "So, you did anything interesting last night?" "Nothing special," she said, but grinned suddenly, holding up one finger. "What?" Mulder watched her disappear into the backroom for a second, just to come back with another plastic box. "I was going to bring this to you later, but you're here, so." He took the box and opened it, smelling cinnamon and vanilla crust, apple pie. "My mom says hi." Without thinking twice, he drew her closer, sneaking one arm around her waist. "Thanks," he said softly and rested his cheek against her blazer. Scully stroked his hair, as the seconds stretched longer and longer, each one more comfortable than the last. She was growing used to his touch, shape and feeling of his arms. Something was shifting inside her, tipping scales of her inner balance, just a little off to where ever Mulder was. Combing fingers through his hair one last time, she realised they felt soft and silky smooth, exactly like her dream fox's fur.

Having Mulder close, helped Scully focus a little more easily. He sniffled his way through the day with just an occasional cough shaking the office, as he sat by the desk going through books, just as she had the day before. Lunch hour came and went, lost among clicking of keyboards and rustle of pages. Finishing the case report and wrapping some overdue ones as well, Scully felt like she did an honest day's work, and was about to put away a few case files in the cabinet, when Mulder came in, unexpectedly. She never noticed him leave. "Did you know it's snowing again?" He said, combing fingers through damp hair. Looking up, she saw fine, white dust gathering in the corners of the skylights, where wind couldn't blow it out. Mulder pushed a salad it into her hands. "This isn't the lunch I promised, but let's take a break." "Thanks." Scully smiled and took a seat on her side of the desk. "You okay?" She asked, above the crackling of plastic. "Better." Mulder unwrapped his sandwich and bit into it, the scent of bacon hit her from five feet away. "You should eat more vegetables, you know," she admonished. "I see lettuce and tomatoes here," he mumbled, glancing at the sandwich, "those are still vegetables, right?" "You know what I mean." Scully sighed, but his witty reply was cut off by a chirping cellphone. Holding up one finger, he answered the call. "Mulder." Grunting affirmatives, he listened for a moment then scribbled a few words on a post-it. Cryptic, monosyllabic conversations weren't unusual, but something didn't sit right with Scully this time, telling her to add a new item to the list of possible unidentified callers. But he was sick, he shouldn't be working, that would be… "Okay, I'll be there." He finished and hung up, folding the post-it and putting it away with the phone, before going back to his late lunch. Halfway from another bite, he noticed her staring. "What?" "Nothing," Scully looked away, suddenly very interested in proper distribution of low fat dressing, "nothing." "Poker night with the Gunmen," Mulder said casually. Nodding, but unable to force herself to look up, awkwardness welled inside her against all reason. Irrational fears were just that, irrational, but why did she feel like he wasn't perfectly honest this time?

Large tub of ice cream landed in her cart when she did her customary Friday night grocery run. Some said that diamonds were a girl's best friends, but since she was on a mere g-woman's salary, she had to make do with second best. Who said she didn't love herself. She even planned to rent The Exorcist, to make the night perfectly perfect. Mulder had plans and so did she. Her only dilemma was, should she take a bath before or after the movie. She took a good few minutes at the store, trying to decide between another batch of good, old, lavender-vanilla and neroli-bergamot. Something about that sweet, citrus fragrance made her smile and she told herself not to think too much. Not about the bath, the ice cream or the movie, or the fact that she was going home to an empty house, on a snowy Friday evening, when even Mulder had plans. Plans, she wasn't at all suspicious about, plans that involved him, three guys and a deck of cards; probably some tacos as well. All the onions and chilli peppers, she felt beginnings of heartburn just thinking about them. The chilli peppers, not the men. He couldn't be working that other job of his, not with a cold, that would be unsanitary, and unprofessional, and unsexy. Mulder sneezing at someone's… The image made her giggle, and earned her a curious stare from the woman waiting in front of her in the checkout line. No, definitely shouldn't think about Mulder and other women, even like that.

The movie didn't hold her interest, not as it used to anyway. She even turned the volume down low, all the screaming and chanting starting to get on her nerves. The ice cream came and went, while a forgotten bottle of wine she found in the fridge, kept calling her name. White, semi-sweet, light as a feather. Since it was a thank you gift from a neighbour, who's kid got sick and she just happened to be home that evening, she was saving it for some nice dinner occasion. But the longer she thought about it, the more she realised, that she didn't really see that nice dinner happening. Her mother visited rarely, Missy even rarer, actually, when she saw her family, it was at her mother's. Friends moved on, disappearing in the loving arms of families of their own, while she kept working and traveling. Even Mulder, found a way to spice up his life, break out of the routine. It was her, who stayed behind. Was she really the boring one? No, she was most definitely not. She opened the bottle and ran the bath.

Much better. Scully thought, letting the warm water take her in, a glass of wine dangling from her hand in soft candlelight. This felt good, simple and warm, and the wine was indeed divine. She savoured the crispness and breathed in the sweet scent of bath salts, letting her head fall back and her mind wander aimlessly. Surrounded by calm, memories began to float around her head. First came the weight, of his arm around her, then of him in her arms. He didn't try any tricks or dirty moves, utterly undemanding, even when he asked her to lie down beside him, he asked for nothing but the warmth of her body. For all the years of flirting, when it came to the real deal, he was disarmingly honest, blurring the lines just enough to get what he needed, and if she told him no, he would respect that. Not that she would, when he was shivering and looking at her with those eyes, and giving her that cute pout. Mulder was strong, intelligent and capable, but when the lights were out, when they were alone, he was a dreamer, a romantic, chasing romantic ideas no matter how far they would take him. She admired it, respected it, stopped it if she had too, but most of all, she loved it. As aggravating and dangerous it might be, Mulder was a challenge and she loved that about him. But how could she miss that whole other job of his? Why didn't he tell her earlier, apart from the obvious. He said he liked it, that the women cared about him, but why didn't he come to her. Didn't she care enough? She risked her life for him more times that she could count, without even stopping to think about it, but still, he searched for solace in somebody else's arms. What if this was his way to cope, to unwind? What if he was doing it tonight? What if the poker night was just a front, a code, to keep the secret from her all along. The phone stared at her from a shelf above the tub, brought in case someone called. Scully picked it up and stared back, at the keys. She knew the number by heart, didn't even need Mulder's perfect recall for it, and on an impulse, dialled. The phone rang, two, three times… "Lone Gunman," Frohike answered, sounding businesslike as usual. "Hi," she said, realising she was in a tub, naked. "It's Scully, could you turn off the recorder?" "Why hello, Agent Scully," his tone turned into something that supposed to fall under alluring, but could only be considered endearingly embarrassing. "Done as per your request, what else can I do for you?" Uncontrollable urge to cover herself up made her sit up, but she did it very slowly, afraid the sloshing water might give the game up. "Ummm," her cheeks burned. What has come over me? "Is Mulder there?"

On the other side of town, Frohike sighed and poked Mulder's shoulder with a wooden spoon. "It's for you," he said, waiting for him to swallow the bite of taco he just started. "The good doctor." Mulder licked his fingers from the last of salsa and took the phone. "Hey Scully, what's up?" "Hi," she said, voice faltering slightly, "how are you doing?" "Me? I'm fine," he smiled, popping a piece of green pepper into his mouth, "maybe five bucks behind, but I'll get that right back," he had to speak over the boo's and howls of the guys. "Why?" "It's nothing, just checking." "Are you okay, Scully? You didn't catch my cold, did you?" That silenced the Gunmen and good. Mulder could almost swear, he heard water sloshing on her end of the line. "No, no," she said, still a bit odd, "I'm fine." "Okay," he chuckled, definitely water sloshing. "I'm sorry for bothering you, have fun." "Thanks, and just so you know, you never bother me." That at least got a small laugh, she was acting kind of weird tonight. "Okay, goodnight." "Goodnight Scully." He hung up and went back to his food, grinning, under three pairs of curious eyes. Byers piped up first. "Why would Scully catch your cold?" "Not why, how." Langly corrected, when Mulder refused to look up. "You know I don't talk about that stuff." He said quietly. Collective howl shook the entire house that gave The Lone Gunman its' headquarters.

[finnishfun]

Suomen mestari 1. - New vocab

säästää - to save (money, etc.) lause - clause, sentence yöpyä - to stay the night, sleep somewhere hoikka - thin, slim kihara - curly kohtelias/epäkohtelias - polite/impolite parta - beard viikset - moustache komea - handsome suloinen - cute, sweet kihloissa - engaged ilmoittautua - to register, enroll nojatuoli - armchair viihtyisä - cozy leveä/kapea - wide/narrow kodikas - cozy, homely siisti - clean, neat; cool sotkuinen - messy asukas - resident Tuota... - Well... kunnolla - properly vuotaa - to leak, drip lossi - ferry raitiovaunu (ratikka) - tram rekka-auto - truck viipyä - to stay hapan - sour puolukka - lingonberry lakka, hilla - cloudberry kattila - cooking pot tarjotin - tray limu, limsa, limppari - soda, soft drink kypsä/raaka - cooked, baked / raw rasvainen/rasvaton - fatty/fat-free tulinen/mieto - spicy/mild läksiäiset - farewell party eksyä - to get lost (genitive+) ääressä - at (postposition, e.g. pöydän ääressä - at the table) palkka - pay, salary luvata - to promise neuvotella - to negotiate palaveri - meeting ruokala - canteen tauko - break (during work, class, etc.) neukkari (neuvotteluhuone) - meeting room putkimies - plumber postinjakaja - postman vahtimestari - doorman kiinteistövälittäjä - estate agent kirjanpitäjä - accountant kivennäisvesi - mineral water

Thanks @larjus and @languagesandshootingstars for the additions :)

[tomasorban]

The Hermetic Problem of Salt

Every individual rises again in the very form which his Work (in the alchemical sense) has fixed in the secret (esoteric) depth of himself.  

— SHAIKH  AHMAD  AHSA’I —

S I N C E   P A R A C E L S U S  (1493-1541), salt has played a role in alchemy as the physical “body” which remains after combustion, the corporeal substance that survives death to reinaugurate new life. It was both ‘corruption and preservation against corruption’ (Dorn); both the ‘last agent of corruption’ and the ‘first agent in generation’ (Steeb). As such, the alchemical salt functions as the fulcrum of death and revivification. The idea that the agent, instrument and patient of the alchemical process are not separate entities but aspects of one reality prefigures the significance accorded in this study to ‘the Hermetic problem of salt’. Just as in chemistry a salt may be defined as the product of an acid and a base, alchemically, salt is the integral resolution to the primordial polarities embodied in the mineral symbolique of cinnabar (HgS), the salt of sulphur and mercury. In the alchemy of René Adolphe Schwaller de Lubicz (1887-1961), salt forms the equilibrium between an active function (sulphur, divinity, peras) and its passive resistance (mercurial substance, prima materia, the apeiron), aspects which are latently present in the primordial (pre-polarised) unity, but crystallised into physical existence as “salt”. With Schwaller’s concept, one is dealing with a juncture of the metaphysical and proto-physical. As will be seen, however, this also inheres in the body as a fulcrum point of death and palingenesis.

Leap, Salve, Balsam

‘Salt arises from the purest sources, the sun and the sea’. —Pythagoras

In order to understand the nature of alchemical salt one must first understand the nature of common salt. In doing this, however, it is soon realised that salt is anything but common; like many everyday things, salt is so familiar that its singular peculiarity is taken for granted. Visser, in an extraordinary study of the elements of an ordinary meal, aptly encapsulates the cultural purview of salt in the following words:

Salt is the only rock directly consumed by man. It corrodes but preserves, desiccates but is wrested from the water. It has fascinated man for thousands of years not only as a substance he prized and was willing to labour to obtain, but also as a generator of poetic and of mythic meaning. The contradictions it embodies only intensify its power and its links with experience of the sacred.

European languages derive their word ‘salt’ from Proto-Indo-European *sāl- (*sēl-) reflected directly in Latin as sal, ‘salt, salt water, brine; intellectual savour, wit’, Greek hals, ‘salt, sea’ (cf. Welsh halen) and in Proto-Germanic as *saltom (Old English sealt, Gothic salt, German Salz). In addition to its mineral referent, sal also gives rise to a number of cognates that help crystallise its further semantic and symbolic nuances. Saltus, saltum, ‘leap’, derives from the verb salio, ‘leap, jump, leap sexually’, whence Saliī, ‘priests of Mars’ from the ‘primitive rites (practically universal) of dancing or leaping for the encouragement of crops’; saltāre, ‘dance’, salmo, ‘salmon’ (leaping fish), (in)sultāre, (‘insult’, literally ‘leap on, in’; figuratively, ‘taunt, provoke, move to action’), all from Indo-European *sēl-, ‘move forth, start up or out’, whence Greek ἁλλομαι, άλτo, ἁλμα (hallomai, halto, halma), ‘leap’; Sanskrit ucchalati (*ud-sal-), ‘starts up’. Importantly for the alchemical conception, alongside ‘leap’ one finds the meanings at the root of English ‘salve’ (balm, balsam), derived from Indo-European *sel-p-, *sel-bh-, and giving rise to Cyprian elphos (butter), Gothic salbōn, Old English sealfian; in Latin: salus, ‘soundness, health, safety’; salūbris, ‘wholesome, healthy’; salūtāre, ‘keep safe, wish health, salute’; salvus, ‘safe, sound’; salvēre, ‘be in good health’; salvē, ‘hail!’; cf. also *sēl-eu-; Avestan huarva, ‘whole, uninjured’; Sanskrit sarva-, sarvatāti, ‘soundness’ and Greek ὁλοειται, ὁλος (holoeitai, holos), ‘whole’. These meanings are further connected to solidus, sollus, sōlor, with an ultimate sense of ‘gathering, compacting’, hence ‘solidity’.

In addition to its salvific, balsamic and holistic aspect, which must be regarded as the meaning most central to the alchemical perception, the significance of salt as both ‘leap’ and ‘solidity’ must also be recognised as integral. In particular, it pertains to Schwaller’s conception of salt as the fixed imperishable nucleus (solidus) regarded as the hidden mechanism underpinning the ontological ‘leaps’ or mutations of visible evolution (contra the Aristotelian dictum, natura non facit saltum, ‘nature does not proceed by a leap’). For Schwaller, the seemingly disconnected leaps of biological mutation are in fact bound by a hidden harmony grounded in the saline alchemical nucleus.

Although it is the intention of this study to explore the deeper meaning of salt in the work of Schwaller de Lubicz—alchemically configured as the determiner of an entity’s form—a number of studies have pointed to the crucial role of salt as a significant shaper of civilisation. Perhaps the earliest point of departure for this is the fact that salt only rises to especial prominence with the emergence of an agricultural economy. Salt intake, initially bound to blood and meat, had to be supplemented. Comments Darby:

When man first learnt the use of salt is enshrouded in the mists of the remotest past. Parallel to the Ancient Greek’s ignorance of the seasoning, the original Indo-Europeans and the Sanskrit speaking peoples had no word for it. This apparent lack of salt-craving in early people could have been a result of their reliance on raw or roasted meat. Later, when with the invention of boiling the sodium content of meat was reduced, and when the shift to an agricultural economy introduced vegetables in increasing amounts, sodium chloride became a basic need to provide an adequate sodium intake and, more important still, to counterbalance the high potassium content of plants.

Commodity histories show that salt was not always the easily available resource it is today; it had to be striven for; it required effort and ingenuity (perhaps even wit). It created trade and war; it was used as pay and exploited as a tax. Nor did salt have the current stigma of being an unhealthy excess (a problem symptomatic of modern surfeit). Quite to the contrary, salt was typically a sign of privilege and prestige. ‘Salt like speech is essentially semiotic’, Adshead remarks; ‘As such it could convey a variety of meanings, of which the clearest in early times was social distance: high cooking, low cooking, above and below the salt’. Considerations such as these help contextualise many of the ancient values surrounding salt, some of which have become proverbial. In the New Testament, for instance, but also elsewhere, the sharing of salt (often with bread at a table), represented a deep bond of trust, of communal solidarity, while the spilling of it was considered a grave faux pas. Indeed, if salt was as freely available for liberal exploitation as it is today, such ethical and social implications would scarcely carry any weight at all.

Most of salt’s social meanings reflect its deepest functional value as a preservative. Just as salt keeps the integrity of plants and meats intact, so salt was seen to keep the integrity of a body of people together. As a prestige substance that could preserve food through the death of winter and bind people in communal solidarity, salt was highly regarded; during Roman times, salt even became a form of currency, whence our word ‘salary’ (from Latin salārium, ‘salt money’) after the Roman habit of paying soldiers in pieces of compressed salt (hence the phrase: ‘to be worth one’s salt’). Because of its integrating character, salt bridges opposites. Paradoxically, however, the more one attempts to pin salt down in a strictly rational manner, the more the contradictions it embodies abound.

‘There are totally different opinions concerning salt’, writes Plutarch (c. 46–120 CE), who preserves a number of contemporary beliefs, including the view that salt possesses not only preservative qualities, but animating and even generative power:

Some include salt with the most important spices and healing materials, calling it the real ‘soul of life’, and it is supposed to possess such nourishing and enlivening powers that mice if they lick salt at once become pregnant.

Consider also whether this other property of salt is not divine too […] As the soul, our most divine element, preserves life by preventing dissolution of the body, just so salt, controls and checks the process of decay. This is why some Stoics say that the sow at birth is dead flesh, but that the soul is implanted in it later, like salt, to preserve it […] Ships carrying salt breed an infinite number of rats because, according to some authorities, the female conceives without coition by licking salt.

The connection of salt to the soul, a balsam to the body, will be explored in more detail when the alchemical contexts of salinity are examined. Its fertilising, generative power, on the other hand, bears obvious comparison to salt’s known capacity to stimulate the growth of the earth—a leavening function extended to the role of the Apostles in the Christian Gospels: ‘Ye are the salt of the earth’. And yet too much salt will make the earth sterile.

In ancient times, offerings to the gods were made with salt among the Israelites: ‘with all thine offerings thou shalt offer salt’, but without salt among the Greeks: ‘mindful to this day of the earlier customs, they roast in the flame the entrails in honour of the gods without adding salt’. The Egyptian priests favoured rock salt in sacrifices as purer than sea salt; and yet ‘one of the things forbidden to them is to set salt upon a table’; they ‘abstain completely from salt as a point of religion, even eating their bread unsalted’. Although the Egyptians ‘never brought salt to the table’, Pythagoras, who according to the doxographic traditions studied in the Egyptian temples, tells us that:

It should be brought to the table to remind us of what is right; for salt preserves whatever it finds, and it arises from the purest sources, the sun and the sea.

The understanding of salt as a product of sun and sea, i.e. of fire and water, ouranos and oceanos, touches on its broader esoteric and cosmological implications, not all of which were peculiar to Pythagoras. These aspects become central in alchemy, where, as will be seen, salt acts as the earthly ligature between fire (sun) and water (sea), the arcane substance whose patent ambiguities stem from its role as embodiment and juncture of opposites: purity and impurity, eros and enmity, wetness and desiccation, fertility and sterility, love and strife. One thing that the present discussion of the mythological and historical aspects of salt hopes to emphasise is that none of these ideas are really born of speculation or abstraction; rather, they are all intimately linked to the basic phenomenology of the substance itself.

Above all, salt is ambiguous. While some of these ambiguities may be attributed to the unevenness of the sources, and while some points of contradiction may be cleared up upon closer examination (the negative Egyptian views on salt, for instance, mainly seem to apply to times of ritual fasting), this does not eclipse the overarching sense that salt, by its very nature, defies strict definition.

[islamic-finance]

Basic Features of Murabahah Financing

1. Murabahah is not a loan given on interest. It is the sale of a commodity for a deferred price which includes an agreed profit added to the cost.

2. Being a sale, and not a loan, the murabahah should fulfil all the conditions necessary for a valid sale, especially those enumerated earlier in this chapter.

3. Murabahah cannot be used as a mode of financing except where the client needs funds to actually purchase some commodities. For example, if he wants funds to purchase cotton as a raw material for his ginning factory, the Bank can sell him the cotton on the basis of murabahah. But where the funds are required for some other purposes, like paying the price of commodities already purchased by him, or the bills of electricity or other utilities or for paying the salaries of his staff, murabahah cannot be effected, because murabahah requires a real sale of some commodities, and not merely advancing a loan.

4. The financier must have owned the commodity before he sells it to his client.

5. The commodity must come into the possession of the financier, whether physical or constructive, in the sense that the commodity must be in his risk, though for a short period.

6. The best way for murabahah, according to Shari‘ah, is that the financier himself purchases the commodity and keeps it in his own possession, or purchases the commodity through a third person appointed by him as agent, before he sells it to the customer.

However, in exceptional cases, where direct purchase from the supplier is not practicable for some reason, it is also allowed that he makes the customer himself his agent to buy the commodity on his behalf. In this case the client first purchases the commodity on behalf of his financier and takes its possession as such. Thereafter, he purchases the commodity from the financier for a deferred price. His possession over the commodity in the first instance is in the capacity of an agent of his financier. In this capacity he is only a trustee, while the ownership vests in the financier and the risk of the commodity is also borne by him as a logical consequence of the ownership. But when the client purchases the commodity from his financier, the ownership, as well as the risk, is transferred to the client.

7. As mentioned earlier, the sale cannot take place unless the commodity comes into the possession of the seller, but the seller can promise to sell even when the commodity is not in his possession. The same rule is applicable to murabahah.

8. In the light of the aforementioned principles, a financial institution can use the murabahah as a mode of finance by adopting the following procedure:

Firstly: The client and the institution sign an overall agreement whereby the institution promises to sell and the client promises to buy the commodities from time to time on an agreed ratio of profit added to the cost. This agreement may specify the limit upto which the facility may be availed.

Secondly: When a specific commodity is required by the customer, the institution appoints the client as his agent for purchasing the commodity on its behalf, and an agreement of agency is signed by both the parties.

Thirdly: The client purchases the commodity on behalf of the institution and takes its possession as an agent of the institution.

Fourthly: The client informs the institution that he has purchased the commodity on his behalf, and at the same time, makes an offer to purchase it from the institution.

Fifthly: The institution accepts the offer and the sale is concluded whereby the ownership as well as the risk of the commodity is transferred to the client.

All these five stages are necessary to effect a valid murabahah. If the institution purchases the commodity directly from the supplier (which is preferable) it does not need any agency agreement. In this case, the second phase will be dropped and at the third stage the institution itself will purchase the commodity from the supplier, and the fourth phase will be restricted to making an offer by the client.

The most essential element of the transaction is that the commodity must remain in the risk of the institution during the period between the third and the fifth stage. This is the only feature of murabahah which can distinguish it from an interest-based transaction. Therefore, it must be observed with due diligence at all costs, otherwise the murabahah transaction becomes invalid according to Shari‘ah.

9. It is also a necessary condition for the validity of murabahah that the commodity is purchased from a third party. The purchase of the commodity from the client himself on ‘buy back’ agreement is not allowed in Shari‘ah. Thus murabahah based on ‘buy back’ agreement is nothing more than an interest based transaction.

10. The above mentioned procedure of the murabahah financing is a complex transaction where the parties involved have different capacities at different stages.

(a) At the first stage, the institution and the client promise to sell and purchase a commodity in future. This is not an actual sale. It is just a promise to effect a sale in future on murabahah basis. Thus at this stage the relation between the institution and the client is that of a promisor and a promise.

(b) At the second stage, the relation between the parties is that of a principal and an agent.

© At the third stage, the relation between the institution and the supplier is that of a buyer and seller.

(d) At the fourth and fifth stage, the relation of buyer and seller comes into operation between the institution and the client, and since the sale is effected on deferred payment basis, the relation of a debtor and creditor also emerges between them simultaneously. All these capacities must be kept in mind and must come into operation with all their consequential effects, each at its relevant stage, and these different capacities should never be mixed up or confused with each other.

11. The institution may ask the client to furnish a security to its satisfaction for the prompt payment of the deferred price. He may also ask him to sign a promissory note or a bill of exchange, but it must be after the actual sale takes place, i.e. at the fifth stage mentioned above. The reason is that the promissory note is signed by a debtor in favour of his creditor, but the relation of debtor and creditor between the institution and the client begins only at the fifth stage, whereupon the actual sale takes place between them.

12. In the case of default by the buyer in the payment of price at the due date, the price cannot be increased. However, if he has undertaken, in the agreement to pay an amount for a charitable purpose, as mentioned in para 7 of the rules of Bai’ Mu’ajjal, he shall be liable to pay the amount undertaken by him. But the amount so recovered from the buyer shall not form part of the income of the seller / the financier. He is bound to spend it for a charitable purpose on behalf of the buyer, as will be explained later in detail.