#sex: owner slave (s' down the line) relationship

[whereisthedamndaddymanual]

Look I don't know what the fuck antarctica is.

It's like stuff your ass ain't surviving past though

[artistic-writer]

The Contract :: CS Omegaverse :: Chapter 1

Title: The Contract Rating: E Summary: Emma had never wanted much in her life, despite being married to one of the richest men in the world. For ten years she has felt like a prisoner in her own marriage, denied the one thing she wants the most, but her husband cannot help but bargain her want like a cheap business deal.  Enter Killian Jones, the Alpha her husband has hired to make sure she gets what she wants. And then some. A/N: This is an Omegaverse fic featuring A/B/O dynamics.  Whilst this varies from fandom to fandom, for the purposes of my fic, there will be no mpreg.  Just so you know.  There will however be knotting, breeding, heats and other delicious things that come along with A/B/O.  If you do not know what A/B/O is, feel free to message me :)  Many thanks to @hollyethecurious @kmomof4 @darkcolinodonorgasm @resident-of-storybrooke and @effulgentcolors for letting me bounce my complicated ideas of you lol

Also, I am no longer doing a tag list.  This is something I have struggled with because of memory issues, so to be fair to everyone, and to make sure you don’t miss out, you should allow notifications or subscribe on AO3.  If you wish to stay away from this fic, blacklist the A/B/O tag.

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Emma Swan was sick. Her head pounded from the daylight that had crept its way through her bedroom curtains, slipping through the only space it could which lead right across her face. The orange blaze burned its mark into her forehead, finally annoying her enough that she opened her eyes the tiniest crack and lazily watched the specks of dust dancing in the beam. Luckily for her, the sun was slow moving, and she easily avoided it by rolling out of the way across the huge queen size bed that she shared with her husband.

Unluckily for her, he was still asleep right beside her. He was normally gone by now.

Graham Humbert was normally an early riser, waking, showering and eating his breakfast like a military man who had repeated the same morning every single day of his life. But he wasn’t any sort of combat veteran, and held no stories of anything more sinister than a board meeting. No. Routine was his everything. There was never any room in his busy CEO life for any deviation and as a consequence, Emma had paid the ultimate price of marrying him.

She was lonely. He was good looking, she couldn’t deny that, and as she gazed upon the gentle rise and fall of his smooth back muscles as he snored softly beside her, she couldn’t help the smile that had crept across her face. Lonely or not, he was still the man who had married her, despite all of her issues, and for that she would always love him. And it wasn’t just today that Emma was feeling out of sorts; she had been sick her entire life.

It had all begun when she was around five or six, but she didn’t remember much of it, only the constant trips to and from the doctor’s office, but when she really thought about it, they were nothing like what they are today. The offices always seemed darker, more shady, and despite her heavy diet of prescription vitamins and supplements to keep the sickness at bay, she never remembered an actual doctor ever examining her.

She was just sick.

Her foster father had been a loving man, doting on her despite having three sons of his own as well, and giving her everything that she wanted. That was, until she had gotten sick. He had changed, becoming nervous around her, which seemed to increase each year that she matured, constantly making sure she was taking her medication. He cared too much and it made the man slightly crazy, as well as gave Emma a hatred for the pills that supposedly kept her alive. He obsessed over her medication so much, that when she was fourteen, he was declared unfit to care for her any longer and she was sent to live with the Humbert family.

They were nice but very different from her old foster family, who mysteriously, despite always living on the poverty line, suddenly decided to vacation in the Maldives just after she had gone. The Humberts looked at her with distaste at first, the one she recognised from her foster father before, and it made Emma unsettled. What had she done to cause so many people in her life to suddenly look at her so differently? She didn’t know, but she had discovered one thing; Graham Humbert was another scrawny teenager just like her and they got on like a house on fire.

Growing up was weird in the Humbert house. Graham’s father was an Alpha, from a long line of them in fact, and his mother had long since died before Emma even arrived . Living with an Alpha was intense, but it had been worse for Graham who, at the age of eighteen, still hadn’t become what his family had expected him to. Coming from a long line of successful Alpha’s meant that as the only Beta born in over three hundred years, Graham was, essentially, as excluded from the family as the foster kid.

Emma had always told him, being a Beta wasn’t so bad though. He might not have any of the attributes of his forefathers, but Graham was a good, kind man, and Emma had on more than one occasion told him any woman would be lucky to have him. It wasn’t exactly what she had intended, but Graham had proposed to her less than a year later and now here she was, ten years into a marriage she felt she had to be in out of obligation and because, she had to face it, who would want to provide for all of her medical bills?

Emma was sick, and she was lonely.

The sheet around her was pulled away as Graham shifted his weight, a grumble escaping his throat as he rolled towards her and relaxed back into sleep once he was on his back. He twitched, one of his hands flying up to scratch at the stubble on his jaw before falling like a dead weight against the smooth contours of his chest. His hair was a mess, the curls stretched and fuzzy, the only evidence of his inability to sleep longer than a few hours that only Emma knew about.

To the world, Graham Humbert was one of the most successful business owners the world had ever known. He was rich, powerful and if it were not for his unfortunate luck, he would have been another generation of mighty Humbert Alphas with their own company and a whole army of staff at their every whim. But he wasn’t an Alpha. He had never found his way into the patriarchal values of his own family and Emma pitied him.

Maybe that was why she had married him. Maybe she didn’t really think low enough of herself that she would have never found true love with anyone else because of her illness, but it didn’t stop her from saying yes. Graham hadn’t even gotten down on one knee, bought her a ring or taken off his damn business suit to ask her that day, but she had said yes and now, a decade later, they were both slaves to their own decisions.

If she had to really admit it, Emma knew they were both unhappy. They loved each other, and there had always been care between them, but lately Emma had noticed a distance between them that was gnawing away at their union. It seemed that not even the wealthy were immune to falling out of love, and despite what her head told her, Emma’s heart ached. She wanted more and had always felt like she needed something else, someone else. Graham had been the first and only man she had ever been with, as awkward as it was sometimes, and deep down Emma couldn’t help but think about the strangest thing.

Alphas.

Since she had turned twenty, just two years into her marriage and around the time Graham started to drift away from her, Emma had been fascinated with Alphas. Her friend and fellow socialite, Ruby Lucas, had told her stories, of all ratings, and Emma had guiltily wished she wasn’t married so she could experience one for herself. She hadn’t gone a single day of her life since then without imagining the strong arms of an Alpha male, holding her tightly as he emptied the frustrations of his rut into her. Alphas haunted her dreams, left her waking in a cold, horny sweat, but she was stuck with the man beside her; a Beta with an Alpha complex.

Graham stirred finally, Emma realising that for once, she had rose long before his body clock had him waking up. She blamed the sun, but if she was honest, she had been having the most amazing dream that had shaken her from her sleep with a coil in her belly and a welcome heat between her thighs that she hadn’t felt for an age in reality. A sex dream turned her on more than her own husband and Emma hadn’t had one of those for a good long time, just like she hadn’t had a good fuck either.

Graham was many things, including impotent at the worst times, and Emma hadn’t found a way to help him keep his erection long enough so that she could actually get off. Of course, that was her fault. Her mouth was too wet, her mouth was too dry, she was too wet, she was too dry - Graham had never once taken responsibility for his poor performance and a rift had formed between them. When things were good, they were great, but when it came down to pleasing his wife, Graham was filled with anger and contempt.

Emma watched him sleep, his fingers flexing against his chest and his eyelids fluttering, threatening to open. The sheet below his waist twitched, a gentle rise beginning to pleat the cotton. Things had been good lately, because Emma hadn’t broached the idea of sex, but with the intensity of her dream still fluttering between her legs, and Graham with evident morning wood, why not give it a go?

It was a sign.

With a smirk, Emma snuggled her body into Graham’s, snaking her hand over the bumps of his abs that he spent so much time toning. He was asleep, but Graham sucked in a breath, his leg twitching sideways and bumping against hers as she slid her hand lower. Her fingers brushed through the darkened hair over his groin and Emma watched the furrow of his brow as she scraped her nails lightly over the inside of his thigh.

She was trying to wake him, just like she had in the beginning of their relationship, except now she wasn’t out for his pleasure but simply and selfishly, just her own. Her dream had left an impression on her, her subconscious willing a beautiful man between her legs with a wicked tongue and a wit to match. If she squinted, Graham kind of looked like him as he slept, and after all, she could pretend. She had been faking orgasms for over half her marriage, what was one more to scratch an itch?

Emma’s fingertips danced around Graham’s now semi-hard erection, the organ stiffening and twitching under her light touches. Emma smiled when he groaned, his lips parting slightly to exhale and suck in another much needed breath to keep up with the rhythm of his heart, his thigh shaking a little under the thin sheet where they lay. It was fun, watching him helpless to her touch as he slept, because Emma knew if he was awake, things would be very different.

Even though Graham was not an Alpha, he liked to pretend he was, and that included in the bedroom. He had been loving at first, but then things had changed between them and he had become cruel, making her pleasure herself whilst he barely touched her. He liked to watch more than participate and Emma had found a huge void opening up in her sex life that had previously been occupied by the warmth of a man. Now all she had was sex toys and porn - if she was lucky.

“Mmmmm,” Graham hummed, the sound rumbling in his chest as Emma smoothed her palm over his length, swiping her thumb over the tip that had started to ooze under her assault.

“Does that feel good?” Emma purred into his ear, watching the hairs in his beard stand to attention under the soft warmth of her words. His skin prickled to life before her eyes and she smirked.

“Yes,” Graham hissed sleepily, his hips rutting up into her hand for more friction as his erection grew even larger under her hand, firming and springing from his body like a pole.

“Do you like that, baby?” Emma cooed, her tongue darting out to lick at his ear lobe.

“God, Ruby, yes,” Graham moaned, hissing through his teeth.

“Ruby?!” Emma snapped, pushing herself up into a sit beside him and pulling her hand away from him suddenly. She slapped his bare chest and he bolted awake with a fright.

“What? Emma, what’s going on?” Graham asked frantically, scanning the room, squinting when the light hit his face and then noticing that for the first time in a long time, he was lying next to his wife with an erection.

“Ruby?” Emma asked him sternly, folding her arms over her chest and arching an eyebrow at him.

Graham clutched the sheet to his lap, gulping hard and swallowing down the lump that had formed in his throat. His cheeks were pink, his eyes falling to his lap as he desperately tried to will away his shameful erection, pinching the bridge of his nose with a sigh. “I said that?”

Emma cast a knowing glance over his body, the position and language it was giving off telling her everything she needed to know. It all made sense now. The late nights away, helping out her friend in the absence of her own much older husband, constant invites and making sure he was seated next to Ruby at dinners. But still, she wanted to hear it from him. “Why would you think I was one of my best friends?” Emma prodded, watching him squirm.

“Don’t be crazy. It was just a dream,” Graham huffed, falling back against the pillows.

“Right, okay,” Emma nodded, turning from his obvious lies and feeling more than angry that her potential fun time had been ruined so abruptly.

“Don’t be like that,” Graham pleaded, sighing heavily. “It’s always the same with you,” he accused. “You can’t blame me for things I say in my sleep, Emma. That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe,” Emma shrugged, swinging her legs over the edge of the bed. She slipped her feet into her slippers and watched the bones in her feet moving under her skin. “Maybe you wish we weren’t married any more.”

“Come on,” Graham soothed, rolling over towards her and reaching a hand out to place on the bare skin of her hip. Emma was wearing just a loose fitting shirt and panties but Graham never noticed nowadays. “Come back and we can try again.”

Emma spun to face him, her frown so heavy on her brow that she thought it would leave lines. She was disgusted, more than that, she was hurt. “Try again?” She spat at him, batting his hand away from her thigh. “Like I’m not good enough?” Graham pulled his hand away, licking his lips nervously, rolling his eyes. “Whose fault is it that you can’t get an erection anymore, Graham, huh?” Emma snapped. “Whose fault is it that you can only get it up when you are thinking of another woman?”

“Emma-,” Graham began, but he was cut off abruptly when Emma slammed her palm into the mattress beside herself in frustration.

“Don’t ‘Emma’ me!” she screeched. “We both know I don’t do it for you anymore.”

“You’re my wife,” Graham ground out through clenched teeth, balling his fist.

“Bullshit,” Emma scoffed. “We both know that doesn’t mean a thing. Being married means love, it means you care, it means you have fucking sex with each other, not sit in the corner of a darkened room jacking off whilst your wife fucks herself.”

“But I like that,” Graham said defensively.

“Oh, good for you,” Emma growled. “It’s okay because you like it.”

“You don’t?” Graham asked dumbly.

Emma gave him a look, a mixture of disbelief and sadness. “If you cared about me, you would know the answer.”

Graham blinked at her accusation. “Of course I care.”

“If you cared for me, even a tiny bit, you’d let me have a divorce.” The sorrow in Emma’s voice hung between them, both looking away from each other to avoid the inevitable apologies that were to follow.

Graham always said how sorry he was, how it wasn’t his fault and it always ended with the same scenario; Emma riding herself into a muted oblivion on a fake Alpha sized cock Graham would strap around his waist. A silence fell between them, just as he had done the last time Emma brought up the subject of divorce. She was sure she was going to get the same excuse as last time, despite her sorrow, and it meant she was trapped.

“Humbert men don’t-,” Graham began in a well rehearsed voice.

“Don’t get divorced, I know.” Emma looked at him with a sigh, her arousal long since disappeared. For two people who were so similar, they sure like tearing each other apart piece by piece, until Emma finally approached the dreaded subject of separation. Emma knew she would never get a divorce, Graham was worth too much money to risk anything so public but that didn’t mean she couldn’t negotiate the terms of her marriage.

“I’m sorry,” Graham said with a sigh, his eyes dropping to the space between them.

“I want excitement, Graham,” Emma told him firmly and his gaze snapped up to meet hers. Her eyes were the most vibrant shade of green he had ever seen and he knew that she meant business. “I want sex, and I want it when I want it, not when you can fit me into your busy schedule.” He listened, blinking at her in disbelief. “I might only be a Beta, but you married me, you settled for me,” Emma said gruffly. “Even if you are fucking Ruby.”

Graham lifted his gaze once more, narrowing his eyes at the woman in front of him. He shifted his weight on his hip, his heart picking up its pace in his chest. “I’m-,”

“You are,” Emma laughed in defeat. “I’m not an idiot, Graham, so please don't take me for a fool.” Emma knew he was indeed fucking her friend, and she had known for a while now. Neither of them were discreet with their flirtation and their emails, which would make the most hardcore Alpha in rut blush, were easily accessible with their joint account. “So, here’s my offer.”

“Offer?” Graham cocked his head at her, intrigued. She nodded.

“I want sex. You can’t give me the sex I want. I want a nice, hard, real cock inside of me. You need to find me someone who can give me sex, and I’ll keep your little side piece a secret. You know, for public image purposes,” Emma smirked.

“That’s your offer?” Graham snorted.

“Take it or leave it,” Emma shrugged. “But every business journal from here to Japan will know about you and Ruby before nightfall.”

“You wouldn’t. You would be ruined too,” Graham told her darkly.

Emma shrugged and gently shook her head from side to side, her hair falling over her shoulders. “Graham, honey, at this point in my life, I have nothing left to lose.”

Graham narrowed his eyes with a sigh. He really was sorry, for what it was worth, but Emma was right. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Deadly,” Emma said coldly. “I couldn’t give a flying fuck if you were doing Ruby in the next room, as long as I am finally satisfied.”

“Can I watch?” Graham said hoarsely, the mere idea of seeing his wife in another man’s arms giving him a tingle downstairs that he hadn’t felt for an age.

“You wanna see me come, baby?” Emma cooed, leaning towards him and licking her lips. “You wanna see a big cock take me over and over until I scream?” Emma taunted him, her eyes darting between his and his slightly parted lips.

“You don’t get to have sex with another man if I don’t get to watch,” Graham grinned.

“Are you seriously negotiating this like a business deal?” Emma snorted, her lips twitching up into a smile and an eyebrow rising on her forehead.

“Of course,” Graham shrugged playfully. “It’s the only thing I am good at.”

Emma stifled a laugh and raised her eyebrows at him. “No deal, and I’d say fucking my best friend was enough leverage for me,” she began, inhaling hard and brushing a stray strand of her golden locks from her forehead. “So, I want someone tall, with a beard, blue eyes and very grabbable hair,” Emma told him firmly, biting her lip as she described the man of her dreams. “I want chest hair to rub my nipples and I want an accent. British.” Emma pointed at him, making sure he knew that detail was important. “Find all that, in one man, and you can fuck Ruby all you like.”

Graham looked at her, his lips twitched up into a sly smile. “Alright,” he agreed with a nod, accepting the challenge. “Anything else?”

“Yes,” Emma grinned, the thought giving her a tingle just by imagining it. “I want an Alpha.”

--

“What do you mean, she knows?” Ruby screeched. Her hands were thrust into her hair, pulling it away from her forehead as she stared blankly at the floor she was pacing on.

“She knows,” Graham shrugged, his head in his hands. Sitting on a couch in his study, he had decided to tell Ruby, his lover, what Emma, his wife, had said. He’d left out the part about how she knew, a slip of the tongue during his dream state, but that didn’t matter anyway because if the way Ruby was stamping her feet back and forth, wall to wall in the room, it wouldn’t have been a sensible idea to anyway.

“Well, did you tell her?” Ruby accused dryly, her shoes scuffing the floor of his study as she made yet another turn at the apex of her pacing.

“Of course not,” Graham scoffed, his voice vibrating off the floor between his feet.

“Then how does she know?” Ruby demanded, her voice an octave higher in her panic.

“Will you just stop pacing?” Graham looked up with a sigh.

“No. You know what? I think I’ll keep wearing a hole into your expensive floor because I am entitled to!” Ruby stopped, despite her words and pursed her rouged lips. She closed her eyes, inhaled so deeply she thought her lungs were going to explode and then exhaled hard, shaking her dark brown hair over her shoulders with a flick of her head. “Okay, okay, let’s just think here for a second.”

“It’s fine,” Graham told her calmly. He hadn’t really contemplated what Emma had wanted until this exact second, Ruby reminding him that if their affair got out it would be disastrous. She, a woman of high society, would be made out as some common harlot, whilst his reputation, that relied heavily on his family image, would be over quicker than he could blink. Not to mention the shame he would bring to his entire Alpha dominated family, all but guaranteeing his immediate shunning.

“Fine?” Ruby scoffed with a grunt of distaste. “Graham, if this gets out-”

“Don’t worry,” Graham said, pushing himself to his feet with a grunt. “It won’t.”

Ruby laughed, dry and so sarcastically it shook her whole body. “Graham, don’t be naive. She’s your wife and my best friend. This is classic revenge, black mail ammo.”

“Listen,” Graham assured with a few tentative steps towards her. He placed his hands on her shoulders, brushing his thumbs over the patch of skin between the two straps of her top, and gave her a quick smile. He felt her calm instantly, her body swaying under his gentle caress. “Everything is going to be okay, believe me.”

“But how do you know?” Ruby pouted.

“She’s not going to tell anyone, I just have to-”

“To what?!” Ruby panicked again, her body tensing and whipping from his grasp. She took a step back, eyes wide with horror of the unknown. “To stop seeing me?”

Graham looked at her, her lip quivering as she waited for what she thought was their inevitable break up. “No!” He frowned. “God, no,” he laughed.

“This isn’t funny, Graham!” Ruby snapped, slapping his chest and attempting to push him away. “I love you and she’s dragging us apart!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” Graham chanted, clutching her fingers before she had time to totally pull away and yanking her to him. He wrapped her up in his arms, swaying from side to side. “That’s not what she wants.”

Ruby’s brow knitted together in her own confusion. “Then what does she want?”

“An Alpha.” Graham didn’t quite believe his own words but they fell from his mouth before his brain had time to stop them.

“An Alpha?” Ruby parroted.

Graham nodded. “With a very specific set of attributes.” He turned from her, a heavy sigh blowing past his lips as he contemplated his wife’s words. They were not unreasonable. Graham knew a lot of people, and his family had access to a fuck ton of Alphas because of, you know, all of them coming of age except him. Maybe Emma had already met this specific Alpha, maybe at one of his family parties. No. She wouldn’t be so shy. If there was one thing Graham knew about Emma, it was that she got what she wanted, especially if it hurt her husband. “I mean, it’s imposs-”

“Leave it with me,” Ruby interjected quickly and Graham gave her a questioning look. “What?” She smirked, sauntering over to him. “I know people and I’m very resourceful.”

“Mmmm,” Graham hummed as she pressed her body against his. “Yes, you are.”

Ruby glowed under his praise, a slight blush creeping across her cheeks. The tone of Graham’s voice made her skin come alive, dark and demanding, just like the colour of his eyes that had turned to a stormy grey. Ruby licked her lips, biting her bottom one with a playfully coy pout. “Does my Alpha approve?” She smiled sweetly, her hand finding the front of his pants and rubbing at his hardening length inside.

Graham loved it when she stroked his ego, amongst other things, the title from her lips fake but no less arousing. He growled, pulling her even harder to his body with a force that made her squeak excitedly for what was to come.

[forsetti]

On Guns In America: Full Mental Jacket

America loves its guns.  It loves them so much, it is willing to overlook the damage they inflict on individuals, families, and society.  It loves guns so much, it denies evidence from around the world that supports the conclusion that fewer guns = fewer gun-related injuries and deaths.  It loves guns so much, it eagerly looks for ways to make them more dangerous, more lethal, more accessible.  It loves guns because, in spite of being the world's superpower, its past and present have been steeped in insecurity, fear, and a false sense of superiority.  Schools shootings are a microcosm of the problem of guns in America-A dangerous weapon in the hands of insecure, angry, testosterone-riddled, white males whose brains and moral compasses are at best not yet fully developed and at worst, seriously and permanently fucked up.

The problem with guns in America isn't that there aren't enough of them. The problem isn't “God has been taken out of schools and society.” The problem isn't immigrants, minorities, or Muslims.  The problem is mental health-the mental health of white, male America.  To be more specific, the problem is, and always has been white supremacy. If you don't understand the role white supremacy has and does play in how America views and loves it guns, you are part of the problem. This includes a lot of “good guy” gun owners who provide cover for their not-so-good guy gun-owning brethren.

The common thread from the first European white settlers to a large number of current gun owners in America is white supremacy.  The first white men on this continent used guns to steal land, resources, and life from the Native Americans.  The 2nd Amendment was written, in part, to ratify slavery.  It was important for guns to be readily available for whites to keep slaves in line, to be able to fend off any slave rebellion, to protect their women from “violent, sex-crazed” black men.  When slavery was abolished, the heavily armed Klan came to power to ensure white rule and supremacy was maintained.  The Mulford Act in California was passed in 1967 and signed by then-governor, Ronald Regan, repealing open carry in response to members of the Black Panthers carrying guns while they patrolled the streets of Oakland to make sure the police did their jobs properly.  Gun sales went through the roof when the first black president was elected.  Right-wing media pushes gun ownership with threats of marauding bands of Mexican gangs, Muslim terrorists, race wars, and imaginary government operations that will imprison God-fearing, gun-owning, PBR-drinking, tobacco chewing, white Americans.  

The fact that America has 5% of the world's population and almost 50% of the world's guns isn't by mistake, isn't to protect it from foreign powers, isn't to defend itself from its own government.  America has the most guns because it was built on white supremacy.  Guns were the tools used to take the land from its native inhabitants.  Guns were the tools used to keep the economic resource of slavery in line. Guns were used against fellow countrymen in order to maintain the right to own other people.  Guns were used to inflict fear, harm, and death in order to preserve and enforce Jim Crow Laws.  White supremacy doesn't carry as much power without means and threat to commit violence.  Guns and racism in America go together like Dylann Roof and a Glock .45, like Mom and apple pie.

The main reasons mass shootings are more prevalent in America now than in the “Good Old Days,” are two-fold: First, white America is losing its demographic and cultural power; Second, there are exponentially more guns now than in its mythologized past.  This explosion in the number of guns in circulation is not distributed equally among the population.  While the number of guns being manufactured and sold has skyrocketed, the percentage of households that own guns has been steadily declining.  This means those who do own guns are owning more and more of them.  I'm pretty sure the Venn Diagram of homes with guns and racists is damn near one, complete circle.  

I'm not saying all gun owners are racists but a lot of the ones who own multiple guns, who purchase semi-automatics, bump stocks, high capacity magazines, push for open carry, are pro-Stand Your Ground laws, reject even the most sensible background checks, are racist as fuck.   The NRA, right wing radio, FOX News, and Republican politicians have fed these people a steady diet of fear since the passage of the Civil Rights Act.  They've latched onto anything and everything non-white that can be peddled as a threat.  They've done this with to great success.  If you don't think so, just look at the spike in gun manufactured and sold starting the second Barack Obama was elected in 2008.  At no point did he discuss taking anyone's guns during the campaign but the mere fact a black man became president scared the living fuck out of white supremacists to where they went on a weapons-buying spree that would make Adnan Khashoggi blush. There was a small spike in guns sold after Bill Clinton was elected but it went back down to normal levels during his second term.  New guns in circulation hit a record high in 2008 and the number more than doubled by the end of Obama's second term.  If you don't think race and white supremacists' fears were not the cause of this, you aren't too bright.

This relationship between guns and white supremacy in America is why you can't have a rational discussion about gun control.  Racist fears will always override common sense, logic, evidence, social well-being, decency.  To make matters worse, their irrational fears have filtered down to a lot of other gun owners.  Every day I hear someone say, “I'm a responsible gun owner and I don't do....” or “I know a lot of gun owners who are responsible and they don't do...,” as a rationalization and justification to not only defend the status quo but to argue for access to more guns.  A lot of the “good gun owners” are sure carrying a lot of water for the “bad gun owners,” right now to the point it is impossible for me to discern which is which.  Practically speaking, there isn't much difference, politically, between an overweight, shirtless red neck posting pictures of himself holding his AR-15 in front of a Confederate Flag and the gun-owning Republican next door who is a CPA who drives a KIA Soul because both are obstacles to any gun reform. The CPA might not think he is giving cover for and be providing support to Cletus's white supremacy when he parrots NRA talking points but he sure as fuck is.  If this wasn't true, you'd see these “good gun owners” come out against their fellow gun-owning brethren whenever there was a school shooting or some other horrible run-related incident.  The silence of “good gun owners” tells you where they stand and to me, it seriously calls into question just how “good” they really are.

A good person doesn't stand quietly by as children are gunned down in schools, as families are worshiping in church, as people are watching a movie in a theater.  A good person doesn't parrot conspiracy theories about gun confiscation, Jade Helm, FEMA camps, race wars... A good person doesn't look at the overwhelming evidence from the American Medical Association, the CDC, and every other industrialized country in the world and come away with the ideas that more guns are needed and teachers should be armed.  You can say and think what you will about the people you know and love who own guns about how “good” a person they are but my definition of what constitutes a good person doesn't cover this kind of moral failing.

I never see any of these “good gun owners” coming to the defense of black victims of gun violence at the hands of the police.  When 12-year-old Tamir Rice was shot within microseconds by the police for having an air rifle in an open carry state, none of these “good gun owners” came out in his defense.  Instead, they parroted the same talking points as white supremacist websites and talking heads.  The same for Michael Brown in Ferguson, Laquan McDonald in Chicago, Walter Scott in South Carolina...  Unarmed black men and boys who are killed by the police are always labeled with negative terms. Meanwhile, white mass shooters are “mentally unstable,” “misunderstood,” “a good neighbor”...  Not only are white shooters talked about in better terms, they are treated with more respect when apprehended.  Tamir Rice laid dying in the park, he received no assistance from the police who shot him.  In fact, they prohibited Tamir's sister from getting help.  When the black church shooter, Dylann Roof, in S. Carolina was caught, the police stopped by Burger King to get him food before taking him in.  When the school shooter in Florida was finally nabbed, he was taken unharmed, wrapped in a blanket, and courteously placed into a car.  Not a single “good gun owner” said a peep about any of these situations.  Instead of seeing the built-in, systemic racism of how we view and treat black victims compared to white killers, they automatically rolled out their NRA-approved talking points.  When it is time to speak up about injustice, racism, inequality, if guns are involved even remotely, these “good gun owners” always seem to stand up on the wrong side of the moral fence, if they stand up at all.  My definition of “good person” doesn't encompass this kind of shitty behavior.  At no point does an inanimate object take precedence, priority over a human being.  That many of those defending guns as THE ANSWER are also 'pro-life,” is as ridiculous as it is hypocritical.

The other main factor in America's obsession with guns is toxic masculinity.  I know the term “toxic masculinity,” has gotten pushback from a lot of people for being “too demeaning,” “too mean,” “detrimental to the discussion.”  My response to this criticism is, I don't fucking care.  If you are male and your ego is so fragile you can't handle a negative label and need to rage about it, you've pretty much proved the need for the description.  Don't #NotAllMen at me either.  This is a lazy, dishonest response.  When people use “toxic masculinity,” they are referring to very specific characteristic traits.  If you don't fit the description, then shut the fuck up about it so you don't risk joining their ranks.

Men are more violent than women.  Some men more so than others.  Insecure men of this type, even more so.  Add in a heavy dose of white and gender supremacy and you get a toxic mixture.  Throw deadly weapons designed to kill and maim at high rates and you often get very dangerous outcomes.  The more of these traits a man has, the more likely they are to be violent.  Take just about any mass shooter in America the past fifty years and you will find someone who has a history of violence against women and/or racial animus.  Men who exhibit toxic masculinity traits are mentally unstable.  They do not know how to properly process and deal with a world where they are not the king of every hill by the mere fact they are white men.  This is a cognitive problem.  To be okay with people like this having access to high powered weapons designed to kill is an epic public safety failure.  People in hospitals, jails, halfway homes...who are deemed dangerous are not allowed belts, shoestrings, anything that can be used to harm themselves or others.  Yet, we as a society have decided it is okay for mentally screwed up white men to not only own guns but make it easy for them to get as many as they want and almost whatever kind they want.  This is fucking insane.

Imagine being in charge of policy for a mental health hospital, coming up with the position that the residents who exhibit violent tendencies, believe they are naturally superior to others, and who are prone to conspiracy theories should have almost unlimited access to things that will inflict the most pain, injury, and death on others.  What Board of Directors would vote or this policy?  What rational person on the outside looking in would say, “This seems like a great idea”?  The easy answer is, “No one,” because it is so fucking stupid.

This brings us to the “the left shouldn't be so critical of the right” stage of the discussion.  Every day, I read some article or comment that claims if the left would only stop the name calling, the harsh criticism, the sense of superiority, then the right would “do the right thing.”  This argument is so fucking stupid it really doesn't deserve a response but since I'm feeling generous, here goes...  

Either your arguments and positions are supported by evidence and tethered to reality and morality or they are not.  If they are not, then it doesn't matter what the left says or thinks about you, they are still fucked up.  If you don't want to be on the wrong side of an issue, of history, of morality, then the ONLY choices you have is to either continue to be on the wrong side or mea culpa the fuck out of yourself and get on the right side.  There IS NO OPTION where you get to believe the wrong things and also get to be on the right side. These are the fucking rules of logic, of morality, of history.  Don't blame liberals because you are wrong.  Don't blame anyone but yourself for being on the wrong side.  Suck it up. Take the personal hit.  Learn a fucking lesson.  Just don't blame others for your intellectual, moral failings.

If you really believe guns are the answer and the more the merrier, you are a deeply damaged, cognitively delusion person and a big part of the reason why America is so entrenched in a culture of guns.  You are mentally unhinged and a danger to everyone around you and to society, in general.  And, I'll bet, if I scratched the surface of your personality even the slightest, I'd uncover a whole lot of racism and bigotry just beneath the surface. You can say that guns aren’t the problem, which may be true. The real problem is racism mixed with toxic masculinity.  I am all for doing everything possible to address these problems. However, until we do, I think keeping weapons out of their hands that can and do inflict massive damage to others is the very fucking least we can do. To do...to think otherwise is the very definition of “crazy.”

[weekendwarriorblog]

The Rest of the Weekend Warrior’s 2020 Top 25… and His Terrible 12 Movies!

If you’ve been paying attention, you’ll notice that my Top 10 has already appeared over at Below the Line, and you can either go there and read those first or start with the movies that fell just outside my top 10, including a few movies you might not have heard about.

Back at the very beginning of 2020, I made a private resolution that I would watch more screeners. This is because I had become quite legendary for publicists sending me screeners and me just not getting the time to watch them with all the running around I was doing to screenings. I will never make a resolution like that ever again. (In fact, if my 2021 resolution was to have more sex, I only really need to do it once.)

This year, I wrote (no joke) slightly under 300 reviews, which may be more than I wrote in the three years prior. Part of this was having extra time from not travelling around the city trying to get to screenings, but also, once I decided to transition my weekly box office column into a review column, I decided that I was gonna watch and review as many movies as I possibly could this year. I’m sure there are others who do this all the time, but man, I don’t know how you do it. There were days where I got so burnt out at staring at my laptop for 15 hours every day that I just had to stop.

Still, when you’re watching 300 movies in a single year, any movie that can get into my annual Top 25 (or even get an Honorable Mention) should feel somewhat honored.

Anyway, onto the second 15 movies in my Top 25 (click on the title for a link to each of my reviews!):

11. Herself (Amazon Prime Video) – One of my more recent viewings is this film directed by Phyllida Lloyd  (Mamma Mia!) and starring British actress Clare Dunne (who also co-wrote the script) as a mother of two young girls who got out of an abusive marriage with a man who still shares custody with her daughters. She wants to give her girls a place to live so she decides to build her own house on a plot of land given to her as a gift. It’s such a simple premise but Lloyd and Dunne have made a wonderful not-too-heavy drama that still slams you with its raw emotions.

12. Jungleland (IFC Films) – I really enjoyed Max Winkler’s earlier movie Ceremony, but this underground boxing drama about two brothers (Jack O’Connell, Charlie Hunnam) was also a solid crime-drama that follows them on a road trip to deliver a mob boss’ mistress (Jessica Barden) back to him on their way to a big match. Winker really outdid himself in terms of the storytelling and somehow managed to avoid most of the normal boxing movie cliches while allowing this to stand up to some of the greats.

13. Palm Springs (NEON/Hulu) – One of the first of this year’s Sundance movies that really connected with me, Max Barbakow’s sci-fi comedy starred Andy Samberg as a guy stuck at a horrible wedding who ends up in a Groundhog’s Day situation with the wonderful Christin Milioti was so much fun. Adding to the madness was JK Simmons as a guy who seems to be out to get Samberg’s character for reasons we don’t learn until much later. Such a brilliant and hilarious movie with so much great re-watch value.

14. Soul (Disney•Pixar) – The latest from the animation studio that seemingly can’t do wrong – but that depends on who you ask – follows jazz pianist Joe (voiced by Jamie Foxx) who dies and ends up “The Great Beyond” desperate to get back to earth having just gotten his big break. Helping him (sort of) is a soul voiced by Tina Fey, and things don’t go quite as Joe helped. Co-written and co-directed by Kemp Powers, the film goes in a different direction from Docter’s last animated film, Inside Out, but still retaining some of the same metaphysical fabric that made that Oscar-winning animated film connect with adults just as much as with kids.

15. Mangrove (Amazon Prime Video) – The debate on whether Steve McQueen’s latest “Small Axe Anthology”  should be deemed a TV series or five separate movies continues to rage as Amazon decides to save the movie for the Emmies. At  two hours long, Mangrove is the closest of the series to being a  great stand-alone film, and frankly, I thought it was better than McQueen’s Oscar-winning film, 12 Years a Slave. This told the true story of restaurant owner, Frank Crichlow (Shaun Parkes), and how he’s persecuted by the racist local police in the late ‘60s, but when he teams with a local Black Panther activist (Black Panther’s Letitia Wright), a protest march turns into a tense court trial for a number of people involved in it.

16. I Will Make You Mine (Gravitas Ventures) – Actor Lynn Chen’s directorial debut was actually the third movie in a trilogy of indie films centered around musician/songwriter Goh Nakamura, who appeared in all three films. I watched this the first time thought it was just okay. When I realized it was part of a series of films, and I went back and watched the other two movies, I was completely blown away by what Chen did within this finale. With movies, you generally only have a limited time to explore its characters, but like Richard Linklater’s “Before” movies, this movie helped to really create depth in the characters by revisiting them. I was kind of shocked that I hadn’t seen the other movies – few critics have – and though only 18 other critics reviewed this one, the film is still 100% on Rotten Tomatoes, which should tell you how good it is.

17. Sylvie’s Love (Amazon Prime Video) – Tessa Thompson and Nnamdi Asomugha starred in Eugene Ashe’s 50s-60s-set romantic drama about an early television producer and a jazz musician, following their relationship after a summer fling that ends with him leaving for Paris. Separated for years, she remarries and raise the child from her former lover, but then they reconnect and… well, you’ll have to watch it for yourself. It’s on Prime Video right now, so if you’re a subscriber, you have no reason not to. (And Erik Davis of Fandango had a great idea… watch this as a double feature with McQueen’s Lovers Rock from “Small Axe Anthology”!)

18. The Traitor (Sony Pictures Classics) – Last year’s Italian section for the Oscar International Film was a fantastic The Godfather-like crime-thriller, this one starring Pierfrancesco Favino as Tomassso Buscetta, a Palermo-based Casa Nostra family member responsible for the heroin trade in the ‘80s who flees to Brazil. It’s an amazing story showing that filmmaker Marco Bellochio did his research to create a movie that didn’t really get the critical love or attention it deserved.

19. Weathering With You (GKids) – And here is Japan’s selection for the Oscar International Film, a rare Anime film, this one by Your Name director Makoto Shinkai, this one more about a fantasy-romance about a young man who meets a young woman who can control the rain, which they turn into a lucrative business. I didn’t love it quite as much as Your Name, which was a truly inventive turn on the “body-switching” movie, but this also had some of the same characterizations that make Shinkai’s work so terrific, so it was impossible not to enjoy how it translated into his latest feature.

20. Lingua Franca (ARRAY Releasing/Netflix) – Trans filmmaker Isabel Sandoval’s film was released in the same weekend as another movie with a trans lead, Flavio Alves’ The Garden Left Behind. While they were both good, Sandoval wrote, directed and starred in her movie which was about her character Olivia having a romance with a guy surrounded by transphobic bros. Olivia is also trying to get her green card, and the immigrant aspect of the film really added a lot to what seemed like a deeply personal film.

21. The Outpost (Screen Media Films) – I’ve been a fan of Rod Lurie’s work for almost as long as I’ve been writing reviews. In fact, one of my very FIRST movie reviews was for his movie The Last Castle in 2001. I’ve also been fortunate to call him friend. I’ve watched Rod transition into quite a skilled television director, but I been waiting over ten years for him to make a movie as good as his amazing political thriller, Nothing but the Truth. Working from Jake Tapper’s non-fiction novel, Lurie created a full-on and unapologetic war movie as good as Peter Berg’s Lone Survivor, Blackhawk Down or any other modern war film… but also a film as personal as any others released this year.

22. The Trial of the Chicago 7 (Netflix) – Aaron Sorkin’s second film as a director stepped things up, WAY up, as he decided to take on one of the more noted events that signified the famed “Summer of Love” of 1969, as a number of peaceful protesters were tried by the federal government for “inciting a riot.” The amazing cast included Eddie Redmayne, Sacha  Baron Cohen, Yahya Abdul-Mateen 2, Michal Keaton, Mark Rylance, Frank Langella, Jeremy Strong and many more. It was an abundance of acting riches and when you have such a fine wordsmith in screenwriter/playwright Sorkin, it’s hard to go wrong. The thing is that by the time I saw this, I had already seen Steve McQueen’s Mangrove, which in my opinion is a far superior version of a similar story from the same time period.

23. Words on Bathroom Walls (LD Entertainment/Roadside Attractions) – A movie I didn’t expect much from but totally fell in love with was this romantic drama starring Charlie Plummer as Adam Petrozelli, a young man sent to a Catholic School where he hopes to keep his schizophrenia a secret from his new classmates. The film co-starred Taylor Russell from Waves as Adam’s friend and love interest, who also gets worried about Adam’s erratic behavior whenever he goes off his meds. Adam’s condition was shown by the personalities he interacts with, played by Anna Sophia Robb, Devon Bostick and Lobo Sebastian, but the movie also stars the great Molly Parker as Adam’s mother and Walton Goggins as her live-in boyfriend. All of this adds up to a great coming-of-age film from Thor Freudenthal that also became one of the first couple movies since March to test out theatrical waters months after the pandemic shutdown.

24. Sputnik (IFC Midnight) – An amazing Russian sci-fi thriller from Egor Abramenko (remember that name!) that’s likely to be compared to Alien  but adds so much more depth by taking place in communist Russia during the ‘80s. It stars Pyotr Fyodorov as a cosmonaut who brought something back with him from space and Oksana Akinshina as the psychologist who has to figure what is happening. It starts quite, reminding you of the original Russian film Solaris, but by the end, it gets pretty insane. More than anything, it finds a way of doing something original within an overused sci-fi trope.

25. Parallel (Vertical Entertainment)  - Similarly, I had pretty low expectations for Isaac Ezban’s sci-fi/horror film about a group of Silicon Valley friends who discover a mirror that allows them to travel to and from alternate versions of their own dimension, which they use for criminal activities. Soon, some of them have gotten out of control with the power and money that this access gives them, but like Palm Springs, it’s a great take on another overused sci-fi trope that’s done so beautifully. (Warning: There have been a LOT of movies with this title in the last five years. Make sure you choose the right one!)

Honorary Mentions: The Prom (Netflix), Kindred (IFC Midnight), On the Rocks (A24/Apple TV+), Yellow Rose(Sony), Misbehaviour (Shout! Factory), Premature (IFC Films), Spontaneous (Paramount), The Climb (Sony Pictures Classics)

Oh, and as a reminder, here’s my top 10, this time with links to my reviews where applicable:

10. One Night in Miami.. (Amazon Prime Video) 9. Pieces of a Woman (Netflix) 8. Sound of Metal (Amazon Prime Video) 7. Mulan (Disney+) 6. Synchronic (Well GO USA) (Tied with Disney+’s Hamilton) 5. Nomadland (Searchlight Studios) 4. News of the World (Universal) 3. Minari (A24) 2. Corpus Christi 1. Promising Young Woman (Focus Features)

And some MORE DOCS I liked that didn’t make my Top 12 over at Below the Line:

13. Robin’s Wish (Vertical) 14. PJ Harvey: A Dog Called Money 15. 76 Days (MTV Documentaries) 16. Rebuilding Paradise (NatGeo) 17. The Fight (Magnolia) 18. Collective (Magnolia) 19. Stuntwomen: The Untold Hollywood Story (Shout! Studios) 20. We Are Freestyle Love Supreme (Hulu) 21. My Name is Pedro (Sweet 180) 22. Crock of Gold: A Night with Shane MacGowan (Magnolia) 23. You Cannot Kill David Arquette (Super) 24. Feels Good Man 25. Suzi Q (Utopia Distribution)

The Terrible 12 of 2020!:

And it’s the moment you’ve been waiting for -- and the reason I guess most people are reading this -- so I apologize for making all five of you read through all the great movies and docs of 2020 before getting to the juicy stuff. Let’s get to it!

12. Superintelligence (HBO Max) – There was a time when I loved Melissa McCarthy – years before Bridesmaids – but her success after that film and her decision to keep making movies with husband/director Ben Falcone has only led to a few halfway decent comedies. (I didn’t think The Boss was that bad, but that’s cause it co-starred Kristen Bell.) So imagine if you’re one of the first big studio comedies to be dumped to Warner Media’s new streaming service, HBO Max, and that was almost SIX MONTHS BEFORE COVID HIT! How bad could a movie be to have that little support and confidence from the studio? Well, I found out that very thing, as I sat through this horrible movie that had McCarthy play another one of her usual “everywomen,” this one who encounters an Artificial Intelligence, voiced by James Corben, who has achieved sentience. Trying to learn what it is to be human, the AI starts giving McCarthy’s character everything she wants, including a relationship an old workmate, played by Bobby Canavale. The movie wasn’t very funny but it also branched into a rom-com plot that just didn’t suit either McCarthy or Canavale, so yes, quite an epic fail.

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: “'Superintelligence' is not a term I'd use for whoever greenlit this piece of crap.”

11. Hubie Halloween (Netflix) – I don’t think that Hubie Halloween was anywhere near Adam Sandler’s worst movies ever, and probably not even his worst for Netflix – although there have been some VERY bad ones. The problem is that any opportunity Sandler was given in this movie to show he can deliver something other than “more of the same” had him instead resorting to the physical humor that appealed to his fanbase. And yet, it wasn’t even the worst movie to come out that week it debuted on the streamer. (See below.)

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: “A perfectly fine Netflix movie, not something I’d ever want to have to sit in a movie theater watching with others.”

10. Max Cloud – This sci-fi-action-comedy didn’t have a terrible premise – I mean, I enjoyed it in all three Jumanji movies --  but it was marred by being such a monumentally badly made movie that stars one of the one actors in the business, namely Scott Adkins. Set in 1990, Adkins plays the title character in a video game, in which a teen girl finds herself transported as a character. If you wondered what a Jumanji movie would look like in the hands of a completely incompetent cast and crew, well, here you go.

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: “Pretty awful, a bad faux video game movie that should have had its plug pulled.”

9. The Stand-In (Saban Films) – Not to be outdone by her frequent co-star Adam Sandler, Drew Barrymore threw out all of the love she’s garnered from previous movies and her new talk show by playing dual roles of a raunchy comedy star best known for her pratfalls (so kind of a cross between Sandler and Melissa McCarthy?). Barrymore also played her nearly identical stand-in who didn’t get as much acclaim but gets to stand in for her famous lookalike when the latter goes on a bender and ends up hiding in her mansion for five years. Not sure why Barrymore thought this would be a good way to put her back on the movie screen, but yikes… one of her character’s big gimmicks is falling face first into a pile of horse shit – not funny and just plain gross.

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: “Guarantees Barrymore a double-dose Razzie nomination.”

8. The War with Grandpa (101 Studios) – For whatever reason, I decided not to review this Weinstein Co. cast-off family comedy starring Robert De Niro and Uma Thurman. Maybe that’s because I hated the movie so much I could barely get through it, and with a Friday review embargo, I just decided not to waste any more time thinking about it. So why didn’t it end up lower, you ask? I have no effin’ idea.

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: N/A

7. Pearl – There have been some bad young adult romances over the past few years, and while I don’t think Bobby Roth’s is actually based on any existing book, it might as well have been, because it was very, very bad. It stars Larsen Thompson as a 15-year-old piano prodigy who is sent to live with her unemployed film director uncle, played by Anthony LaPaglia, who was so super-creepy in that role. I don’t remember much else, since I deliberately scrubbed my memory of this movie’s existence.  Little did I realize that I’d be watching an even WORSE version of this movie a few months later.

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: “LaPaglia is way too good an actor, who deserves better than this.”

6. Black Water: Abyss – Another movie I watched late in the week and just didn’t have time or bother to review. Honestly, I remember very little about this. I think it involves crocodiles? Who knows, who cares? Not me or anyone else I expect. Everything about this movie was pretty bad.

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: N/A

5. The Turning (Universal) – Probably the biggest studio movie to wind up on this list, and possibly the only reason I didn’t review this was because I interviewed the director, Floria Sigismondi (The Runaways), who is generally a pretty awesome artist. But I love the original source material on which this is based and seeing how much better Netflix’s The Horror of Bly Manor was a few months later just made me a little sore that a movie starring the great Mackenzie Davis with Finn Wolfhard and Brooklyn Prince could end up with one of the lamest endings of a horror movie in recent memory.

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: N/A

4. Butt Boy (Epic Pictures) – Tyler Cornack’s comedy-slash-thriller was my worst movie of the year for many, many months until the three movies below it reared their ugly heads. Still, this one is pretty ugly as it stars Conack himself as Chip Gutchel, a man who becomes obsessed after a proctology exam so that things just keep vanishing up his own asshole. Yeah, I think my RT quote is fairly apt.

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: “I wouldn't recommend this to my worst enemy.”

3. Buddy Games (Saban Films/Paramount) – The fact that Josh Duhamel’s directorial debut came out the same week as Superintelligence yet ended up lower on this list is fairly telling. It involves Duhamel and a group of his friends taking part in ridiculous competitions for money, and shows what happens when these friends reunite five years later to throw another Buddy Game. It was just very low-brow and disgusting and a not particularly funny take on the Jackass movies. There was scene that almost made me stop watching.

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: “To call Buddy Games moronic, idiotic or even asinine, would be an insult to morons, idiots or asses, who are also likely the movie's target audience.“

2. Sno Babies (Better Noise Films) – This poorly-conceived “Afterschool Special” that follows a high school senior named Kristen (Katie Kelly) and her ever-growing drug addiction was almost like a young adult version of Darren Aronofsky’s Requiem for a Dream if just about everything about the movie was bad from the writing to the acting to just really horrible images that no one would want to watch or be put through. If the film just followed Kelly’s character, maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad, but it’s a narrative that follows a bunch of characters including a couple wanting to have a baby… and when Kristen becomes pregnant due to her being on drugs, well, you can probably guess where it’s going. The only movie this year that had me literally yelling at my laptop like a lunatic.

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: “The people who made this movie should never be allowed to make another movie again.”

1. Dead Reckoning (Shout! Studios) – Scott Adkins makes his second appearance in the Terrible 12 with a movie in which he plays an Albanian terrorist. In fact, when I first heard about this movie and the fact it was directed by Andrzej Bartkowiak, the cinematographer/director behind Romeo is Bleeding and lots of trashy action flickers from the Aughts, it made me expect something in that vein. Instead, this is another young adult drama set in Nantucket with K.J. Apa from Riverdale playing Adkins’ brother who falls for a local teen lush, played by India Eisley, who proceeds to chug alcohol in every scene. Oh, her parents were killed in a terrorist act… coincidence? I think not. Eventually, we learn that Adkins’ character is planning a terrorist act by blowing up a boat on the 4th of July, and that’s maybe an hour or more into the movie. And yeah, there’s a number of action scenes awkwardly shoehorned into the story as well… Adkins’ fight with a nurse trying to help him was particularly hilarious. But the fact that the movie is being sold as “a thriller inspired by the Boston Marathon bombing in 2013” just makes the whole thing even more awkward and insulting. This one ends up in the “What on earth were they thinking, whoever financed this movie?” box.

Rotten Tomatoes Quote: “The only way to have any fun watching this disaster is to play a drinking game where you take a drink every time Eisley's character takes a drink.”

That’s it for this year…. Happy New Year and on to 2021!

[mrmichaelchadler]

Cannes 2018: Ash is the Purest White, Girls of the Sun, Girl

The crowds on the sidewalks of the rue d’Antibes, the main drag of Cannes, were treated to a rare sight this afternoon. A wedding party formed a slow impromptu parade down the narrow street, horns blowing, and the bride and groom leading in a white convertible with the top down. The newlyweds sat atop the back seat in their wedding finery. She was grinning and waving wildly to the crowds like she had just won a prize, her big bouquet held aloft in her ring hand. In a year when the role of women under discussion at the festival, it was a reminder that this town yields so many different images of women, some of them screen today.

The distinguishing mark of the films of Chinese director Jia Zhang-ke (“A Touch of Sin,” “24 City”) is his portrayal of an insatiable appetite for life in times that change, not always for the better. His new film “Ash is the Purest White,” premiering in competition at the Cannes Film Festival, presents heroine Qiao (Zhao Tao, a regular in Jia’s films), a woman who passes through the searing fire of love for a fickle man and comes out as strong and pure as steel.

The story opens in 2001, in a failing coal-mining town in northwestern China (director Jia’s hometown), where Bin (Liao Fan), nightclub owner and smalltime mobster, lords it over his men and calls the shots in the local political establishment. Clever, resourceful and attractive but not beautiful, Qiao is his girlfriend, the gang moll who has the respect of a princess by virtue of her relationship with the man in charge.

The culture of Hong Kong movies, a decade or so past its prime has seeped into this backward town.  The Wong Fei-hong theme music from a string of martial arts action hits blares incongruously to a vaudeville-like nightclub act in Bin’s club, while Bin and his guys adopt the swagger and bravado of screen idols like Chow Yun-fat and Ti Lung. Jia adds the haunting Cantopop ballad by Sally Yeh, the theme song from John Woo’s “The Killer” to the soundtrack, becoming its own poignantly recurring theme in the story of Qiao.

Life is bold, tacky, and all encompassing in Jia’s vision. Time and again the drama is punctuated by crazy pop culture set pieces, like when the throngs in Bin’s packed club dizzily dance, hop and throw up their arms in unison to Y.M.C.A. by the Village People, a scene so vibrant you want to get up and dance in your seat.

On a hillside walk, Bin shows Qiao his illegal gun, and placing his hand around her reluctant one, forces off a shot. “For people like us it’s kill or be killed,” he says, explaining his imagined gangland ethos with a naiveté that will haunt both of their futures. A short time later, Bin’s cocky invulnerability comes to an end with an attack on his car by a youth gang bent on bludgeoning Bin and his driver to a bloody death on the street. Grabbing the gun, Qiao saves their lives, and Jia places her in the center of an iconic shot seen in a thousand action films, gun raised to the sky, the silent crowd drawing back in fear and awe.

“Ash Is the Purest White” jumps forward in time, when Qiao, who has taken the fall for possession of Bin’s gun, is just completing a five-year prison term. The location changes to the city of Fengjie on the Yangtze River, in the spectacular Three Gorges region, where Qiao arrives by boat in search of Bin. With its towering cliffs, broad, swiftly flowing river and fog and pollution-shrouded skies, this is prime Jia territory, the location for his 2006 film “Still Life.”

The traditional movie moral code of the gang, centered on loyalty and self-sacrifice, has become authentically Qiao’s, while Bin, a coward now seeking to avoid her, is on a downward path of emasculation. As an actress, Zhao has never been better than in this role, demonstrating an impressive ability to reveal emotion through the slightest facial expression. Bin’s new girlfriend, an arrogant beauty, sits Qiao down to boast her own ascendancy. Qiao’s passive control is a marvel of subtle put-down. Jia also gives Qiao some semi-comic scenes as she makes her way through the city, scoring money and food by a series of small but effective cons.

As the film moves on again in time and place, Jia’s camera takes in a swath of China by train and other conveyances, through landscapes and landmarks that have been seen in his earlier films and have the aspect of much loved touchstones in all their scarred natural beauty and industrial ugliness. Qiao, rejected and bereft, is now alone and apparently content as the owner of a rural mahjong gambling parlor, back where she started, operating out of what was the former back room of Bin’s club. She has not seen the last of Bin, a broken man who returns only to again prove his unworthiness. Qiao’s final triumph is survival; Jia’s open-ended message one of a woman’s endurance. 

“Girls of the Sun,” by French director Eva Husson (“Bang Gang”), a drama about a battalion of Kurdish women fighting ISIS in North Kurdistan, is the first to premiere among the only three films directed women selected for this year’s Cannes competition. The French journalist Mathilde (Emmanuelle Bercot of “My King” and “Polisse”), who is embedded with these fighters for the duration of the film’s war story, admits at one point to questioning whether there is still a value to telling the truth. The truth about “Girls of the Sun” is that it is a well-meaning timid tribute that follows the usual pattern of the war correspondent subgenre, glorifying its brave subjects without taking any risks.

Mathilde arrives at the stronghold of the female fighters, and after some mild resistance from commander Bahar (Golshifteh Farahani of “Paterson”) the two women find a common bond.  Mathilde was widowed when her husband, also a journalist, was blown up in Libya. Bahar’s husband was executed by ISIS on the same night that she was captured along with thousands of other women and little girls of the Yazidi religious minority, including her sister fighters, to be beaten, starved, and sold again and again as a sex slave. Those women who are motivated to join the armed resistance achieve a double revenge when they kill, for the ISIS men believe that they cannot be admitted to paradise if killed by a woman.

“Girls of the Sun” is choppy in its construction, sanitized in its imagery, alternating scenes set in the abandoned buildings and tunnels where the fighters are holed up waiting for an attack, and flashbacks to Bahar’s life during captivity, including her escape. In the film’s press notes, director Husson states that she did not wish to depict the victimization of the Yazidi women in a way that could be regarded as voyeurism. She brings up a valid dilemma, but doesn’t find any effective way to solve the problem of making a film that includes atrocities to women and children while communicating the scope of the horror in a manner that does not exploit.

What it takes to be a woman is a question at the heart of the Belgian film “Girl” by Lukas Dhont, presented in the A Certain Regard section of the festival. As a first feature, it competes for the Camera d’Or, and is also in competition for the independently sponsored and awarded Queer Palm, an LGBT prize. This coming-of-age film centers on a sensitive performance by Viktor Polster as Lara, a 15-year old ballerina-in-training. A new student desperate to pass her probation period at the country’s most prestigious ballet academy, winsome blonde Lara has talent, technique, and the requisite long willowy body. She also has a penis.

With the support of her loving single dad, the guidance of a team of doctors, and the acceptance of classmates, largely blasé about her difference, Lara is undergoing hormone therapy and preparing for the transitional surgery when she is eighteen. Her situation is presented as about as ideal as it can get, and yet it’s not. Between generalized adolescent angst and Lara’s resolve that most decisions and pleasures in life must remain on hold until her transition is complete, much goes wrong.

“Girl” suffers from too many agendas. On one hand, this is a film about the training and trials of a ballerina, which leads to the sameness of lengthy and repetitious rehearsals and classes, with lines of sweaty dancers en pointe, with shots of bleeding toes and taped ankles. On the other hand, it’s most specifically a film about Lara, a transgender woman, with a carefully presented informational side of medical and psychological detail. Director Dhont blends it all well enough to make a highly sympathetic middle-of-the road drama, but not a deeply affecting one, despite his questionable choice to go for shock value in the end.

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Expert: Birds flying high you know how I feel Sun in the sky you know how I feel Breeze driftin’ on by you know how I feel And this old world is a new world And a bold world For me And I’m feeling good I’m feeling good — Nina Simone, Feeling Good, 1965 The idiocy of our times – those tick-tick-tock-tock empty cranial caverns of the American collective delusion – have us clear thinkers and revolutionaries at heart on the ropes. How do we even sleep walk through the carnival that is Facebook, Saturday Night Live, endless Black Fridays, malls and movies, the spectacle that is un-news and the infantile capacity of adults from Ellen to Trump, from Rachel to Tom Friedman, from MSM punks to you-name-it-still-employed economist to control vast hundreds of millions – check that, billions – of destinies. Looting the tax coffers, hollowing out the middle class, rampant perpetual poverty and indebtedness, chronic illness, crashing climate, and a shit-storm of a planet now that we all think Capitalism is the only solution to death. We fiddle with holiday deals while holocaust looms, and we sit, kneel, genuflect, roll over, lie down and plead in our hog-tied American way. Bombs from the suburbs lifted into space with the deadly drone god while Southern California burns, Phoenix evaporates, and both ends of the country flop around like lice-plagued GMO fish on the sinking deck. Prognostication, this is the daily bread, by the millions – blogs, WoP, WSJ, NYT, endless on-line mutterings of the controlled opposition. We have become Pokémon dealers, shuffling the next culling of the economy, or placing bets on the insanity plea of Trump and Company, hoping for black rain and Sunday bloody Sunday. This is the time of Botox broadcasters, the male and female versions of the same plastic people, there, in their million dollar flats at night, conjuring up more of the same silly and insane narratives about things they know nothing about. They ply their trade like traveling prostitutes, selling their bits of Cellophane wisdom and glowing manicured selves like jesters, clowns. The more they try and sound Ivy League and display Driveling Room Temperature IQ, the more difficult it is to understand them. The elite is not some gang of point-one One Percenters. They are in the several millions, count, sixty million of them in the USA, held together with the thieving accountants and hired hands of the legal-illegal class. They are wannabe’s and blue collar millionaires, two doctor heads of households, high end business owners, the traders of guns, pharmaceuticals, laws and other lies. We may have democracy, or we may have wealth concentrated in the hands of the few, but we cannot have both. — US Supreme Court Justice Louis Brandeis Yet, we have to listen endlessly to the We Are the Ninety-nine, which is the absurdity of double-think. One percent isn’t holding up the house of cards. The minions, and the mighty masses supporting these titans of industry and billionaires, they are the Twenty-Solid (& Hard) Percent, in their glory, libertarians and thieves and unwilling to be the blood coming from their proverbial onion hearts. In the United States, wealth is highly concentrated in relatively few hands. As of 2013, the top 1% of households (the upper class) owned 36.7% of all privately held wealth, and the next 19% (the managerial, professional, and small business stratum) had 52.2%, which means that just 20% of the people owned a remarkable 89%, leaving only 11% of the wealth for the bottom 80% (wage and salary workers). In terms of financial wealth (total net worth minus the value of one’s home), the top 1% of households had an even greater share: 42.8% I dance through this mumbo-jumbo Hollywood and Single-Screen-Scroll-after-Scroll mush we call culture, and I hurdle over the Eichmann’s, big and small, and I end up in the same place I started more than 45 years ago – all thieves and charlatans, but with that big all-you-can-eat American cafeteria grin, the lives set in drive through coffee, grease and drugs delivery. This country, ripe for the taking, after genocide after genocide, and then the War is a Racket turned into America is the King Pin, the Biggest Racket of them All. Blue blood in her circulatory system, ever the slave-trading mindset, dredged in Puritanical and Crypto-Zionism. Promised Land is the Disney Effect, and chosen people come and go, as the drive-in’s turn to weeds and the ever-present huckster and PT Barnum and Lying Lynching Legal class rule over the entire mess, over all of the stars and tycoons. Beady-eyed money changers, and those sniveling ones making markets out of nothing, the very steps we take, breaths we exhale, lives we shed. There will be blood is the banker’s credo now, backed by Smith and Wesson and plethora of rockets bursting in air from every corner of the White Man’s/Christian/Jewish world. Cops and coaches, captains and CEOs, we know their kind, and no matter which XX or XY you attempt to rationalize into the madness of Capitalism, no matter which Gender or Identity serves the point-one One Percent class, the project is all cornered and flayed because Capitalism is the breeder of the heathens, the reckless and ruthless, the smiling and sincerely elitist crew. Yet, we hear endless drivel now about Groping A and Groping B, the slithering tongues of these Capitalists on steroids and amyl nitrate and human growth hormones and T-cells, and lubricated eggs from virgin sturgeon. These people in the center of that millionaire goo, in that trade of body and soul for the spin around the rotunda or jaunt down Sunset Boulevard, no matter which Charlie Rose or Dustin Hoffman or Sean Penn you end up with in the same room or office or court of law, unfortunately, they are all the same, groping or masturbating or climaxing or exhibitionisming or peeping tomming or S & M-ing, no matter how you run with them, these elites will eventually get under your skin like pin worms and chiggers. We’ll be seeing the fallout now of the alleged perversions and sexual overtures and manipulations and cajoling and assaults and rapes, wherever they go with those gag rule clauses after the payoffs and silence money. Just out on this day of infamy, Pearl Harbor Day, December 7, stories on John Travolta, one of the richest guys in Hollywood with 5 planes and jets, and his own runway in Florida. This is the microcosm of what Americans are, what they watch, what they believe. Imagine he and his wife, Kelly Preston, living their multimillionaire tax-evading, money-sheltering, cash-gouging lives. So, old John (the Italian-American actor) is accused of attacking masseuses, and he is now in the pig wash slurry of more scandal, as his movie on John Gotti is being dropped (by Lionsgate) because of the allegations swirling around old John (Travolta) attacking guys coming to his hotel rooms for massages (professional): Mafia leader Gotti was brought to trial multiple times throughout the 1980s, only to be acquitted. Travolta, 63, plays Gotti in multiple stages of his life, including when he finally went to prison in 1992. Gotti died of throat cancer, while still incarcerated, in 2002. Last month Travolta was named in a criminal complaint by a 21-year-old masseur who accused the actor of sexual battery that reportedly took place in 2000. According to the bombshell police report, the masseur alleged that Travolta groped his bare buttocks and indecently exposed himself during a deep body massage at the LaQuinta Hotel in Palm Springs, California. During the alleged incident, Travolta, 63, also made lewd remarks about gay fantasies while at the hotel’s spa facility around 1:30 am on February 15, 2000. The masseur reported the incident to the Palm Springs Sheriff’s Department. Officer Mark Peters went to the hotel to speak with Travolta, who had already checked out by the time he arrived. This isn’t the first time Travolta has been accused of misconduct while getting a massage. In 2012, Travolta was sued over accusations that he tried to have sex with a male masseur during a therapy session at the luxury Beverly Hills Hotel. Okorie Okorcha, the lawyer representing the masseur said: ‘My client is afraid of John Travolta’. He added: ‘Mr. Travolta made very explicit threats against my client, which are contained in the lawsuit. ‘Specifically, John Travolta told my client that Hollywood is controlled by homosexual Jewish men who expect favors in return for sexual activity. ‘Let’s face it, John Travolta is an extremely powerful man, and my client absolutely felt threatened by Mr. Travolta. My client was sexually assaulted by Mr. Travolta and he needs to be held accountable for his actions.’ Read more: I bring this most recent case up to illustrate the insane and perverse and surreal aspect of American society, and the money made by talent-less actors who are in bizarre relationships with spouses (arranged marriage with Preston per Scientology), who have the lives of the rich and famous all bundled up in their wacko ways. Do we want to sit through two hours of Gotti, at $12 a pop per movie ticket? Do we have no common sense in this country? The poor and the rich are the mad crowd, the spectacle now conjoined as aberrations of humanity. Travolta, a deacon in the Scientology cult. Do Americans boycott these people, these companies, these ideas, these death by a thousand cuts philosophies and this repressive un-culture to our own humanity? Boys will be boys, and then some. How many men have made the news for their alleged crimes of groping, harassing, cajoling, blackmailing? How many rabbis are speaking out against the large amount of Jewish men caught up in the allegations? How many preachers and priests are speaking up? What about the school teachers, and those university faculty? Mothers? Daughters? Aunts? Any Trump family out there willing to go out on a limb? Where is that ethical code humanity universally has to live with to make sure we do no harm? Golden Rule, Seven Sins of Gandhi ? On October 22, 1925, Gandhi published a list he called the Seven Social Sins in his weekly newspaper Young India. Politics without principles Wealth without work Pleasure without conscience Knowledge without character Commerce without morality Science without humanity Worship without sacrifice The list sprung from a correspondence that Gandhi had with someone only identified as a “fair friend.” He published the list without commentary save for the following line: “Naturally, the friend does not want the readers to know these things merely through the intellect but to know them through the heart so as to avoid them.” Unlike the Catholic Church’s list, Gandhi’s list is expressly focused on the conduct of the individual in society. Gandhi preached non-violence and interdependence and every single one of these sins are examples of selfishness winning out over the common good. It’s also a list that, if fully absorbed, will make the folks over at the US Chamber of Commerce and Ayn Rand Institute itch. After all, “Wealth without work,” is a pretty accurate description of America’s 1%. (Investments ain’t work. Ask Thomas Piketty.) “Commerce without morality” sounds a lot like every single oil company out there and “knowledge without character” describes half the hacks on cable news. “Politics without principles” describes the other half. In 1947, Gandhi gave his fifth grandson, Arun Gandhi, a slip of paper with this same list on it, saying that it contained “the seven blunders that human society commits, and that cause all the violence.” The next day, Arun returned to his home in South Africa. Three months later, Gandhi was shot to death by a Hindu extremist. The law of reciprocity, and where does that fall on American culture, whether through the lens of millionaire men or millionaire women? One should treat others as one would like others to treat oneself (positive or directive form). One should not treat others in ways that one would not like to be treated (negative or prohibitive form). What you wish upon others, you wish upon yourself (empathic or responsive form). The Golden Rule differs from the maxim of reciprocity captured in do ut des—”I give so that you will give in return”—and is rather a unilateral moral commitment to the well-being of the other without the expectation of anything in return. The fall-out in this dog-eat-dog, one man/woman for him or herself stolen land, which is the undertow of predatory capitalism, unfortunately, is all (unduly so) on the shoulders of all men – fathers and uncles, teachers and social workers, sons and uncles, all of us, righteous and far from any capitalist usury mindset, divorced from the take-take-take that is America, seemingly embraced by every boy or girl, man or woman, all intersexuals and transsexuals. The voyeurism, titillation, exhibitionism, proclivities toward gender and self debasement, and the ejaculatory and phallus aims of those tainted elites, and not so elite, are tied to the usury, exploitative and downright greed in every human or business transaction in Capitalism. Men, alas, the patriarchy, are all tied up with what we in America have become along all gender and sexual identities: paranoid, exceptionalist, supremacist, imperial and self-important, warring, and supercilious, superficial and shallow.  It’s an epigenetic cause and effect relationship, inside the DNA code of most red-blooded Americans, gay, straight, lesbian, trans-sexual, and what have you! Scam, flimflam, extort, fine, levy, tax, fee-fee-fee, and then, we steal from our futures, bankrupt our own retirements, rip off generations yet born, dredge the lake for that last caviar-producing fish, and we put it all out there in Google-land, Selfie the Entire Disaster, go on Twitter Tizzies, and then ask for more, and order it all on Amazon, trucked to the door and drone-delivered to the balcony. Funny, how conservative guys like Paul Craig Roberts see this next spasm of looting with the Republicans throwing down their true colors and the Pelosi-Schumer schemers in the Big D club yawning about their protected investments/millionaire and yammering about Russia, here at Counterpunch: What we are witnessing is the complete looting of America and the entirety of the West.  While the Western World collapses, the insouciant, submissive people sit there sucking their thumbs while they are being ruined. Nothing is left of the West except looters at work. This tax bill is an abomination, an act of brutal plunder.  Its sponsors should be tarred and feathered and ridden out of town on a rail, if not hung from a lamp post. If we really break this down, really, what is that tar and feather routine? Imagine, a real world where we aren’t going to take it anymore, one where the tar is 200 degrees and the feathers are all knife sharp and hardened. Imagine the dunking of those thieves-murderers in vats of their fossil fuel gunk, near boiling temperature. I wonder if that’s what Craig Roberts is asking for? And, then, really, what does it mean to be hung on a lamp post? The old ways put the tarred and feathered tied to a lamp post, but hung evokes a lynching. Is that what this staid and conservative Paul Craig Roberts is asking for? Hmm, a call to action, violence? The reality is Americans love their thug royalty, all the Bushes and Clintons and Obamas and the endless Kennedys and now the Trumps. This country not only tars and feathers dissidents, but we’re strung up to dry on the vine. I have lost jobs for speaking out, for advocating as a teacher or journalist or social worker. I write about this all the time, and many places I’ve called my work place were havens for women, me being in the super minority. I have no bended knee and favoritism for the female side of capitalism, like many now are gaggling about. I have been face to face with ameliorating, middling, and in many cases malfeasance prone supervisors and HR directors with the XX gene, and I am not about to go on a tirade of reverse stupidity and count all men as Harvey Weinsteins or John Conyers. We are living up to our collective reputation as mushy thinkers, in this next Tweeting for the Highest Scream for grope x, y and z. Untethered bathrobes, full-on kisses, and all the other pathetic pranks and sexist fun (sic) these leaders of the free world engage in. But . . . . Bombing the world, gutting the world, and possibly stealing all the world’s things, and we talk about Al Franken the Bumbler. Imagine now, a few days ago, that parading multimillionaire, mutilating man, Obama, calling for more women to be elected to office. “. . . because men seem to be having some problems these days.” In all his neoliberal, girl child killing, female wedding party murdering, undocumented woman deporting glee, he sits on the pile of manure that is American retro-thinking and makes these declarations worthy of the nonsense that overrules everything in this country. This is Obama at a private event in Paris on Saturday, and he, of course, was referring to the sexual misconduct allegations made against many high-profile men he golfs with, rubs elbows with, hobnobs for.  Here, this is a must read, his eleventh-grade wisdom and drearily daft psychology: “Not to generalize but women seem to have a better capacity than men do, partly because of their socialization.” Here he is, commenting on the plethora of misdeeds and worse of the great elite class, those champions of perversion like Weinstein or the Franken fellow or Alabama Crimson Tide Moore and Company. This is in Paris, speaking to his elites, arranged by a network of communications professionals known as the Les Napoleons. Millionaires, and many of them perverted on many levels. You think one of these boys and girls club acolytes have a bone of humanism left? Listening to wise scriptures, austerity, sacrifice, respectful faith, social welfare, forgiveness, purity of intent, compassion, truth and self-control—are the ten wealth of character (self). O king aim for these, may you be steadfast in these qualities. These are the basis of prosperity and rightful living. These are highest attainable things. All worlds are balanced on dharma, dharma encompasses ways to prosperity as well. O King, dharma is the best quality to have, wealth the medium and desire (kāma) the lowest. Hence, (keeping these in mind), by self-control and by making dharma (right conduct) your main focus, treat others as you treat yourself. — Mahābhārata Shānti-Parva 167:9 This is 21st Century Google Man, Obama, at his best and most hypocritical, somehow declaring that I as a man should not run for local office or be involved in social change at the political level because of a few perverts making the Twitter feeds? He declares men seemingly have a few problems, and so, this wise American Murder Incorporated CEO (ex) is asking me to stand down as a male and wait for the female leaders, because women have a better grasp on socialization? What the hell does that mean? Where do these Gollum characters come from, this Barak and his Michelle and the millions of shekels shoved into their pockets for their mere existences, for a few hiccuped words ghost-written into Number One Best Seller Hardbacks? The socialization of women like Madeline Albright, Chancellor Merkel, Margaret Thatcher, Susan Rice, Samantha Power, Janet Reno, and, well, the reader can generate his-her-their own list. Socialization of these fine ladies shine a light on their incredible lightness of goodness? This is side-mouth, PC, identity politics talk. These are loopy times, and we’ve been in them for decades, really, since Eisenhauer, as undertow after riptide produced the death of integrity, the death of common thinking, the inability of the American trite and superficial man and woman to advance to a level of sophistication or deep thinking or even wisdom or common sage sense. Look at these fellows and women running the world into the ground while they stash-stash-stash away retirement money enough to feed the world 50 billion times over.  Look at how they are not us and they indeed want us prostrate and afraid and on the run and now in their goofy show of faux integrity. All for one, one for all women. Here’s a run down of some of those so-so better socialized women Obama is calling on. I need not go into their dirty deeds, their recklessness, their thieving and in many cases direct connection to murdering thousands and structurally and violently assaulting millions and millions more. That other gender Obama is asking for help from, the female persuasion, is now front and center the only gender to be socially and structurally ready for service to the country, as Obama blurts out during one of his Point One Percent Meetings in France . . .  because men seem to be having some problems these days. Madeleine Albright  Condoleezza Rice Hillary Clinton . Arizona governor Janet Napolitano as Secretary of Homeland Security Margaret Spellings Secretary of Education Betsy DeVos  Secretary of Education Susan E. Rice, Loretta E. Lynch, Laura Bush, Karen Hughes (Bush Women) Samantha Power? (Wow, what a bastion of integrity . . . I had to throw that in). More rah-rah bullshit from mainstream propaganda: Forbes USA Most Powerful Women Fortune’s Most Powerful Women And, the following from other lists, imagine, the power they wield, and because they are women, according to Barak Obama’s calculus, are stalwarts of humanity! Merkel, May, Gates, Trump — bastions of integrity! Angela Merkel is still the most powerful woman in the world. The German Chancellor has held the top spot on the Forbes Most Powerful Women List for seven consecutive years, and 12 years in total. Another prominent political leader, U.K. Prime Minister Theresa May, ranked second. It is her first time appearing on Forbes‘s annual list. Melinda Gates, co-chair of the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation, is the highest-ranking American woman, taking the third spot. Seven of the world’s 10 most powerful women are American, according to the Forbes list. Forbes determines its ranking by evaluating four categories: money — which covers net worth, company revenues, assets under management or GDP — media presence, influence and impact. Of the 100 women on the list, nearly half are from the United States. Ivanka Trump, senior adviser to and daughter of President Donald Trump. Here’s the David Letterman Countdown, Top Ten. Gates Foundation, Facebook, GM, YouTube, Fidelity Investments, IMF, Bank, IBM. Just think of those companies, and how unjust, how predatory, and how destructive they are, but with women in higher up positions and even as CEOs, well, according to Obama, we all can sleep better tonight now that women are at the helm! * Angela Merkel: Chancellor, Germany * Theresa May: Prime Minister, U.K. * Melinda Gates: Co-Chair, Bill & Melinda Gates Foundation, U.S. * Sheryl Sandberg: COO, Facebook, U.S. * Mary Barra: CEO, General Motors, U.S. * Susan Wojcicki: CEO, YouTube, U.S. * Abigail Johnson: CEO, Fidelity Investments, U.S. * Christine Lagarde: Managing Director, International Monetary Fund, U.S. * Ana Patricia Botín: Chair, Santander Group, Banco Santander, Spain * Ginni Rometty: CEO, IBM, U.S. Here, an interesting list, with, of course, a few amazing human beings lumped into the superficial and super-rich — Addams, Aquino, Carson, Curie, Mead, Parks, Wolff. But it’s Time Magazine, so we know what that means (run by a woman, or has she been replaced?) Jane Addams (1860-1935) Corazon Aquino (1933-2009) Rachel Carson (1907-1964) Coco Chanel (1883-1971) Julia Child (1912-2004) Hillary Clinton (1947-Present) Marie Curie (1867-1934) Aretha Franklin (1942-Present) Indira Gandhi (1917-1984) Estée Lauder (1908-2004) Madonna (1958-Present) Margaret Mead (1901-1978) Golda Meir (1898-1978) Angela Merkel (1954-Present) Sandra Day O’Connor (1930-Present) Rosa Parks (1913-2005) Jiang Qing (1914-1991) Eleanor Roosevelt (1884-1962) Gloria Steinem (1934-Present) Margaret Sanger (1879-1966) Martha Stewart (1941-Present) Mother Teresa (1910-1997) Margaret Thatcher (1925-Present) Oprah Winfrey (1954-Present) Virginia Woolf (1882-1941) Most Powerful Women According to Fortune Magazine, 2010! Highest paid, take a look at that loot, again, as Obama proclaims, why not have them all (women) run the senate, congress, Supreme Court and the Executive Branch? Carol Bartz                          Yahoo!                 $47.2 million Safra Catz                            Oracle                   $36.4 million Carrie Cox                            Schering-Plough      $23 million Irene Rosenfeld                  Kraft Foods         $22.1 million Wellington Denahan-Norris      Annaly Capital Management $21.6 m Pamela Patsley                 Moneygram International            $17.9 million Susan Ivey                          Reynolds American          $16.2 million Martine Rothblatt            United Therapeutics       $15.8 million — Carol Meyrowitz               TJX Companies              $14.8 million Indra Nooyi                      PepsiCo                           $14.2 million Angela Braly                     WellPoint            $13.1 million Brenda Barnes                  Sara Lee               $11.5 million — Linda Chen                        Wynn Resorts    $11.2 million — Patricia Woertz                 Archer Daniels Midland     $11.0 million Kim Sinatra                       Wynn Resorts    $10.5 million — Mary Callahan Erdoes     JPMorgan Chase $10.4 million Nancy Wysenski               Vertex Pharmaceuticals          $10.2 million — Jackwyn Nemerov           Polo Ralph Lauren $10.1 million Ursula Burns                     Xerox    $9.9 million Martha Stewart                Martha Stewart Living Omnimedia     $9.7 m Ann Livermore                 Hewlett-Packard              $9.7 million Doreen Toben                   Verizon Communications              $9.2 million Katherine Krill                  AnnTaylor Stores              $9.1 million — Kathryn Fagan                  Annaly Capital Management       $8.6 million Ellen Kullman                   DuPont $8.3 million You can’t help it. An artist’s duty, as far as I’m concerned, is to reflect the times. — Nina Simone Note:  Give it to the New York Daily News to call this “the Weinstein Effect as Sexual McCarthyism” http://clubof.info/

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Media Journal Raphael Gregoire Spring 2017

Media Journal (website or any equivalent)

Each student will maintain a media journal throughout the course (Facebook or equivalent). A media journal should contain play synopsis, reviews, essays evaluations, research, headshots and related photos, resume, links to short video clips (reel) of your work using You tube or an equivalent and should be used as your daily and class journal. The media journal will be due on the last day of class. It should include 9 distinct sections (details below).

 Section 1: Read one play per week, give a brief synopsis and identify any scenes or monologues that you could use in the future. Be honest and only read plays you have not read previously.

 1.    Death of a Salesman by Arthur Miller follows the travails of Willy Loman, a traveling salesman whose career is on the decline. He has a devoted wife, Linda. Also central to the plot of the play are the characters of Willy’s two adult sons, Biff and Happy (or ‘Hap’), particularly that of Biff and his relationship with his father. Biff used to be a star football player and has now returned come. Hap is somewhat more masculine in demeanor. Throughout the play, Willy frequently slides in and out of what seems to be delusion as he re-lives the glory days of his earlier career as a salesman. He eventually commits suicide by crashing his car at a high speed, after a cathartic confrontation between him and Biff.

Monologues that I could use from this play could include the monologue in which Biff tells Happy about his time as a ranch hand in Texas, and how now that he has gotten home he does not know what to do with himself.

 2.    The Glass Menagerie by Tenessee Williams is about a family in a small and dingy apartment in St Louis in the 1930’s. It includes Tom and his sister Laura, who has a limp, and their domineering and unhappy mother Amanda. The play turns around Amanda’s goal for her isolated and lonely daughter to marry, and her fantasy of a glorious and romantic past. Laura is a fragile and isolated soul, whose only solace is in her small collection of glass objects. Tom, on the other hand, has resentment toward his mother, mixed with love. He goes out every day to an imagined job, and eventually, under pressure from his mother, arranges for a friend, Jim, the ‘Gentleman Caller’, to visit for dinner as a blind date for Laura. The dinner takes place after many desperate last minute arrangements by Amanda, and it is interrupted by the electricity failing. This it turns out is because Tom has not paid the bill.  Laura is desperately shy and cannot join them, but eventually she and Jim spend time together, they speak intimately and he tells her she should value herself more, and they dance, during which one of her treasured glass objects, a unicorn, is broken. This crushing loss for the fragile Laura is followed by the news that Jim is engaged to be married. She offers him the broken unicorn as a gift.

The play is presented as a memory, and Williams describes a set that includes screens and projections, though these were later abandoned. I could use Tom’s introductory monologue describing the social context and the characters, and the whole play as a memory. In contrast, I would also work on some of Tom’s angry altercations with his mother, like his storming out of the apartment at the end of scene 3.

 3.    Waiting for Godot by Samuel Beckett is a play where nothing seems to happen but at the same time every moment seems very important. The play centers around Vladimir and Estragon (Didi and Gogo), two old friends who bicker and quarrel, tell each other jokes, sleep, urinate, complain about their ailments and constantly question whether or not the unknown Godot is coming. Their back and forth banter is interrupted by two amazing characters, Pozzo and his slave Lucky, who has a long rope tied around his neck. Pozzo orders Lucky around, and Lucky obeys every command. Vladimir and Estragon stand back in amazement, especially as Lucky launches into his only monologue of the play, a weird academic sounding speech that quickly becomes an insane rant. Lucky and Pozzo move on, and the two main characters resume their endless wait, with the occasional appearance of a boy, who is Godot’s messenger and each time says that Godot will come tomorrow. Godot never comes, and they contemplate suicide at the end with Estragon’s belt. But it breaks and his pants fall down. In the end, they both agree “let’s go”, but they do not go.

I would be interested in the Lucky monologue. It is the only extensive monologue. Almost the entire play is back and forth dialogue.

 4.    The Flick by Annie Baker takes place in a set that is a run down old movie theatre, facing the actual theatre audience. There are three characters, Rose, Sam and Avery. Most of the play is taken up with long silences between lines, giving a sense of lost time and the decay of this old movie theatre, the Flick. Part of the set includes a projection booth, and Rose is the projectionist. Sam has worked there for years, and he instructs the new hire Avery how to do the tedious tasks of cleaning up. It eventually becomes clear that Avery has some deep seated frustrations and anger. Rose is the femme fatale, and Sam has developed a long term infatuation with her. He eventually opens up to Rose about this, but he can’t look at her, and Rose does not believe him and she is more attracted to Avery in any case.

The old theatre is to be sold, and the new owner wants to change the projection over to digital, which Avery, a film purist, hates. The new owner also discovers that the employees have been stealing money for years. Avery admits to it, but the other two refuse. Rose says they were forced to steal because their wages were so low, and she calls it dinner money. Avery gets fired, but the others do not. Eventually Avery returns, to collect some old vintage film equipment. Avery is now in college, and Sam, who has worked in his dead end job for years, with his infatuation with Rose, is happy to see Avery gone.

I would be interested in working with the phone discussion Avery has with his therapist, in which he speaks about his loneliness and inability to make friends.

 5.    Streamers by David Rabe. I read this play and also saw it at La Jolla Playhouse. It concerns several characters from very different backgrounds who are all stuck together in a barracks awaiting being shipped off to Vietnam. They deal with their fears in their own ways, sometimes violently. The characters include an upper class gay man, Richie, from New York who struggles with his identity, a scared country boy named Billy, and Roger, a black soldier who is from a middle class background, and Carlyle, also black and from the streets. Sargent Cokes is the abusive alcoholic who has been overseas and Sargent Rooney who can’t wait to go back. Many different feelings and views about an ugly war are on display, and at the same time the characters act out personal struggles with themselves and each other. A lot of it turns around the gay character Richie, who provokes the others and is also tortured by them. The play ends in bloody misunderstanding and tragedy.

I would work on the character Richie, and focus on his monologue about his abusive father, when he leaves the family. The final monologue by the drunk Sargent Cokes would also be a challenge to perform.

 6.    Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf by Edward Albee, is about the vicious marriage of George and Martha, and the problems they inflict on their unsuspecting guests Nick and Honey. George is a failed and angry writer who has a job at a small college because Martha’s father is the president. The two are equally adept at making verbal and psychological attacks on each other, and they suck the other couple into their psychological games, including at one point where Martha and Nick go upstairs to have sex, which does not end up working out.

Nick and Honey are trying to have a child, and George and Martha have a son, who it turns out is a fiction that they invented together and does not exist. George comes in toward the end with the story to announce that the son has died in a car accident, which is the ultimate betrayal. He does this because Martha betrayed their story to the other two. The son was the secret illusion that held their sick marriage together. Nick and Honey leave at the end in fear and disgust.

There are many scenes and monologues to choose from, but one in particular would be George’s confrontation at the end of the second act.

 7.    The Aliens by Annie Baker is about KJ and Jasper, two aimless men sitting in an alley behind a cafe. They are eventually joined by the younger Evan, a high school student who works in the café. At first Evan tries to get them to leave because he’s afraid he will get in trouble, but eventually they become friends. Like The Flick, this play is taken up with long and uncomfortable silences. Jasper did not finish high school, and KJ dropped out of college, but they decide that that they can instruct Evan about life. Jasper has broken up with his girlfriend. He is working on a novel, and he is a fan of poet Charles Bukowski. KJ plays the guitar aimlessly. The two invite Evan to a July 4th celebration, right there in the alley.

In act 2 Jasper dies, off stage, and the remaining two are left alone, and they part ways. The play is similar to Waiting for Godot. One scene and monologue that would certainly interest me is where KJ says the word ladder more than 100 times. But there is also scene 3, where Jasper tells and reads the story he has written, and the cell phone scene with news of their friend’s death.

 8.    No Man’s Land by Harold Pinter has a cast of four. Hirst is an aristocratic literary type who lives in a big house with his writing assistant Foster and servant Biggs, who are half his age. Spooner has come home with Hirst from a bar, and both are getting more and more drunk. They have a kind of drunken argument, and Hirst shatters a glass on the floor. He leaves to sleep. On his return Spooner is still there, seemingly very comfortable even though the two younger men have become defensive and hostile toward him. The end of the first act has Spooner still there, and Foster turns out the lights.

The next morning finds Spooner still there, and when he tries to leave he discovers he is locked in. The two younger men appear and there is a vague discussion about this, and then comes Hirst who seems to recognize Spooner as someone else, and the conversation goes on from there into memories of romantic entanglements and general confusion, combined with a lot of nasty disagreements. The discussion gets stranger still, and suddenly Spooner asks for employment, and after more circular arguments Hirst says that they should change the subject for the last time. This becomes a kind of dead end, where no one can say anything else. Hirst tries to remember the distant past, his childhood, and a drowning, but Spooner says no, that they are now in no man’s land, and the lights go out. It is a strange and quiet ending. It seems pointless but it’s not.

Many of the circular and confusing discussions between Spooner and Hirst would be interesting for me, especially the last leading up to “let’s change the subject for the last time”, and the dialogue that follows.

 9.    This Is Our Youth by Kenneth Lonergan is about the lives of three upper middle class very different 20-somethings in the 1980’s in Manhattan. The play happens in Dennis’ grungy apartment over the course of two nights and a day, and the initial plot turns around $15000 that Warren has taken from his wealthy abusive father, who has thrown him out for smoking too much pot. In the first scene he arrives in the apartment with the money and some childhood toys in a suitcase. Dennis takes over the situation and eventually schemes to use some of the money

Dennis sees himself as a savvy drug dealing hipster. Warren is a quieter artistic type. Jessica, who enters later, is a well dressed fashion student and friend of Dennis’ girlfriend. Warren is awkward but much more interested in sex with Jessica than in money making drug schemes, and Dennis tries constantly to find ways to humiliate Warren because of his lack of experience. Jessica and Warren dance and have some moments of intimacy. The ridicule gets worse after Dennis when Warren drops cocaine on the floor in the last scene, after Jessica has gone home, and Dennis comes back. Warren pushes back and tells Dennis he had always been his hero, which causes Dennis to break down. In the end Warren goes home too and not that much seems to have changed.

An interesting dialogue is the one between Jessica and Warren when she enters and they meet. The extended monologues by Dennis about their friend Stu who has died, and his own dysfunctional family would be a challenge in the way they reveal his motivations and pain.

 10. The Whale by Samuel Hunter is about Charlie, a gigantically obese 600 pound man who sits on a decrepit couch for almost the entire play and is visited by several people. Charlie teaches writing to students online. The first visitor is Elder Thomas, a Morman, who catches him after masturbating to gay porn. Charlie’s estranged and angry daughter Ellie, arrives the next day and agrees to an exchange – she keeps a journal and he writes her essay and leaves her his savings. He is trying to reconnect with his daughter. Charlie’s friend Liz tries to get him to go to the hospital but at the same time feeds him chicken and humiliates him. Liz is the sister of Charlie’s former lover, who became a Mormon and friend of Elder Thomas and that’s why Charlie is interested in Elder Thomas – to find out how his lover struggled with being a gay Mormon and died by starving himself. Charlie has an ongoing virtual relationship with his students and has a need to read and hear their online essays. But he eventually tells them to forget about writing their essay on Moby Dick – the whale – and just write something real. Several characters in the play look each other up and reveal each other online. Ellie blackmails the Mormon, and in one way or another all the characters betray each other, even though they also have compassion for each other. Charlie is the center of all this and at the end there is an ambulance on the way, and Ellie is reading her essay about how she pities the whale in Moby Dick, and there is the sound of waves getting louder as Charlie tries desperately to move across the room and the lights go out. This monologue by Ellie would be the most interesting to me. It sort of expresses the whole play.

 11. Hurlyburly by David Rabe is about several Hollywood industry types struggling to chase women and to generally get ahead in the movie business of the 1980’s. They include two casting directors, a struggling actor and a screenwriter. They abuse cocaine and treat women like objects and conquests. The film industry is seen as vicious and corrupt. The story begins with Phil, the screenwriter, hitting his wife and breaking her tooth. Artie shows up with a girl, Donna, who he offers for his roommates’ use and pleasure. They talk about scripts, about various industry gossip, about sex, one takes Donna away from the other and two of them go off to the bedroom with her. Toward the middle of the second act, all this debauchery breaks down and they begin to own up to true feelings, of love, of rejection, of desperation. For all the arguing and yelling that happens all through the play, it is hard to figure out what the characters really mean to say, and the confusion seems intentional. The character of Mickey is the most cynical and confusing. The women are constantly referred to as ‘bitches’ and the play in its way is just as violent and ugly and cathartic as the other David Rabe play I saw and read recently, Streamers.

As a starting point in this play I would use the monologue where Eddie says that he does not think Darlene loves him. It would be difficult because of its pathos.

 12. Happy Days by Samuel Beckett seems like it might have been a model for The Whale, at least in the way it looks. A middle aged woman, Winnie, is buried waist deep in a pile of earth. Willie, the other character, sleeps unseen behind her. Winnie goes through several mundane and absurd tasks, like brushing her teeth, and trying to read the print on the toothbrush. She drops her parasol after poking Willie with it. Willie gives it back to her. There is a revolver, and a medicine bottle which she tosses to him, and it shatters. The play goes on with these strange, small and pointless acts. It is full of anxiety. The “happy day” is proclaimed by Winnie when Willie finally speaks to her. She feels the earth tightening around her.

The scene where the ant is seen by Winnie and Willie speaks and starts laughing would be a great one to explore. Another would be where Winnie talks about being sucked upward if she were not held down by the pile of earth. As time goes on, Winnie sinks deeper down, the earth rising from her waist to her neck. She talks about if her breasts are covered over it will be as though no one has ever seen them. She tries to sing, tries to pray, but she can’t. She feels abandoned.

The seemingly pointless action and dialogue goes on and on. It is mostly Winnie, who many times calls out to Willie and gets no response. She accuses him, and worries about him, and feels helpless without him. It seems endless, boring, sad, hopeless, bittersweet, and like Godot, every part seems to be necessary somehow.

  Section 2: Find and read four current theatre essays or articles in periodicals or online sites dealing with any theoretical aspects of theatre in general, performance or acting and write a brief synopsis.

  1.  Which Theatre is the Absurd One? By Edward Albee (found on the New Yorker website)

In the essay “Which Theatre is the Absurd One?” by Edward Albee, the famed playwright enumerates his views on the state of theatre as he views it, particularly in light of what is often viewed as the distinction between more artistically minded theatre and commercial theatre. Albee writes in particular about what is often referred to as the “theatre of the absurd.” This school of theatre, as practiced by such theatre giants as Samuel Beckett, Eugene Ionesco, and Jean Genet, all of whom Albee mentions, is generally regarded as a theatrical practice to be planted firmly in the artistic category. Albee notes how this distinction has become well known and entrenched. He makes clear that he prefers artistic plays that are often categorized as belonging to the theatre of the absurd, while at the same time implying a certain amount of skepticism and even puzzlement with regards to the classification. In addition to his favored playwrights Beckett, Ionesco, and Genet, he also makes honorable mention of Bertolt Brecht, Anton Chekhov, Henrik Ibsen, Sean O'Casey, Luigi Pirandello, George Bernard Shaw, and August Strindberg, all of whom have at one period in their writing careers been thought of as belonging to or contributing in some way to the aforementioned theatre of the absurd. Albee remarks on the curiousness of this title in regards to those plays and their authors due to the fact that in his mind the more absurd theatre would be that in which more value is held for productions which earn the most money and reflect the public relations of actors.

  2. The Fall Guys: Eugene O’Neill’s Vexing Outsiders, by Hilton Als (in the New Yorker magazine)

           Critic Hilton Als in this article discusses the playwright Eugene O’Neill and his plays. His early work in particular is given emphasis in Als’ review, and he provides background information which relates to current productions of the plays, whose old age does not stop directors from innovating in the context of the scripts.

           Als imparts that Eugene O’Neill grew up in what he describes as a “showbiz milieu,” which gave him a unique perspective that many “white people” did not experience of coming into contact with different people. Als succinctly describes O’Neill’s forays into writing short plays—a frequent specialty of his writing career—concerning the experiences of African Americans. Als describes these short plays as being somewhat awkward or politically incorrect, though oftentimes at the same time containing some element of underlying truth. Later in the essay, Als again describes O’Neill’s work in this seemingly contradictory way, conveying both negative and positive impressions of his work, which seem coexist.

           Als describes how contemporary, contemporary directors have appropriated these shorter plays with modern day stylistic choices. The short plays often present opportunities for this kind of invention, as opposed to the longer, more well-known plays such as the late masterpiece “Long Day’s Journey Into Night,” which more often than not convey a sense of being more rooted in an easily identifiable time period and location.

  3. God Only Knows: Brendan Jacobs-Jenkins takes on “Everyman”, by Hilton Als (New Yorker)

           In this article, Hilton Als addresses the work of African-American playwright Brendan Jacobs-Jenkins, and in particular his two plays, currently in production at Off-Broadway venues, titled An Octoroon and Everybody. Als describes early on how Jacobs-Jenkins worked as an assistant at Als’ own New Yorker magazine, which establishes a certain degree of personal familiarity with the man in relation to his work.

           Jacobs-Jenkins’s themes often hinge upon the exploration of controversial Als comments on the themes of “blackness” and “whiteness” present in the play “Neighbors”. He describes the use of blackface and traditionally recognized racist tropes of black people that are incorporated into the play. Als is not uniformly positive in his view of the productions and the plays themselves, but is not negative either, implying that the themes explored in the plays and the aesthetic methods deployed in doing so are intriguing and worth pursuing for their own sakes, even if the director of the production of “An Octoroon” often seems to not be able to fully communicate all of the myriad themes that he wishes to explore with a limited amount of times and shortage of means, though which often results in interesting exploration nonetheless.

           Als also relate Jacobs-Jenkins work to what he refers to as quintessential theatrical works by playwrights crucial to important theatre traditions in America who embody what Als describes as a “distinctly American voice.” These include, among others, Eugene O’Neill, Lorraine Hansberry, and Sam Sheppard.

 4. Bookworms: A Stage Adaption of “2666”, by Hilton Als (New Yorker)

           In this article Hilton Als describes a theatrical adaption of the novel “2666” by Roberto Bolano. Early on in article, Als describes Bolano’s life in brief though illustrative terms, along with his own assessment of the late writer’s social and emotional experience. Describing him as a son of troubled machismo, who witnessed the unfortunate, even tragic, results of force often being used in lieu of reasoned dialogue. Bolano, in Als’ estimation, was a skinny, awkward, sensitive young man who did not fit in to this scenario, though witnessed its negative aspects, as the son of truck driver and part-time boxer. Als’ also describes the Chilean author Bolano’s moving to Mexico at a young age to work as a journalist, then returning to the city of his birth—Santiago, Chile—having been inspired by leftist, socialist revolutionary fervor. However, he was arrested by the right-wing Pinochet government, though later escaped prison with the help of two friends and moved to Spain were he eventually become an author after getting by on several odd jobs.

           The length of the production, over five hours, is similar to the long length of the novel as well, which is nearly 900 pages in length. Als comments that the length and overload of scenes and plotlines leads to a stultifying literalism and ultimately realism that ends up taking away the absurdist and times perhaps magical realist elements so latent in the source material. However, that being said, the production utilizes a large array of methods and elements, some verging on the surrealistic, to convey a myriad number of scenes, interactions, and plotlines.

   Section 3:      Chronicle and reaction to each of the major projects in class –

  Monologues

Jillian- Cellblock tango

There were some nice gestures that seemed exaggerated but also seemed to fit with character. The wide stance posture was good and you seemed outgoing. The delivery was seamless.

 Mario

You could be a bit more relaxed when introducing yourself with less hand gestures More intensity was needed in delivery of the monologue, as well as more conviction. Also, don’t put your hands in your pockets.

 Katelin

There was good comedic timing and delivery. You could turn up the volume/delivery a litle bit at times (just for extra comedic characterization)

 Hannah- Dogface

There was a good use of emotions and voice. Maybe put some more emotions in facial expressions, and getting down on your knees seemed a little stagey.

 Nate- breaking bad

Be more assertive on the intro. However, there was natural delivery. I liked how the emotion was right below surface of character. At the very end take a pause and let the last line sit before immediately saying “scene.”

 Jillian and Hannah- Heathers

There were nice expressions and good tempo in terms of the scenes and lines. The pacing was good as well.

 Danny

Stop the pacing and memorize your lines more fully.

 Vincente- the Warriors

The Beginning was a bit patchy. However , the middle portion of the monologue had the passion.

 Tom

There was marked improvement in the delivery

 Taylor and Peregrine- The Proposal

The delivery was good although it seemed at times that thee could have been better coordination between the two dialogues.

 Tom and Mario- pulp fiction

Mario, you should act more like a hardened hitman, and thus act less distressed when he shoots Marvin in the face. Also practice your fake driving some more to make it better, and perhaps try to have someone use their phone for an actual gunshot.

 Peregrine- V for Vendetta

The memorization was excellent and there was good tempo as well.

 Taylor- Harvey

You had good posture that seemed to fit with the character. It felt natural when you stood up.

 Section 4: Observations of life scenes

·      Leaves

·      Man wearing 70’s glasses. Unshaven, with a black coat

·      Closed down library.

·      The sun rises in the west.

·      A fat man laughs as he watch cruise missiles scream across the sky.

·      Two young boys, brothers, run down a dirt road in the country. One holds a stick held high.

·      The news flashes across the television screen, reflected off a rainy windshield.

·      A young man stands in front of his old school. Rain pours down on his head and the pavement.

·      The barrel of a gun, aimed and soaked in rain. It is thrust back.

·      A smoky café in the evening. A burger and coke.

·      A walk in the park past statues showing stories from the past.

·      Meeting someone who came from a different country.

·      A leafs descends slowly in a counter clockwise fashion.

·      A motorcycle roars, setting off a car alarm.

·      Dogs barking on a gray day when the only other sound is the wind.

·      A truck reverses and beeps.

·      Leaf continues to float in the gust of wind.

·      A plastic bag floats in midair over a crowded street.

   Section 5 : Video clips (reel) and related video items.

  Scene from “Hurlyburly” by David Rabe, in which I play the character of Eddie.

https://vimeo.com/216233639

 George Smiley monologue – sound only including silences

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qz92yWi3Pdk&t=50s

    Section 6: Headshots and related photographic items

 Section 7: Current resumes.

 Raphael Gregoire

3629 Arnold Avenue

San Diego, CA 92104

619-220-8080

raphael.j.gregoire@gmail.com

  EDUCATION

2016-present             San Diego State University, College of Professional Studies and Fine Arts, Theatre Performance

2012-2016                    School of International Studies, San Diego High School, Diploma. International Baccalaureate Certificates in: English Literature, Film, Theatre, and American History. AP in English Language/Composition, and US History.

2015                                 Hard Look at the Movies, VA154 Winter Quarter, UCSD - class taken for credit. Prof. JP Gorin, UCSD Dept. of Visual Arts

2014                                 La Jolla Playhouse, Young Performers’ Conservatory, UCSD Extension. Intensive five-week acting program.

2014-present             Vinyāsa/Ashtanga Yoga, Ginseng and Pilgrimage of the Heart Studios

2013                                 Fiction Writing, Idylwild Summer Arts Academy.

2013                                 The Director Series, VA155 Spring Quarter, UCSD - audit.

2011-2013                    UCSD Young Writers Summer Program

2010-2013                    The Child’s Primary School

2003-2010                    San Diego Cooperative Charter School

 EMPLOYMENT

2015-2016 Teaching Assistant, UCSD San Diego Area Writing Project, Young Writer’s     Camp

 AWARDS

2016               Theatre Production Acting Award, SDHS IB Theatre

2014               Best Supporting Actor, Case of Identity, San Diego High School Theatre                   Festival Production

2013               Best Script, Dante, San Diego High School Theatre Festival Production

 WRITING                

2016               An Excerpt – DIALOGUE, a publication of the San Diego Area Writing Project, Fall 2016, p.9

2013               Original Screenplay: Little Grey Men

2013               Short experimental plays: The Beach, Room

2012               Adapted screenplay: The Chocolate War

 ACTING

2016               Our Town, San Diego High School Theatre

2015               Is There a Comic in the House?  San Diego High School Theatre

The Calculation, International Baccalaureate HL Final Film Project

2014               La Jolla Playhouse, Young Performers’ Conservatory final program: Monologue/movement study from Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf?, scene from Bad Jews, and co-authored scene Purgatory.

Iago soliloquy, San Diego High School Adapted Scene Festival

2014               A Case of Identity, Original Play, San Diego High School Theatre Festival

2013               Zombie Apocalypse, San Diego High School Production

2013               Dante, Original Play, San Diego High School Theatre Festival

2013               The Dark Knight, Adapted Scenes, San Diego High School Theatre Festival

Section 8: Each student will complete a written Character analysis, one for each of the

  Character Analysis

Eddie: Hurlyburly

Eddie is one of the principal male characters in the play “Hurlyburly” by David Rabe. Eddie could perhaps be considered the main character, although such a designation is not made explicit in the play text. The character of Eddie was played by Sean Penn.

Eddie is one of three male friends who are striving to make it in the film business in Hollywood, Los Angeles. All of them, including Eddie, are largely failing at this endeavor. Eddie has a girlfriend named Darlene. Darlene stays in the relationship, though seems to grapple with the difficulty of continuing to date Eddie even as the myriad personal issues that seems to be plaguing him become more and more apparent. Eddie’s personal problem seem to oftentimes stem from his mental state, which become progressively more clear as the play continues. This is predictably hampered by the large amount of drugs and alcohol that Eddie and his companions consume. These substances, and the frequency with which Eddie indulges in them, contribute to taking him into and even more paranoid state.

This paranoia is often made clear by Eddie through his long rants and at times his seem inability to let certain things go, including in interactions with his girlfriend. He drifts between states and listlessness and inactivity, and professional moods where he adopts the role of a competent casting director. Later in the play, he seems emotionally fragile and self-pitying, and comes to believe that his girlfriend does not love him. He eventually comes to the conclusion that he should keep living in his current state, with the consolation that he has convinced himself that he is less pathetic than the people that surround him.

 Screenplay

·      George Smiley: Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy

George Smiley is a character in the screenplay for the film “Tinker Tailor Soldier Spy.” I have had to grapple with this monologue and character to some extent. It was not very easy finding a way into this character, and indeed it took me some time to do so.

The story takes place in 1974. Smiley is an official in the British foreign intelligence service, referred to colloquially as “The Circus.” At the outset of the play he has just been forced into retirement along with the head of the Circus, Control; Control dies of a heart attack soon after. Replacing Control is an official named Percy Alleline. The change in leadership comes as a result of a botched operation in Budapest where Jim Prideaux, a British operative, is shot and captured in an ambush. He had been personally dispatched by Control on a mission to receive the name of an official in the Circus who has been passing on classified information to the Soviets. The ambush indicates that the mole became aware of Prideaux’s mission. Smiley is called out of retirement by a minister connected with the Circus, who tells him of Control’s suspicion and instructs him to investigate and identify whoever the highly placed mole is.

It took me some time to work on this monologue. At first I was not sure how to play the character, and the monologue came out rather flat when I tried performing it. This came as result of me having the idea of Smiley as very reserved and quiet. When trying the monologue again, I kept this in mind but also tried to connect the character to actual emotion, while internalizing the essence of the character that I identify with, that is, a studious individual who collects information and learns about how things work, while staying both quiet and attentive.

 George: Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf

George in the play “Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf” is one of the two main characters in the play. He is a tenured University professor and is married to Martha. It has been a very long and tortured marriage. In performing this piece I always kept in mind the fact that he was a history professor, and always made sure before I performed the monologue that I had internalized this. This allowed me to center the monologue and gave me more confidence in delivering the words and acting it out.

Over the course of the play, George remains the same character, but different layers and aspects of his character are revealed as the play goes on. My interpretation of George’s lines, particularly at the beginning of the play, are of them being delivered in an icy, subdued way that hints at great anger beneath the surface. I tried to capture this with my performance.

    Section 9: Write a two-page critique on each of the SDSU Spring season shows and films, focusing on the acting in general, their physical choices, how the characters dealt with conflict, and the myth created within the play’s reality.


  1.    The Matsuyama Mirror -Experimental Theatre

 The play “Matsuyama Mirror” was an engaging play. I thought that the production on the whole was excellent, which was helped by the successful elements of the production, which included the sets, lighting, and sound.

The play to my understanding was adapted from a Japanese folktale that dates make to the Edo Period of the country’s history. This folktale incorporates what are clearly elements of fantasy and magic. The time period from which the story serving as source material originated was also, incidentally, before the invention of mirrors. It is from this pertinent fact that the story derives much of its meaning and significance, in addition to the various cultural and societal aspects of the time, which are conveyed in different ways throughout the course of the play. These various attributes include the number of strictly-observed traditions pertaining to the social order. This is supplemented by elaborate customs and inward-looking policies of the state which tended to cut of the rest of the outside world from sustained trade and communication. These were the kinds of practices that were quite common during this period, which fell roughly between the 17th and 19th centuries.

The story as told in the play contains an easily identifiable and relatable  coming-of-age quality. This also connects to themes of loss. Music also plays a prominent role in the play, in the form of a chorus of dolls belonging to the main character, Aiko.

I thought that the script has well-adapted from the source material so as to effectively engage the audience. This clearly involved some modernizing effects with regard to the language in the script. This helped effectively evoke the story, which revolves principally around a girl named Aiko and her family. She and her older sister Tooriko are transitioning into adulthood and find the experience significantly different for either of them. The traditional gender roles that were present during the era in Japan’s history during which the play takes place factors into this heavily.

Their journey into womanhood is accompanied by experiences along this path which are depicted in the play, including sewing lessons from their mother and what they refer to forebodingly as “the stomach war.” However, Aiko is oftentimes reluctant to take on such challenges inherent in coming of age, and is usually much more content in simply playing as she has often done during her childhood. In this respect, the play explores the vagaries of coming of age and the reluctance or fears that oftentimes accompany the transition from childhood to adulthood.

At this point in the play, Aiko receives a gift from her father, which happens to be a mirror. Aiko uses this gift to explore a world of fantasy. Throughout this journey, after at point encountering the Grand Mistress of Matsuyama, Aiko emerges at the end of the play a more full adult woman.

I also enjoyed the inclusion of some interaction with the audience during the play, in a which at one point the chorus of so-called Kokeshi dolls walks up the aisle of the auditorium.

  2.    Full Monty- Experimental Theatre


 The San Diego State production of the musical version of The Full Monty was for me a somewhat mixed experience. I suppose part of this may have had to do with the fact that I had already watched the film on which it was based. The comedy film upon which it is based is British film, so it took a bit of getting used to the fact that it had been adapted as an American version with a new setting. The characters were also clearly based upon the characters from the film, but with some differences in how they acted. The impression left by the film at times hindered my ability to fully settle into this theatrical production, and while I do prefer the film over the musical, I was for the most part able to enjoy the musical as well.

           I thought that the set was well conceived on account of the fact that it was simple yet conveyed what the setting was in a basic sense, the help of the script in also establishing key factors such as setting and context. The set could be easily altered in small yet telling ways to signify to the audience that a different change of setting, such as the women’s bathroom, or a street scene outside, had been carried out, most often as part of a transition from scene to scene over the course of the story.

           I thought that the lighting was also pretty good as well, although I also thought that perhaps there could be some subtle changes in lighting that would be more evocative of the setting or involve some more creativity with regards, perhaps, to the moods or personal feelings of any one of the characters in the musical over the course of the story.

           As for the acting, I think upon reflection that I liked best the performance of the actor playing the main character’s son. I thought that his interpretation of an oftentimes nonplussed teenager was subtle and underplayed, while at the same time easily conveying the character while at the same time remaining thoroughly likable in the eyes of the audience. In addition to this performance, I also enjoyed the performance of the character of Dave, who was trying to lose weight over the course of the play, I felt that he easily fit into his role and did not seem to be straining to effectively embody the character, but rather was not overacting and seemed to easily play the character.

           I noticed that many of the scenes and corresponding songs were very clearly and directly inspired by dialogue and action from scenes in the movie. However, that being said, it was also clear that the respective writers of the musical had oftentimes appropriately gone out of their way to make these corresponding elements in the stage production of the musical as unique as possible. Throughout the course of the play I most often found it very clear in terms of being able to follow the action and what precisely was going on in the different scenes; however, that being said, there were a few select instances in which I regrettably found certain small yet key details to less clear than they appeared in the film. One example that sticks out in my mind is the scene where one depressed character attempts to commit suicide via asphyxiation in his car. I found it less clear in this stage production that he was indeed attempting to commit suicide, whereas in the film I had immediately recognized that that was what was going on in the scene.

   3.  Film Society Film Festival or Spring Emerging Filmmakers Showcase

 I enjoyed this showcase of films and thought it was a good way to present the work of film students at the end of the semester. I also thought that limiting it to the generous length of 90 minutes was a good amount of time to include a wide array of films by student filmmakers.

           I found most of the films to be reasonably enjoyable, and others not so much, but there were two in particular that liked the most. These two films to which I am referring as having enjoyed the most were “Big Jay’s Day Out” and “Sleep On It.”

           I especially liked “Big Jay’s Day Out,” perhaps somewhat to my surprise. I thought that it was the most consistently surprising film, both thematically and stylistically. However, that being said, it also maintained consistency and unique sense of purpose, rather than just being surprising or shocking in an arbitrary way just to be so. The style was in many ways quite rough, a perhaps would not have been considered by, say, a team of judges to be the most consummate or impressive use of digital filmmaking technology. However, I thought that the director made the best use of what he had at his disposal, and the effect was in fact actually quite impressive on a large screen in a darkened theatre, the effects of which may have made up for an comparative technological failings.

           I also could tell when watching the film that the director must have put in quite a lot of effort into finding the right lighting and the most appropriate way of filming the scene. The lighting was fairly dark for much of the film, but not so much that the viewers could not see the actors. This requires a degree of effort on the part of the director with regard to the lighting and cinematography.

           The cinematography seemed significant as well in the way that it often seemed to resemble or relate to the state of mind of the principal character. This significantly enhanced the experience of watching the film. I thought while watching the short film that these aspects of the filmmaking contributed heavily to a viewing experience conducive to the overall themes and story of the film, that of a loner braving the injustices and indignities of daily existence. The thematic overarching narrative of this story also seemed at most points in the story to have a pronounced absurdist element integrated into the story, which is an element in artistic storytelling that I have always greatly admired, in the artistic mediums of both theatre and film.

The second film that I very much enjoyed (although I think the designation my personal favorite film of the showcase in its entirety would have to go to the aforementioned Big Jay’s Day Out) would be a film shown towards the end of the showcase entitled Sleep On It. I appreciated this film for its expertise with regards to artistry, technique, and the script of the film, which was clearly written consummately and rehearsed accordingly. The performances were well done, though did not seem overly rehearsed. The concept of filming in one sustained shot was a good idea and worked well for this film, and the technological quality of the cinematography was of a very good quality. I also thought the outside noises such as a bus stopping at a bus stop, though unavoidable were well incorporated into the film itself, with appropriate editing to mask any other noise.

     Go to two non-SDSU productions. Write overall observations on what moved you and why? Relate it to class work and investigate how the production worked, or didn’t work, in your estimation.

   1.  Streamers, by David Rabe—UCSD Theatre Department production

           I found this play reasonably interesting. I have an interest in learning more about the Vietnam war, so experiencing this play in performance obviously contributed to that. I found it interesting to compare this to the play Hurlyburly, from which my partner and I extracted an excerpt of a scene, which we performed for the camera. The subject matter is markedly different in Streamers, that of the Vietnam war, is seemingly diametrically the opposite of that in the other play—Hollywood.

Streamers is quite harrowing, first of all, although it takes some time to develop. The tension seems to build over time. The play does not directly involve the combat or fighting in Vietnam, or at least does not depict it on stage, but rather concerns a few young men in boot camp. It reflects upon important themes of that period relating to race, sexuality, Communism, and the draft. The theme of young men being groomed into becoming killers is very much present. This come into full view at the play’s conclusion, in an explosion of sudden and savage violence. The dynamics between the characters are very much a central part of the play. The implied homosexuality of one character was at times, I felt, to strongly conveyed; while that might have had to do with the personality of actor himself, it might have been better in the context of the play itself to have not implied it in quite such an obvious way. There was a notable amount of nudity as well, the effect of which at times felt ambiguous. I liked the way that music was incorporated, at times seeming to pass in and out of character’s subconscious.

  2.  Waiting for Godot, by Samuel Beckett—UCSD Theatre Department production

           It was interesting to see this play again, seeing as I had watched a different production previously. This production was staged in a relatively small, black-box staging area. I felt that the production was at its best when it was appropriately stark. This fit with the general consensus with regards to the conception of the play in terms of its setting, dialogue, as well as its inner meaning.

           Like many productions of plays by Samuel Beckett, particularly one as well known and studied as the quintessential Waiting for Godot, I got the impression that the director was trying to decide whether to keep the action and especially the production elements, such as staging, lighting, and special effects, appropriately rote in terms of how the play is conceived, or whether to add certain flourishes as original additions of the director. At times this worked for me, and at other times, unfortunately, it did not. I liked the touch of the discarded, rusted cell phones scattered on the mound and around the tree. I thought it was an appropriate touch lacking in ostentatiousness, which seemed to hint at what was inherently vacuous and ultimately hopeless about such technology, particularly in light of this day and age. A similar theme seemed to be conveyed by the character of the boy being shown on a seemingly discarded television, rather than actually appearing on stage. What I liked less however, was a flourish at the end in involving a player piano, a smoke machine, and a decidedly sappy soundtrack, which did not fit at all with the previous tone of the play.

[exosmutxoxo]

Dangerous Woman (Part 7) 🌙

A/N: This is the longest chapter I’ve ever updated, so I hope everyone will enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it <3 However, here’s a heads-up! This part contains snippets of abuse (mostly physical), so don’t say I didn’t warn y’all! Also, tell me your thoughts after reading! ;) TEAM CHANYEOL? TEAM LUHAN? TELL ME EVERYTHING xx

Pairing(s): Chanyeol x Reader

Warnings: Physical abuse, degradation, finger-fucking, blackmailing, use of firearms (mentions of it), violence

Genre: Thriller(?), light smut

Word Count: 8605

Soundtrack:

Gateway Drug // Bebe Rexha 

Just Like A Pill // Cascada

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | PART 7

“No answer”.

With a defeated sigh, Luhan drops his phone in his lap and rests his head against the pane of the passenger seat’s window. At this time of the afternoon, the sun is blazing down on the streets of Seoul, sending bright and cheery rays breaking through even the darkest corners of the city. If only Luhan’s mood matches the weather as well.

For the past two hours, the drug lord and the receptionist have been trampling through the city, feverishly questioning the people who are associated with (Y/N) or Chanyeol. They’ve questioned Kim Jongin, (Y/N)’s personal butler but the young man has no clue to where the call-girl might have disappeared to.

They’ve interrogated the bartender working down at the bar (Y/N) likes to hang out at, they’ve pestered the owner of the pet shop where she always drops by to get cat food for Lu and even questioned the people working at the bubble tea shop where Sehun and (Y/N) like to hang out at on several occasions.

Now, the two men are taking a break in the comfort of Sehun’s air-conditioned Rover, sitting in silence while Lu the cat snoozes away happily in the backseat. Sehun turns his head at Luhan’s remark, raising an eyebrow. “From (Y/N) or Chanyeol?”

“Both”, Luhan mutters, eyeing the phone in his lap with a hint of faint hope. Obviously, no calls or messages come through and he sighs once more, turning his attention back to the world outside the comforts of the car.

“Is there anybody else you can get a hold of?” Sehun asks. He bites down on the straw sticking out of his bubble tea cup, chewing on it. “I mean, you’re one of the most important people in this country. Surely you’ve got contacts”.

A beat of silence passes between them and Luhan feels himself beginning to twitch nervously in the passenger seat as his mind starts to throw up the unwanted memories he spent so much time trying to bury and lock away. The first memory that pops in his head is that of Chanyeol’s sister, and the drug lord curls his fingers up in his lap.

Park Yoora had been a huge part of his life three long years ago, way before he met (Y/N). Even up till today, he can still vividly recall how it felt like to hold her in his arms whenever they were utterly mind-blown after a night of sex, his nose buried in the warmth of her feminine-scented hair while his arms entwined themselves around her waist. She would always turn back to face him, her drowsy gaze fixated on him as that familiar smile tugged at the corners of her lips.

Unlike (Y/N), Yoora was much taller, albeit still shorter than Luhan himself. She was an entire world away from (Y/N), completely different in every aspect. Besides the height, she was shy and bashful and unassuming, the complete opposite of (Y/N)’s pushy, feisty, volatile personality. Yoora was a total amateur in bed, frightened out of her wits and clumsy at that, never sure of what to do next.

She would fumble around in the dark, poking and prodding at Luhan like as though he was a specimen to examine and as much as it annoyed him at times, he would admit that he did harbour some sort of twisted feeling for her at that time. He never brought up the sensitive topic of romance though, too proud to do so.

But somehow, she must have sussed out that something was up. Women have a weird way of discovering things that you yourself have no clue about, so when Yoora actually brought the taboo topic up, it was no surprise that Luhan freaked out.

Which was pretty hilariously ironic, considering the fact that he was the one who coerced her into being his sex slave in the first place.

3 years ago

“Luhan?”

Upon hearing the soft hum of his name, Luhan rolls over to gaze at Yoora expectantly, silently surprised at the sight of tears glittering in her eyes like diamonds. In the warm light of the bedroom, she looks completely vulnerable, the duvet wrapped around her naked form like a cocoon and for a split second, Luhan feels his heart start to race.

“Yeah?” He murmurs, propping himself up on his elbow and staring down at her fondly, reaching over to brush a lock of hair away from her face.

She stills beneath his touch. “Have you ever thought about being in a relationship?”

The question instantly stumps him and he feels himself freeze, everything coming to a standstill. If there’s anything he absolutely despises, it’s commitment. Actually being questioned about it is enough to send him into a state of frenzy.

He laughs it off in a desperate attempt to cover up his discomfort. “Why do you ask?”

Yoora pushes herself up to an upright position, allowing the duvet to slide off and exposing her bare breasts as she does so. Unable to help himself, Luhan fixes his stare on her physique, silently worshipping her body in the privacy of his own mind.

“I was just thinking…” She begins slowly, snapping him out of his reverie. “Ever since I became your….sex slave, I’ve been having these”, she pauses to gesture vaguely, “feelings. And I just wanted to share them with you”.

“What feelings?”

She blushes in response. “The ‘butterflies in tummy’ thing. Fuzzy, warm feelings. But only when I’m with you”.

The drug lord furrows his brows in confusion. “What are you getting at, Yoora?”

“Isn’t it obvious?” She cocks her head to the side, allowing her lovely raven-black hair to cascade over her shoulders like an ebony waterfall. “I-I’m in love with you, Luhan”.

To Luhan, it seems bizarre. He’d coerced this girl into being his sex slave, threatened her family and sent men to destroy their home and she falls in love with him? It would be hilarious if it didn’t make him feel so edgy.

Now, as Yoora leans forward towards him with the promise of a kiss on her pursed lips, Luhan feels his insides turn to goo. Sure, he’s had women openly swoon over him countless number of times but this one totally takes the cake.

She’s all over him in seconds, peppering his face with fleeting kisses and the drug lord emits a soft sigh, tilting his head back in bliss. Yoora kisses a burning path down the side of his face, along the length of his jaw and down to his collarbones, lavishing her entire adoring attention on him and Luhan loses himself in the moment, giving himself up for her and releasing his hold on the cynicism he’s been keeping so close to his heart for the past many years.

“Your brother wouldn’t approve of this”, the drug lord muses aloud, carding his fingers through Yoora’s dark locks lazily.

She exhales against his heated skin. “I don’t need his approval if he doesn’t know anything”.

Luhan knows her brother well enough. Chanyeol is definitely going to give him hell if he knew that his sister was going about falling in love with drug lords who made life a living hell for her family but it’s obvious that Yoora gives zero fucks about what her brother might think.

So he falls with her, clinging on tight as they both take the plunge into the chasm of forbidden love.

Present

When Yoora first picked up the phone, Luhan could practically feel his knees knocking together as she uttered her very first ‘hello’ for the first time in so many years.

“Hi”, the drug lord says weakly, clutching his phone so tightly that his knuckles turn a sickly white. “H-How have you been?”

Silence floods the other end of the line and as the seconds tick by, beads of perspiration start to form at the nape of his neck as he awaits her response. The worst case scenario could be that she hangs up on him without another word or curse him out for walking away from her the moment Chanyeol signed a binding contract with him all those years ago.

Yoora does neither. Instead, she heaves a long and heavy sigh as though taking this opportunity to relieve the burden she’s been carrying. “Do you want the truth, Han?” She asks simply.

Han.

He squeezes his eyes shut at the sound of the nickname, feeling a knife twisting deep in his gut. How long has it been since he last heard someone utter that?

Not very long ago, a tiny voice taunts him in the deep recesses of his mind and he shudders, realizing the truth of those words.

I’m too fucked up, Han. Don’t get too close to me. It’s for your own good.

(Y/N).

Funny how she blurted out those very words only yesterday night before he took her to bed. Before she disappeared in the dead of the night. Before Chanyeol whisked her away to God knows where.

“Tell me the truth, then”, Luhan mumbles down the line, allowing his eyelids to flutter open once more. The first thing he catches sight of is Sehun’s questioning expression staring at him from the interior of the car. Thankfully for Luhan, he’s rooted to his spot on the sidewalk and out of earshot of the receptionist.

“God, you’re still as thick-headed as ever”, Yoora mutters in his ear, and he can almost see her rolling her eyes on the other end. “I’ve missed you so much, asshole”.

In spite of it all, Luhan feels himself flush. Perhaps it’s due to the blazing heat. Oh, fucking hell. “Is that so?” The drug lord sighs, turning in the opposite direction so that Sehun can’t have a clear view of his flustered expression.

“Do you really have to ask?” Yoora retorts.

Luhan keeps his lips pinched together tightly, clenching his fists as a natural reflex to prevent the fond memories from flooding back through his mind. Suddenly, all he can think about is the lovely curve of Yoora’s breasts and the intoxicating memory of her milky-white skin, her entire naked body splayed across his bed and on full display for his eyes only.

No, no, no. You’re doing this for (Y/N). Get a grip of yourself, Han.

The drug lord clears his throat. “I-I’ve missed you too”, he admits in a low voice, digging his fingernails into the palm of his hand just to give himself a distraction. He hates himself for how his voice shakes when he spits those words out, he despises how much truth is laced in those words. Three years ago seems like an eternity, especially after (Y/N) entered his life almost as soon as he walked out of Yoora’s without a word, but all it takes is the sound of her long-lost voice for everything to come flooding back like it was just yesterday.

He hears a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line and tenses instinctively, freezing up. The silence almost drives him insane and he presses a hand to his face, taking deep breaths to calm the hurricane of emotions building up within him. Then Yoora finally speaks.

“What do you need, Han?” She asks softly, instantly setting him at ease.

He lets out a whoosh of his own breath, uncurling his fingers. “You’re still willing to do me a favour? Even after-”

“Don’t bring up the past over the phone, Han”, she cuts in briskly, her voice thick. “Just get to the point”.

Tough love.

Inwardly wincing from her biting tone, Luhan continues to speak. “Are you still in touch with your brother?”

“Chanyeol? Not really, why?”

“Do you have any idea about his whereabouts? Where he’s living at the moment, or anything?”

“No”. Yoora pauses delicately, before continuing. “But I can help you, though”.

Excitement unfurls within Luhan like a sprouting flower and he grips the phone tightly, tensing up once more. “Oh God, can you?” He gasps. “Fucking hell, thank you so much-”

“On one condition”.

The drug lord is instantly caught off guard, his world tilting on its axis and for a moment, he feels like he’s spiralling out of control. But he keeps himself firmly planted on both feet, inhaling sharply. “And what’s that?”

As Yoora states her request, Luhan feels his ice-cold heart sink to the soles of his polished shoes and a lump starts to form in his throat. Pushing his fist up against his mouth, he fights against the frustrated tears threatening to spill down his cheeks, clenching his jaw so tightly that he’s surprised that his teeth don’t shatter into a million pieces.

Just like his heart.

“Do we have a deal?” Yoora asks once she’s done stating her request.

He has no other choice. So for the second time in three years, Luhan takes the plunge. “Okay. I’ll see you tonight”.

If I didn’t feel guilty about not thinking of Luhan then, I certainly do now. The guilt eats at my heart like a poison, tearing me apart from inside out as the memory of him echoes through the deep recesses of my mind.

I see him in every shape, in every form and in every touch as Chanyeol trails his hands over my hips, pulling me closer to him so that he has a better angle to attach his lips to my neck hungrily. To an outsider, this might look adoringly sweet, a pretty picture cleverly painted but I know it’s anything but.

I’m in deep shit for blatantly pointing a gun at my kidnapper. Who knows what he has in store for me?

As far as I know, his affection towards me is his most lethal weapon. He draws me in with his intoxicating kisses, bending me to his will and breaking through my carefully crafted wall of defence so that he put more of his manipulation skills into action.

He’s a master in tugging on my strings, controlling me like I’m a mere puppet. And yet, he is unable to get a hold on my mind. Hidden away from his mastermind manipulative skills, I turn the memory of Luhan over and over in the privacy of my own mind, clutching it close to my heart even as my body is bent to another man’s will.

The safety of Lu Corporations was in my control as soon as my hand closed around the rose-gold gun and jammed the barrel of it against Chanyeol’s chest. And just like that, I threw it away and allowed Chanyeol to turn the gun around on me with that gleeful smirk playing on his lips.

Why? I wonder to myself absentmindedly, faintly aware of large and foreign hands groping and grappling at the most private parts of me. The sensation of it all sends a mixture of disgust and desperation through my bones and I loathe myself for feeling even a hint of need for the man in front of me, exploring every inch of my being as though he owns me.

My eyelids flutter shut as he presses his lips against the sensitive area beneath my earlobe, my hands drifting down the length of his back. He leans into my touch, bumping his nose against my neck and this little action of affection causes goosebumps to break out on my arms, chills shuddering through me.

“Chanyeol, stop”. The words are weak, hanging in the air limply. They sound pathetic even to my own ears.

Chanyeol sighs against my flushed skin, his grip on me never slackening. “God, (Y/N). Are you going to be difficult again?”

I squirm in his arms in a vain attempt to wrestle myself away from him but I only end up getting myself in a headlock as his arm snakes itself around my neck, forcing me to stop struggling. “I’m not being difficult”, I gasp. “There’s something called personal space and if you don’t mind, I would like some of that”.

He scoffs dismissively. “So you have the chance to point a gun at me again, like the little shit you are?”

Threateningly, he tightens his arm around my neck. His hold on me isn’t enough to suffocate me but stars are starting to dance at the edge of my vision and fear is starting to grapple at my insides. “Chanyeol, let me go”, I rasp anxiously, starting to kick out at him.

In response, he starts to lean more of his weight on me and the threat of passing out descends upon me like a tidal wave. “Perhaps this is a good lesson for you, princess”, he sneers in my ear. “Fuck around with me one more time and you’ll be getting way worse than this”.

“Chanyeol, please”, I beg hoarsely, frantically clawing at his arm in fright. “Y-You’re hurting me”.

But he doesn’t release his hold on me. Instead, he leans on me even more, his larger physique covering my petite form and almost crushing me. It’s insufferably claustrophobic and I’m spurred on by my panic, propelled to drive my elbow backwards and ramming him straight in the jaw.

Chanyeol stumbles backwards, releasing his hold on me and I fall forward, greedily gasping for much-needed oxygen as the stars dancing on the edge of my vision fade away into nothing. Still buzzing with adrenalin and fear, I turn back to face him and I’m met with the sight of crimson blood dripping from his split lip, one of his hands pressed to the wound.

He emits a string of curses once he pulls his fingers away, staring at the blood staining the tips of his fingers. The glare he aims in my direction causes my limbs to freeze up, rooting me to the spot like a deer caught in headlights and I’m overwhelmed with numb panic, unable to react.

Even as he backhands me fresh across the face and I land on my back, sprawled across the cold concrete of the warehouse floor, I’m unable to do anything. Staring up at the blinding fluorescent lights, I’m overwhelmed with a sense of bewilderment and shock. I knew that Chanyeol definitely isn’t going to be awarded gentleman of the year and that he’s more than a little rough around the edges but the fact that he’d just blatantly struck me sharply across the face leaves me reeling in shock.

Perhaps some deeper part of me actually trusted him enough to respect our boundaries but after this, it seems like he’d thrown my trust in the trash. Just like my heart.

Mustering up enough energy, I turn onto my side and bury my face in the sleeve of the bomber jacket I’m wearing to hide my shame. The scent of the jacket wafts up my nostrils, reminding of the lingering aftershave fragrance in the bathroom back at Chanyeol’s house and with a jolt, I realize that the jacket I have on belongs to him.

It feels like the door to getting back to Luhan has been slammed shut in my face. Not only has Chanyeol left his mark on me by sleeping with me; now his scent is practically imprinted on my skin, residing in me and acting as the final claim for him.

“Now do you understand why you should’ve gotten rid of me?” Chanyeol’s raspy voice fills the empty silence of the warehouse, penetrating through the protective wall of the jacket which I’ve yanked over myself. “You’re going to have to put up with me, and that is only your damn fault, (Y/N). You held a gun in your hand, your finger dancing on a trigger and yet, you chose to keep me around. Why’s that?”

I don’t respond. Not because I don’t know what to say but because I’m mustering up the courage to speak. With a deep breath, I lift my head to gaze at him, albeit still quivering internally. His expression is completely unreadable, like a flat line on a heart monitor.

“Would you ask a drug addict why he’s addicted to drugs?” I ask quietly.

Chanyeol furrows his brow at that, eyes narrowing. “The answer would be obvious. People can’t ever get enough of the things that are no good for them”.

I smile sadly. “Exactly”.

A smirk crosses his face. “Luhan wouldn’t be too happy to hear that”.

He crosses the warehouse, closing the distance between the two of us and staring down at me. His eyes are dark and stormy, as though there’s a hurricane building up deep within him and I wouldn’t trade anything to get rid of the storm which goes by the name of Park Chanyeol.

As much as the guilt gnaws away at me, I can’t find the willpower to walk away. The ghost of Luhan at the back of my mind screams at me to get up, grow a backbone and stand up to the monster who dragged me into this situation in the first place.

The monster glowering down at me beckons me to get to my feet and fall into his arms and poisonous embrace, which I do. Up close, I can see the nasty split of his lip where my elbow came into contact with earlier on and I don’t feel guilty for that either.

The clothes I have on are instantly stripped off me, falling into a puddle at my feet as Chanyeol’s hands work briskly, fingertips dancing across my bare skin tauntingly. The oversized bomber jacket I’m wearing is the first article of clothing to be discarded, completely abandoned on the cold concrete ground.

“As much as I love seeing you in my clothes”, he remarks with a chuckle, “you look way better when they’re off”.

Vulnerably naked, he shoves me up against the wall with my back to him. With my cheek pressed against the concrete, he catches both of my wrists and twists them behind my back, the familiar sensation of icy metal coming in contact with my skin. He clicks the handcuffs in place, locking my wrists together behind my back and before I can protest, a blindfold drops over my eyes, encasing me in total darkness.

Instantly, my other senses are sharpened and I tremble uncontrollably, waiting in anticipation for whatever is to come next. The next thing I’m aware of is that I’m pushed back against the nearby table, sprawled across the tabletop flat on my back with my legs wide open. Cool air tickles at my exposed and soaking womanhood, sending chills up my spine.

“Rule number one”, Chanyeol growls in that irresistibly husky voice of his, “is that you don’t release until I say so. Is that clear, princess?”

I nod feverishly, prompting him to carry on.

“Rule number two is that you do not say a word unless I allow you to”, he ticks off, as though going down a list.

Again, I bob my head obediently in acknowledgement. Even with my blindfold on, I can almost see the shit-eating grin playing on Chanyeol’s lips as I hear his footsteps approach me, his fingertips grazing across the bare skin of my thighs teasingly.

Then the silence is broken by the low hum of a vibration and my stomach flips, anxiety and excitement twisting themselves up in me. Ah, fuck.

Without a further thought, I break the second rule. “Oh no, Chanyeol, please-”

“Shut up”, Chanyeol snaps. His voice seems a million miles away, like as though he’s speaking through a cardboard tube but I know better. He’s hovering over me, judging by the vibrations reverberating in his hand.

He presses the vibrator against my clit gently and instantly, my hips buck upwards at the intoxicating sensation. A whimper builds up at the back of my throat, threatening to slip out of my lips but I bite down on my lower lip hard, so hard that I can almost taste the familiar iron tang of blood.

As the seconds tick by, tears of ecstasy start to form in my eyes, trickling down the sides of my face and dampening the soft material of the blindfold. I want nothing more than to scream in full-blown pleasure and explode all over the table but I maintain steady control over my body, focusing on my breathing.

My heart pounds in time to the intensity of the vibration, my fingers curling up and digging into the cold steel of the handcuffs. The familiar heat builds up in the pit of my stomach, as a result of the frustratingly addictive sensation of that goddamned vibrator. As if he can sense my well-concealed pleasure, Chanyeol clicks the vibrator to a higher intensity, almost causing to scream out in impulsive ecstasy.

I’ve been trained to hold my orgasms back thanks to the past three years of being in a sex-filled industry. If anything, I’m a pro at controlling the way my body reacts to the touches it receives, careful to not give away too much to any of my clients. Sure, I’ve orgasmed for every single one of them but to me, orgasms are something special. Orgasming for someone is like giving away a special part of myself, and I don’t do that for just anyone.

To make a living, yes. I don’t have a choice there. But the only time I really opened myself up was when I was with Luhan, my body turning to putty in his sexual care like I’ve never done before. The sex we had was tender, caring and emotionally packed.

This is totally different. This is addictive, toxic and dangerous. This is like fucking drugs. Once I get my fix, it’s never going to be enough. I need this, I need to climax, I need-

“You’ve got more willpower than I gave you credit for, princess”, Chanyeol remarks, breaking through my train of thought abruptly.

If only he knew.

With the vibrator turned up to such an agonizingly high intensity, pressing against my throbbing clit and sending tremors through my form, I’m so close to my release that stars are starting to dance at the edge of my black vision once more, clinging to the edge of the cliff by the tips of my fingernails.

The low rumble of his throaty laughter is like a symphony to my buzzing ears, acting as the sole sign that at least I’m not left all alone to the erotic torture of the vibrator. At least he’s somewhere nearby, still hovering over me and close enough for me to-

Chanyeol’s lips land on mine before I have the opportunity to make the mistake of verbally begging for some sort of physical contact, dragging me even further down into the pool of passion which I’m already drowning in. He feels warm against me, his bare skin burning against mine and I absentmindedly wonder how the hell he managed to undress himself so swiftly and quietly with only one hand since his other hand is so preoccupied with torturing me with that vibrator of his.

But what the hell, honestly.

This is some good shit and instantly, his earlier rules fly out of mind. Lifting my head, I catch his lower lip in between my teeth and tug roughly, relishing the sharp and metallic tang of blood from his wound. In response, he emits a growl and shoves the vibrator up against my clit not too gently, his fingers clicking the highest intensity.

The sensation has me finally screaming in pure bliss, heat twisting up in me frantically as my orgasm builds itself up in time to the rhythmic hums of the toy pressed against my womanhood. I couldn’t give a flying fuck about his rule of not speaking until I’m told to, my heart slamming with frantic desperation.

“Chanyeol!” I beg, the tears soaking through the blindfold. My hands strain against the restraints of the handcuffs, rubbing my wrists raw as incoherent sobs tumble from my lips. All feelings of guilt fly out the window as I’m clouded by my own selfish need to be fulfilled, my hips bucking up to meet Chanyeol’s eagerly.

With his body pressed against mine and his free hand tracing a fiery path down my stomach and weaving its way down to my crying womanhood, I’m blinded and blown beyond belief. For the moment, nothing else matters. It’s just me and Chanyeol, our bodies moulded together and shielded against the rock-hard reality of the world. We’re just two beings floated in a paradise of physical ecstasy, holding onto each other for some form of relief.

The vibrator is replaced with one of his fingers, prodding gently at my entrance. I mewl pathetically, my body convulsing at his touch and he chuckles lowly, lips brushing against the length of my jaw almost affectionately. “You can’t ever keep your mouth shut, can you?”

“I’m sorry”, I sob. “I-I need you”.

“Whore”, he mocks, pressing the pad of his thumb against my overly sensitive clit and rubbing tight little circles over it in an agonizingly slow motion.

Yes. Yes, I am.

I’m Luhan’s whore.

The thought jolts me back to reality, my body jerking against Chanyeol’s touch automatically and he mistakes it for pleasure, proceeding to slide his index finger in between my soaking folds and pumping it enthusiastically. My back flies off the tabletop, my body craving for something so much more fulfilling and the faint memory of Luhan darts across my mind’s eye.

In the window of my mind, I see my beloved drug lord smiling down at me fondly as he works me up to my climax, gently coaxing me to release just for him. I fantasize about him sliding three more fingers into my wetness, toying with my clit with his thumb. I pretend that it’s him whispering degrading words down at me, I pretend it’s him pleasuring me to my fullest.

And as I explode all over the tabletop, my mind is utterly filled up with the image of Luhan, albeit the different name tumbling from my lips. I wail out Chanyeol’s name to the beat of Luhan in my heart, allowing myself to fall to pieces in the arms of the wrong man.

But if it’s wrong, then why does it feel so right? Nothing’s that bad if it feels good, right?

The phone call from his sister comes through as soon as Chanyeol rolls off the table and starts gathering up his discarded clothes, leaving (Y/N) to catch her breath after a mind-blowing orgasm from his earlier finger-fucking. Without a word, Chanyeol swipes up his phone and slips out of the warehouse, shutting the front door behind him as he answers the call.

“Long time no talk, Yoora”, he says coolly, balancing the phone between his ear and shoulder.

His sister heaves a sigh on the other end of the line and for a second, the familiarity of it sends a pang of longing coursing through Chanyeol’s veins. It’s been three years since he last spoke to his sister and he’d always secretly vowed that he would give her the cold shoulder if she ever hit him up again. But somehow, he finds himself wavering and pouncing on the phone as soon as he caught sight of her caller ID, much to his chagrin.

“Baby brother”, Yoora purrs in his ear, her voice causing his heart to clench in his chest. “How’ve you been?”

Chanyeol almost barks out a laugh at her nonchalance, turning back to glance at the warehouse behind him. If only his big sister knew what he’d been up to with his boss’s lover; she would be horrified.

“Fine and dandy, Yoora”, he replies smoothly. “How about you? What do you need?”

“Oh, this has got nothing to do with me. I don’t need anything. It’s Luhan who needs to know”.

Chanyeol stiffens, fists clenching at his sides at the mere mention of the drug lord’s poisonous name. “What the fuck does he want?”

“Your location”, Yoora states matter-of-factly. “And you can’t weasel your way out of this, Yeol. The two of us sealed the deal when he agreed to sleep with me”.

“What the fuck?” Chanyeol hollers down the line, his temper rising rapidly. “Yoora, he treated you like a mere whore three years ago! Why the hell did you sleep with him again? Why did you associate yourself with the man who made our lives a living hell?”

Yoora clucks her tongue, just chuckling at him and Chanyeol feels himself flush like the little brother he is, embarrassed by his elder sister’s mockery. “Believe it or not, it was Luhan who came scrambling to me for help. He mentioned something about getting a friend back. What on earth have you been up to?”

He completely ignores the question. “Did you tell him about my whereabouts?”

“I have no flipping idea of where you even live now, baby brother. Which is exactly why I’m talking to you right now”.

“Don’t tell him anything yet”, he interjects hastily. “Stall him. I have some shit to sort out. I’ll give you the go head when I’m done”.

“Great. Gives me more time to fuck around with him a little more”.

Chanyeol stifles a groan at that. “We need a long talk about moral compasses one day, big sister”.

She snorts. “Something which Dad never taught us both”.

He hangs up without another word, huffing as he does so. Normally, he detests the topic of his own father but as of now, he has more pressing issues at hand and he doesn’t give his long-lost family member much thought, choosing to worry about Luhan instead. The goddamned drug lord was willing to give up his morality and dignity to his own sister just to attain information on where (Y/N) might be, and Chanyeol inwardly cringes.

He can understand the fact that Luhan is dying to get (Y/N) back, but actually sleeping with someone in exchange for her whereabouts? Either the drug lord must be desperate or lacking a moral compass. Not that Chanyeol has much say in that, considering the fact that he’s been emotionally manipulating his boss’s lover and shacking up with her.

The club Chanyeol drives us to is completely packed at this time of the evening, packed with gyrating bodies on the dance floor and the familiar sour stench of alcohol lingering in the congested air. Deafening music rocks the entire place, pounding through my bones as Chanyeol leads me further into the crowd by the hand.

I struggle to match his pace, my little legs a faraway cry from his long and lanky ones so eventually, I give up and allow him to string me along, my gaze fixed firmly on the back of his bomber jacket. The printed words ‘May the bridges I burn light the way’ stare back at me and I make a mental note to compliment his fashion sense later on.

As of now, he leads me up to the bar a few feet away from the dance floor and its flashing neon lights, helping me up onto one of the barstools at the furthest corner. He pulls himself up on the seat next to me, signalling to the bartender with a raised hand and a knowing smile.

“What would you like?” Chanyeol asks me once the young bartender makes his way over to us, eyebrows raised expectantly.

I look up at him in surprise. “Um…nothing too strong. Perhaps a diet coke?”

Chanyeol rolls his eyes at my request, shooting an exasperated look at the expressionless bartender. “You heard her. Get her a coke. As for me, I want some gin. The strongest one”.

The bartender bows his head respectfully, turning his back on us and starting on our drinks and leaving me staring up at Chanyeol’s side profile curiously. “Why are you being so generous?” I can’t resist asking.

“Aren’t I always?” He cocks up an eyebrow perfectly, attempting to appear casual.

I say nothing, pressing my lips together thoughtfully and clearly unimpressed. He senses this and sighs, leaning an elbow on the table and leaning in closer to me. “Look”, he says seriously, “take this as an apology for earlier on. I didn’t mean to lash out at you”.

At his words, my jaw starts to throb once more, a haunting memory of how he backhanded me earlier on. Flushing, I drop my gaze to the bartop, fiddling with my fingers just to give myself something to do. The silence between us thickens despite the pounding music filling the dark interior of the club and as the seconds tick by, I feel my heartbeat quicken. I say nothing, do nothing, just completely frozen in my seat even as Chanyeol’s large hand closes over mine on top of the bar, his long fingers splayed across mine.

“(Y/N)”, he whispers, his voice terrifyingly audible even with the music blasting in the background. His touch burns through me, flooding every one of my senses and I feel an unknown feeling build up deep inside me, ready to erupt at any given moment. My body starts to tremble in time to the beat of the music, the flashing neon lights causing my head to throb in the most wonderful way possible. Combine that feeling with the way Chanyeol murmurs my name in my ear like a symphony and I feel myself crack under it all.

As though they have a life of their own, my hands grab fistfuls of his bomber jacket and I drag him off the barstool and towards the dance floor, losing ourselves in the gyrating crowd. The neon lights surround us like our own spotlight, illuminating our bodies beautifully. The music finds its way into our systems, propelling me to wrap my arms around his neck and stand on my tiptoes to plant a kiss on his lips daringly, sparks of passionate electricity bleeding through my veins at the shock of the physical contact.

Chanyeol reciprocates graciously, lifting me up into his arms and deepening the kiss. He’s as greedy as a starved man, taking me in like an animal and practically devouring me. He gives zero fucks about the gyrating, grinding bodies around us, his focus honing in on me and only me. There’s a noticeable spark in his dark eyes, almost lighting up the entire club and I wonder what it is. Love? Lust? Possessiveness?

Whatever the spark represents, I’m glad it’s there. It’s a clear indication that he’s physically and mentally present with me, seeing and breathing nothing but me. Everything -the music, the lights, the people- melts away, encasing the two of us in our little lust-filled bubble.

However, our bubble is heartlessly popped as soon as someone grabs my arm from behind, yanking me out of Chanyeol’s warm embrace. I stumble backwards, toppling clumsily into the arms of another man who’s explicitly drunk, his sour breath hitting my cheek as he leers down at me like a predator, his beefy arms entwined around my waist and crushing me to him.

“What’s a pretty chick like you doing with a bastard like that?” The man slurs, jerking his hand in Chanyeol’s direction while nuzzling his face into the crook of my neck. Shock causes me to freeze up, my stunned gaze fixated on Chanyeol’s face as I kick out at the unfamiliar man uselessly.

To say that Chanyeol is a little pissed off is an understatement; he’s raging, his dark eyes containing a storm as he lunges forward at the same time I drive my elbow back into the man’s face frantically. The drunkard releases his hold on me, stumbling backwards and that’s when Chanyeol leaps in for the blow, his clenched fists colliding with the man’s jaw as quick as lightning.

A deafening crack echoes throughout the club, barely concealed by the music. Instantly, the gyrating bodies come to a halt as they observe the escalating violence with eager interest. The drunkard clutches his bruised jaw, swaying unsteadily on his two feet as he points a shaky finger at Chanyeol threateningly.

“You little fucker”, he rumbles, slurring his words pathetically. “I’ll fucking pound you in-”

He doesn’t get the chance to complete his sentence before Chanyeol grabs him by the collar, slamming him up against the wall. The man’s eyes practically roll back due to the impact, clawing at Chanyeol’s large hands weakly.

“Look, man”, the drunkard pants. “Chill. I’m sorry-”

“Don’t fucking touch my girl!” Chanyeol roars, silencing the animated chatter occurring amongst the crowd of bystanders. He slams the drunkard back against the wall once more for emphasis, resulting in a ripple of admirable gasps from the crowd while the other man cowers away, dropping his gaze to the ground squeamishly.

“She’s mine”, Chanyeol hisses. “And nobody touches what is mine. Got that, prick?”

The drunkard nods frantically, obviously sober enough to understand a threat when he hears one. Satisfied, Chanyeol releases his hold on the man’s collar and turns around to face me, striding over to where I’m frozen a few feet away and grabbing me by the arm, leading me away from the gawping crowd.

The two of us plunge into the darker depths of the club, the music dimming as we turn down a corridor. Once my eyes adjust to the darkness, I can see that we’re in one of the unoccupied backrooms and that we’re completely alone, hidden away from the crowd. With a jolt of realization, I notice how heavy my breathing has grown in the span of a few minutes, still shaken up from the earlier events.

“Fucking prick”. Chanyeol’s muttered words serve as a distraction from my reeling thoughts, snapping me back to reality. The storm in his eyes hasn’t dissipated, roiling on in him like a poisonous hurricane and a blush colours my cheeks.

Tentatively, I poke his arm and he looks down at me, his brow furrowed. “You’re always so angry”, I remark.

He looks at me incredulously. “What did you expect me to do? Allow him to cop off with you? Allow him to touch you up with those disgusting hands of his? Nobody fucking touches my things!”

“Thing?” Offense bleeds through my words and I place my hands on my hips, trying to look intimidating to a man who’s at least six feet tall and towering over my five feet form like a skyscraper. “I’m just a mere thing to you?”

A snarl curls his upper lip. “You belong to me and that tells you enough”.

That remark hits home and I return the snarl. “I belong to nobody. Don’t get ahead of yourself”.

“Pretty mouths like yours spit a lot of pretty lies, (Y/N)”. His snarl morphs into a grin and he reaches out, wrapping his fingers around my wrist and dragging me towards him, engulfing me in his body heat. I don’t bother struggling, already knowing that it’ll be in vain.

Instead, I peer up at him from beneath my eyelashes, cocking my head to the side with the perfect balance of innocence and sultriness. It’s one of the insignificant actions which I’ve been practicing for the longest time, armed with the secret knowledge that it’s something which seems to drive men insane, a clear cut path to their hearts. “My mouth can do a lot more than just spitting out pretty lies”, I say suggestively, pursing my lips in a full-blown pout.

This does wonders to Chanyeol, who raises an eyebrow in question. “You’re a very complex person, (Y/N)”.

“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong. I’m very simple-minded, to be honest. Just give me attention and good sex and let me suck your dick when I want to, and you’ve already won me over”.

“So in other words, you’re like a needy, cock-sucking kitten who’s also very bratty and stubborn and difficult when she wants to be”.

“If you put it that way, then yeah”.

We eye each other for the longest time like two boxers gearing up before a match, tension sizzling in the air, so thick that you could cut through it with a knife. In all the years I’ve been with Luhan, I’ve never encountered such cold and calculative silence in which we size each other up before plunging in into the pool of heated passion.

Chanyeol is totally out of my league. He’s a language I can’t understand, no matter how hard I try. While Luhan was art, a complete masterpiece crafted by experts and the wonders of the business world, Chanyeol is graffiti. Rough around the edges and crudely created, he’s not flawless but he’s artistic in his own rough way.

And I’m the poor sucker who is stuck at a crossroad, forced to pick the better piece of artwork when I’m someone who doesn’t understand art in the first place.

“I don’t understand”, I find myself quietly remarking, my gaze never straying from Chanyeol’s unreadable expression. In the dim lighting of the backroom, his features look beautifully sculptured, sharp and prominent and gorgeous, and my heart clenches in sore guilt. He looks so different from Luhan, so fresh and real and a far cry from the trademark polished demeanour that all businessmen wear.

“Understand what?” His voice is uncharacteristically soft, rumbling through my bones like thunder.

I look him dead in the eye, reaching out to take one of his large hands in my small ones. “You”.

A bark of bitter laughter is what I get in response, his fingers curling around mine possessively. “Nobody does, (Y/N). Don’t even bother trying”.

“I’m going to, anyway”, I retort. “I’m going to find out why you are the way you are now, even if it hurts me. You’ve hurt me enough anyway, so this is nothing”.

“I’m too fucked up, (Y/N). Don’t get too close to me. It’s for your own good”.

“Funny that you said that. I remember telling Luhan the exact same thing”.

He cups my cheeks in the palms of his hands, leaning in to rest his forehead against mine and staring deep into my eyes. Our close proximity sends an anticipating chill through me, the hairs at the back of my neck standing on end.

“Are you really in love with Luhan?” He asks.

The question is a shock to my system, my world instantly tilting on its axis and spiralling out of control like a careening car skidding on its tyres. I’m dumbfounded, completely numb as my mind struggles to process the stumping question.

Am I really in love with Luhan? Or am I just in love with the money and attention he’s been lavishing on me for the past few years? Or were the two of us just lonely souls seeking sanctuary in each other, to fill up the gaping holes in our hearts?

My hesitation is answer enough for Chanyeol, who runs the pad of his thumb over my lips soothingly. “I knew it”, he murmurs, more to himself rather than to me. But I hear it anyway.

A sigh escapes from me. No words are needed; the meaning is utterly crystal clear to our ears. It’s like a moment of complete peace and serenity surrounding us, enveloping us in a warm blanket of comfort and understanding.

Until Chanyeol reaches into the pocket of his bomber jacket and produces the familiar rose-gold gun, a leering grin peeling at his lips as he presses the barrel of it against my temple. His finger hovers dangerously close to the trigger and my heart gallops into my throat at the open threat, my blood turning cold.

“Chanyeol”, I whisper, “what are you doing?”

He ignores me, pulling out his phone and punching in a few numbers before placing it on speaker mode, the blare of a droning dialling tone filling the air. Before I can protest further, an oh-so-familiar voice pipes up, sending an ache through me.

Luhan is frantic, his words dripping with a mixture of indignation, anger and anxiety. His questions come like bullets. “Chanyeol? Is that you? What the fuck do you think you’re playing at? Where’s (Y/N)?”

Chanyeol jams the gun’s barrel against my temple again, shooting me a knowing look. “Say something”, he hisses beneath his breath, soft enough so that Luhan can’t hear.

I swallow. “H-Hello, Luhan?”

The shakiness of my voice halts Luhan right in his tracks and I can sense the tension settling around him like a dark storm cloud. “(Y/N)? Is that you?”

“Y-Yes”.

“Where are you, (Y/N)? Are you okay?”

In a swift motion, Chanyeol pulls the gun away from my head and aims a shot at the nearby wall, the bang screaming through the air and paralysing me in fear, my fists clenched by my sides tightly. On the other end of the line, Luhan emits a strangled sound of fear.

“What the flying fuck?” He yells. “(Y/N)! (Y/N), what’s going on?”

Chanyeol takes over, placing the speaker of the phone near his mouth as he tucks the gun back into his pocket. “Hello there, Mr Lu”, he says smoothly, the smugness clearly evident in his voice.

I hear Luhan inhale sharply. “Chanyeol, what on earth are you playing at?”

“Playing?” Chanyeol mock gasps for dramatic effect. “Why, Mr Lu, how could you think so lowly of me? After what you’ve been doing with my sister and you accuse me of playing?”

“Don’t bring your sister up”, the drug lord hisses venomously. “I did what I could to get (Y/N) back. And I will get her back, one way or another”.

“Ah, true love. How revolting”. Rolling his eyes, Chanyeol scoffs down the line while studying his cuticles in a display of boredom. “Listen up, Lu. If you want her back, make your way down to the club downtown and we’ll talk then”.

“Fine. Just keep your hands off her”.

Chanyeol chuckles at that, leaning forward and trailing a finger over my lips. “Of course, Mr Lu. I won’t lay a finger on her”.

Luhan would be lying if he said that he doesn’t feel a pang of guilt as he rolls out of Yoora’s king-sized bed and proceeds to don on his creased clothes, his fingers trembling as he buttons up his shirt.

Yoora watches him wordlessly, the white duvet wrapped around her naked body and her ebony hair mussed up in the loveliest way possible, framing her heart-shaped jaw prettily. As she observes his every move, she finally speaks.

“Do you love her?”

Luhan’s head jolts up and he blinks at her in bewilderment, pausing in the midst of buttoning up his shirt. “Who?”

“(Y/N). The girl you told me about. You seem crazy about her”.

The drug lord hesitates, carefully considering his words before responding. “I don’t know”.

Yoora’s eyes widen. “You don’t know?”

“I don’t know if I’m in love or just lonely”, the drug lord explains earnestly. “It’s complicated”.

“Well, I’m in love with you”.

“I know you are”. Luhan cracks a watery smile, donning his suit jacket and proceeding to pull on his shoes.

“And I know you reciprocate my feelings. Somehow, some way, you still keep the little flame of me alive in your heart. You’re a readable person, Han. You can’t fool me”.

“I don’t intend to fool anyone”. Hopping up, Luhan directs a patronizing smile back at Yoora as he makes his way to the door. But her voice halts him right in his tracks, reeling him back.

“You’ll come back to me”, she remarks matter-of-factly. “I know you will”.

Luhan says nothing. Instead, he pivots on his heel and bolts for the door in a vain attempt to run away from the guilt eating away at his heart like an unstoppable poison.