#sex-drugs & violence

[cigarett3afters3x]

[teaboot]

any punk/emo recs? i love ur posts and wanna find some deep cut punk/emo recs

?? Like, music recs?? One sec lemme dig through my old mp3

...

Okay, so some top punk and emo bands to check out: Links are to my favourite songs by them, for surprises

(Probably not deep cuts, just my favourites)

Get Scared

The Pretty Reckless

Papa Roach

The White Stripes

Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

Billy Talent

The Prodigy

Also some alt / metal because I would have *burned the world down* for these back then

Gnome (I know but trust me)

Grandson

Knocked Loose

Static X

Scxrlord

Faceless 1-7

Sub Urban

Ashnikko

Chanmina

Jazmin Bean

Carolesaughter

In This Moment

[m-ayo-o]

seeingdouble ɘldυobϱniɘɘƨ

KINKTOBER IV: DRUGGED starring: f!reader, megumi [25+], toji [mid 40s] synopsis: megumi is led down a dark path by his assassin father. his moral compass askew, lacking any real social experience, he's left to his own devices with a cute girl. thankfully, toji shows up in time to take control. warnings: murder, violence, spiking, drug use: narcotics + psychedelics. stripper!reader [who sometimes offers sex work]. virgin!megumi. restraints. choking. unprotected sex. incest [pussy sharing, dp, anal] guidance. non-con; reader starts to enjoy it [she is drugged] wc: 4.5k

⋆⁺/ don't like it? block it / do not interact i do not condone taking drugs. spiking is illegal. this is fiction

18+ EXPLICIT SEX | DARK CONTENT | HORROR THEMES

When Toji’s wife passed he managed to sell off his daughter to the notorious Zenin clan for a pretty penny, but decided to keep the ten shadows boy for himself. 

Without his wife, daughter and clan, Toji’s life spiralled out of control and he took Megumi down with him. 

Toji left everything behind, so did Megumi.

Toji became invisible, so did Megumi. 

He corrupted him and dragged him into a cursed life of killing for money. 

Leaving his boy in cheap, dusty hotels, Toji would go out to commit murder– it was as simple as grocery shopping for him, only returning home with his shirt all bloody and ripped. Young Megumi would eye his clothing curiously, his gaze wide and innocent, but would be too scared to utter a word. He knows his father has a terrible temper.

This routine continued until Megumi got older, into his late teens, when Toji thought it would be appropriate to start telling the young man about what he did. Then in his early twenties he started taking him along on his sinister missions, hunting. Lacking any formal education or training, he doubted his son would be of any use. 

But Megumi had become intelligent and strong in his solitude, reading for entertainment and experimenting with his powers, his shikigami the only life forms to keep him company.

Despite his independence, having Toji as his only guiding light led the younger man to have a somewhat twisted view on reality, and as far as sound moral judgement goes, he simply does not possess it. 

As an assassin, Toji likes a quick kill; clean and efficient, usually with a gun or a knife. He can get paid faster that way, delivering the body swiftly and avoiding any trouble.

But he’s noticed his son taking a liking to finishing his victims more personally.

⁺⋆

Another murderous evening had drawn to a close, their hands stained red once again, when he carelessly took his eyes off his son and their victim.  

A young, powerful sorceress who’d seemingly pissed off the wrong crowd. Still, a surprisingly easy target for the assassin in training.

“Megumi, s’time to go,” the older man wipes his knife and cautiously looks along the alleyway.

His son is unresponsive. 

Toji gets closer, squinting in the dark to find his hands wrapped around her neck. 

She’s still alive, barely, but clinging on nonetheless, fading in and out of consciousness. 

“What are you doing? Just– just fucking–” 

“Wait”

The younger man’s stern voice halts Toji from slitting her throat.

And he watches his son squeeze the life out of the young woman. 

His lips twitch when her eyes roll back. But still, his hand remains over her windpipe, feeling her pulse die when the last breaths escape her body. 

“Megumi. We need to go.”

His son finally pulls away, and they become invisible once more. 

Despite his grisly methods, not only did Megumi prove useful, but their missions also provided for some much needed father-son bonding time. 

So, with his son reaching 25 years old, they got into this gruesome habit together, becoming partners.

Another habit Megumi picked up from the older man was his tendency to visit strip clubs after their kill. They were great places to hide, especially if you knew the owners well enough. And Toji knew each and every member of staff in this place; the managers, the bar staff, the girls.

And he knew a certain pretty little girl very well indeed.

Despite his many visits he never made any inappropriate advances, only paid to watch you dance. Maybe a lap dance every now and again if he was feeling particularly self gratuitous.

You share few words, but seem to have a mutual understanding of one another. You know that he loves watching you, and you’ve come to like his stern demeanour and surprisingly respectful attitude, enjoying his ability to scare off creepy customers. He’s kind of like your personal bodyguard at work. You feel lucky to have met him.

Unlike some of the halfwit scumbags that frequent the club, he’s a real man. From his assertive, deep tones, those muscles, perfect for manhandling little girls like you, and those sharp eyes, staring as if he wants your body as much as you want his.

But you have no idea what he does for work– he almost seems nocturnal.

Then you notice that he starts bringing someone else to the club.

His younger brother? His son? You can’t tell. But you know for certain that they’re related as soon as they step in together– their hair is styled differently, but is the same absolute black. The strobe lighting illuminates different colours in the younger man’s eyes, but they have the same glare. Their faces are a slightly different shape, but they have the same wicked smile. 

How could there be two of him? One was already enough.

“Meet my son.” 

Oh. He might be the same age as me. You think, studying his features– bags under his eyes, more height than muscle, cheeks slightly sunken. 

His exchanges are awkward. He looks uncomfortable.

You offer him a dance, not knowing what else to do. You’re here to work, after all.

Toji pays for a private dance and you walk with his son to a booth, the older man giving him a wink and a devilish smile.

You draw the curtains and pause, looking at the way he’s fidgeting. 

“Got a girlfriend?”

“No,” he replies tersely, narrowing his eyes. 

You ask if he wants a lap dance, but he’s so hesitant that you just end up sitting next to him and chatting instead.

“So, do you enjoy working here?” he sounds less nervous now he’s gotten to know your name, at least. 

“Yeah, nice customers for the most part, but the hours are pretty long.”

“Same with my job– the hours, I mean.”

“You don’t work with the public?”

“Sort of…” he trails off, dark eyes darting over your features.

You notice, despite your clothing revealing most of your body to him, that he’s focusing on your lips more than anything.

“You’re um,” he takes a long pause, dragging his gaze back to your eyes, “very pretty.”

How sweet. Your eyes widen slightly, a smile forming on your lips. You’re not used to sweet. 

“Th-thank you.” you can’t help the stuttering– the way he’s looking at you with sudden intensity catches your tongue.

“Shall we–” you reach to open the curtain of the private booth, your arm caught in his strong grip, your body freezing. 

“You– you can’t touch me–” does he not know that?

“Sorry” he retracts his hand, fiddling with his fingers. 

“You change your mind or something?”

“No, I just wanted to… look at you, for a little longer,” you turn to face him again, “if that’s ok.”

So you nod and sit down.

He has a hungry look in his eyes now– he starts with your face, your eyes, in fact, making incredible, unwavering contact until you can’t take it, your pupils darting away to his amusement. Then he finds your mouth, and the way you’re chewing the inside of your cheek.

Then your neck, where he focuses intently on the slow thrum of your jugular. He licks his lips, making you squirm and wish he would’ve accepted the lap dance.

His gaze darts over the rest of your body and you watch the clock tick over to midnight, signalling fifteen minutes and the end of his private… whatever the fuck this was.

“Time’s up.” You stand and reach for the curtain, feeling his eyes remain over your figure as you step out and waltz back to the changing rooms. 

You get off early tonight, having a final smoke with your colleagues when you see a text pop through from Toji. After exchanging numbers months ago, he barely contacts you, only asking where you are if you’re not at your regular shift.

[00:14] Toji 

Come over?

You’re surprised he’s asking. 

You’re tempted– after all, it is for Toji. You’ve been wanting him to reach out to you, thinking that he would’ve made his move much sooner. Every cell in your body is telling you not to do this, but you ignore the feeling, finding his hotel.

You enter the room– luckily for you, in a slightly nicer establishment than usual– still, one that is filled with the smell of alcohol and cannabis, the TV blaring on some late night gambling channel.

So they sit you down, welcoming you into their little games and bets, offering you hard liquor and joints till you’re tipsy. 

After Toji’s multiple visits to your workplace, and seeing you at other clubs with your friends, he knows you’re into all kinds of drugs. 

He caught you with white powder under your nose on one occasion, your pupils the size of the fucking moon another night, and with a blunt hanging out your mouth after work one evening.

He’s seen it all. He knows you’re a fiend. So… what’s the harm in pushing you a little further? Surely you can take it.

⁺⋆

Your eyelids are growing heavy, your body slumped on the floor against the coffee table while you stare at the TV in stupor. Their joints were just so packed it's nearly finished you off, and the last few drags tasted kinda funny.

“Can we tie her up now?” 

You’re not sure if you heard that right, swivelling in the direction of the voice and blinking in disbelief.

You turn to find Toji with his legs spread wide, slouched back on the sofa where you left him, while the younger man stands holding some kind of cord in his hands. 

Your eyes widen, your mind jolting awake when you see the way he pulls and grips it, stepping closer to you. Your body lags. 

“Mm” Toji grunts, not taking his eyes off the TV. 

Megumi takes this as permission to pull you up and drag you to the bedroom, your legs stumbling after your body, your mind succumbing to panic. 

His hand tugs at your wrist, while you’re distracted by something strange in the edges of your vision. It’s subtle to start with, colours fading in where they weren’t before, shadows starting to move. 

You try to ignore it, blaming the weed and flickering lights playing tricks on your mind.

You’re pulled from your daze when Megumi jerks your arms roughly, your vision readjusting to find yourself on the bed, your wrists forced to the frame in a tight knot of coarse, black rope.

“Mm– Megumi,” your voice comes out more slurred than you expected, confusion crossing your features, “w-what’re you doin’...”

“What does it look like?” He shoots back, his sharp tone making you recoil.

“I, I don’ know– jus’, w-where’s Toji?”

He watches your eyes dart about, enjoying your fearful expression.

You notice a sinister glint behind his indigo irises, his face looming closer and starting to cloud your vision.

You’re squirming now, pushing yourself up the bed, trying to distance yourself from him. But he keeps coming.

“Stay still…” he stops your motions with a single cool hand closing around your ankle, dark eyes trained on your throat again.

Time stops still when he leans in and places a single, chaste kiss over your neck.

He does it slowly. Gently. As if you’re the only one he’d kiss like this. His silent intensity makes you tremble.

He pulls away with a pleased hum, the feeling of your heartbeat making his lips tingle, his dark mess of hair illuminated with a dull halo.

He’s not too far gone. You could still go back.

“Y-you don’ have to do this,” you stumble, your voice cracking.

“I know,” he presses another kiss over your jaw, becoming ravenous now he can almost smell your fear, “but I want to…”

His voice disappears into the crook of your neck, where he starts sucking and tonguing.

He wants to taste you.

There’s a deep ache inside you now, gripping at your heart and filling your lungs, where it spreads to your throat– to where you can feel his mouth over you.

Nobody has ever kissed you like this before.

The way he sucks and bites is cruel, your body starting to flood with pain. If he does it any harder you’re sure he’s going to taste your blood. He’s going to puncture your neck and let it spill.

“M-megumi– please–” your whispered sobs only urge him on, till he’s dragging his canines over you and sinking them into the soft flesh.

His impassioned movements finally ebb as he switches to tending your marked skin with his tongue and lips, inhaling your scent deeply.

He sits up now, looking longingly into your tear stained eyes, his pupils drifting to where your lips are quivering with his name.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he lies, stroking your ankles gently.

Standing up, he watches you shake your head again, begging him not to go any further and that you’d anticipated being with Toji tonight, asking where he is again.

“He’s a little busy…” he cranes his neck to ensure his father is still transfixed by the TV.

“Plus, you should be grateful,” he tugs off his belt, “you get to take my virginity.”

Your eyes fly wide, your mouth dry and gulping for air stupidly.

Just the way he looks puts you on edge– and now you know he has no experience, you can’t begin to fathom what he’s going to do to you.

“Nn-no– thought, thought Toji w-w–”

His next movements are too swift for your idle, drug induced brain to comprehend.

He’s over you, your arms twisted uncomfortably above your head, his cock nudging at the sweet bud of your clit.

That’s the only ‘foreplay’ you’ll be treated to before he slots himself up against your tight, unprepped entrance, shoving your dress and panties aside.

“Toji!!!” you cry out for the older man, “Toji, god–” but your voice is interrupted, choked by his cock sinking into you, hard and deep.

The man before you has changed, his resting scowl paling in comparison to the now fierce arch of his eyebrows.

Why are you crying for his father when he has everything you need right here?

“Ah– haah—” you shake and squirm, struggling with his untamed, crude thrusting.

Your head flies back when he pushes deeper still, slowly working your raw pussy open to the shape of him, while he watches fresh tears trickling over your waterline and gathering beautifully in the corners of your wide, glassy eyes.

“Hm,” he lets a little laugh escape, enjoying your quiet sobbing and whimpering as he gets rougher and dirtier, grabbing and marking your skin.

Your arms start to jostle and tug in the bindings, your wrists aching from the pressure.

“Untie me…” you sniffle.

“Untie you? But I haven’t even got started yet…”

He wipes the tears from your cheeks with his thumb, trailing his hand down your face and stroking the marks on your neck.

“Might untie you after I hear you scream,” he gives you an experimental squeeze, then leans closer, bringing his face down next to yours.

The way he’s talking has you wondering if he really is a virgin, your thought quickly dispelled by his hedonistic thrusting.

You can hear his shaky breath in your ear now, your legs lifting instinctively when you feel him haphazardly pressing on your g-spot.

“Yeah, open up f’me,” he whispers, sucking on your earlobe, his free arm encircling your head to cage you in closer.

You can feel his hips start to jolt unevenly. He’s close.

“D-don– don’ cum inside,” you beg, your eyes getting bleary as he constricts your windpipe.

You feel him smirking over your skin, speeding up his ragged motions, squeezing.

Your pained breaths consume him, urging him to crush your throat with a look in his eyes that makes you believe he’s going to take your life.

His pale, beautiful face hovers above yours, eyes enrapt by every miniscule expression of terror that passes your features.

“S-s—” 

Your voice is gone, you can only fight for breath now, your body succumbing to a helpless fit.

You struggle. Kicking. Hips bucking.

He drinks it all in, thrusting mercilessly now.

“You can’t do that to her.” 

You hear a sudden deep, booming voice, hands pulled from your neck, air flooding your lungs as you sputter and cough.

Toji takes his son’s arms and bends them behind his back, restraining him instantly and pulling him off you; out of you.

He lets the sight sink in for a moment, words failing him. 

Toji’s affected by the drugs and booze, but he can still get some kind of hold on this fucked up situation.

“Look. Just let me show you… what you’re supposed to do,” he drawls into the younger man’s ear before releasing him.

Sure, he needs to take responsibility. But he can’t let you go. Not yet.

You shake your head again, watching the younger man struggling with his achy, hard boner after being denied his first raw dogging orgasm.

His father readjusts you on the bed to his own liking, leaving you tied up and taking your thighs in his beefy hands. He dips his head low, lips skimming over your neglected clit. 

“‘M feelin’ hungry…” he mutters, proceeding to swirl his tongue through your heat, where his son’s cock was digging moments ago, humming while parting your labia and licking sensually at your little jewel.

However done you are with this situation, overcome with lightheadedness from your choking, you’re glad to at least be sent reeling through a few much needed orgasms.

And now you’ve had a chance to breathe and relax a little, you’re becoming aware of a shift in your consciousness. 

Your body is right here, in this moment, experiencing every fleeting detail in high definition. But your mind is somewhere else, overcome with a feeling of simultaneous presence and dissociation. 

The older man sits up, patting the bed for his son to join him.

“You ok, doll?”

He watches you look around curiously, taking in the room that’s now bending and changing before you.

“Think the lsd’s kickin’ in…” he mutters, “just lay back, promise we’re not gunna hurt ya.”

“The-the what?” you stutter, your hands starting to tense and grip in the restraints.

“Look, there were a few drops of acid in that last wrap, jus’ relax, ok?”

Fuck. You knew you shouldn’t have come here.

You let it sink in, taking a deep breath so you don’t lose your cool. You cannot let your mind spiral on this drug.

“That’s it,” he encourages you, “good girl. Jus’ let go.”

You give up trying to fight it, obeying his gentle tones, working past the nausea to find your mind and body entering a different headspace.

Reality fades in and out, feeling their tongues on you, one after the other, switching and exchanging till you’re unaware of what’s happening to you.

You can only sense their touch, submitting your body to the chemical pleasure.

Your clothes are torn off now, soft, deep words being exchanged until you feel them shifting around.

You feel the unmistakable nudging of a hardened cock at your entrance once more. Only this time, it slips through your folds easily, your slick hole welcoming the long, hard member.

You blink slowly, your vision wobbling as your mind enters a trance in sync with their rhythm.

“Megumi?” no, “Toji?” you honestly can’t tell, your faculties slowly dulling as the powerful drug takes over.

You reach out your arms hoping to discern who’s inside you, only for their body to move away as another frame enters your view.

You feel his cock sink in, hips rolling and stimulating your senses till you’re creaming and moaning around his girth.

“T-tojii–” you’re sure it must be the older man. He feels strong, manhandling you and pushing you wider.

But he pulls away too soon.

You focus hard, seeing both of them now, one figure in front of the other, one man guiding, the other following.

“...like this… take her… deep…” you can only make out a few words, wide eyes distracted by the scar on his lips.

But the way Megumi’s cock slides in is completely different than before– the feral jackhammering transformed into long drags, smooth and hard.

They exchange words, Megumi’s movements getting greedier until you feel his body consuming yours in a display of lust and passion so strong you let out a scream of his name.

The sound of your voice, combined with the grip of your pussy that’s drenched with the slick of a fresh orgasm, rips a groan from his depths.

You hear him panting and moaning, his thrusts getting sloppy, until he’s drawn out of you again.

That was close. You think, realising his father pulled him away before he could spill inside you.

Things are getting blurry now. They’re both over you, on you, in you.

With the surreal visuals taking over, your mind enters another realm while they kiss and fuck and share your body.

Spiky black hair, blue and green eyes flashing, hard muscles and sadistic smiles are all you can see.

Their images burn into your retina, becoming a blurred mirage of nightmarish beauty. 

A sight that you will never forget.

Now that Toji’s brought his son up to speed and you’re all wet, you honestly can’t tell who is who.

So you sink into it, enjoying the spiralling visions behind your closed eyelids while they draw waves of orgasmic pleasure from your body.

They bend and move you, pinning your legs back, pushing deeper, then onto your knees. You’re getting so absorbed in the trip now, the euphoric energy taking over, that you’re only partly aware that you’re being lifted.

You’re off the bed, you know that much.

You’re in a pair of strong arms. It’s Toji. You smile, your eyes clearing to see his roguishly handsome face before you.

“Hey pretty girl,” he places tender kisses over your lips, and you accept them with pleasure, “gunna try somethin’ fun now…”

You giggle, liking the sound of that very much.

He holds you, his massive cock melting into your core so deep he’s going to become a part of you, then slides his fingers over your ass.

You feel another body behind you. Megumi.

You turn, feeling his lips over you as well, murmuring sweet praise in your ear the whole while.

You feel him sliding over your ass now, through the wet juice of your pussy, pushing into the tight ring.

“Oh, oh my– fuck–” he edges in, his father thrusting slowly while urging him to be gentle.

“Haahhh–” you breathe out, your head falling back onto Megumi’s hard shoulder where he caresses your skin with his lips.

“That’s– that’s fucking good,” he hums in your ear, pushing himself all the way back while grabbing your ass.

They cradle you, thrusting in tandem, as you reach a new level of bliss.

Hearing them, feeling them takes you higher, until you can only sense their deep moans vibrating through you, the drag of their cocks.

Your thoughts turn slippery, losing focus on the world around you, wondering how you ended up here in the first place, realising that you don’t care.

Right now, you care about the man in front of you, tall and broad, scarred lip between his teeth with dark green eyes fixed on yours.

His ever sombre stare resides behind those fiery irises.

It captivates you.

Your body is convulsing with dopamine once more, slurred thank yous leaving your lips, and all you can concentrate on is counting the shades of green in his eyes.

Flecks of amber shimmer within the emerald, his lashes blinking slowly, eyebrows quirking.

“Watcha lookin’ at?”

“Mm, pretty,” is all you can muster at this time, earning a snort of laughter.

He mutters under his breath and starts taking you harder till you feel him pulling you off his son and pushing you down on the bed.

Your legs spread, wide and obedient, holding yourself by the knees while he takes your nipples between his lips, between his teeth.

“How many times s’that now?” he feels you clenching and bucking again.

You just giggle and sigh, stroking his obsidian strands in a dreamy state.

He hums with pleasure; you feel his nose dipping into your neck, where he places soft, gentle kisses, in contrast to his now animalistic pace.

Letting off hot grunts and moans, he finally spills his hot, wet cum.

He pulls away, his son entering your vision once more.

Angling your ass up, he guides himself in again, enjoying the way your tight muscle spasms around him, but takes him all nonetheless.

His hips get nasty, drawing whimpers from you until he nears his release, growling and sinking his teeth into your marked skin.

“Fuck– fuck–” you tug at his jet black spikes, encouraging him to take all he needs until you feel his hot load shoot deep into you.

“Ugh, oh princess– fuck me–” he sighs, strong muscles overcome with exhaustion as he watches your beautiful features relax once more.

You feel peaceful, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the way his hair hangs over those dark eyes.

Your wavering vision absorbs his graceful figure in all his glory, your mouth opening before your brain catches up.

“Art” you poke at his hardened stomach, earning a slight smile, “artist.” You look up at his father now, appreciating the view as he stands before you.

You giggle, laying back and focusing on the ebb and flow of your breath, feeling your senses leave you, your eyes resting as you enter transcendental sleep.

⁺⋆

You wake to find your body bare, but clean.

There’s no longer white liquid oozing from you– just soft, warm sheets and the fresh smell of soap.

You climb out of the bed, stepping to the bathroom, eyes still half lidded and hazy.

You look in the mirror, finding kaleidoscopic visuals in the reflection, where the glass bends and trembles.

But you can see your face. Unscathed. Unharmed. You look down. It’s just a few bruises. You’re fine. 

Despite their questionable methods, this has been a good trip… and you have to admit, a very good fuck.

So in your giddy state, you tiptoe out to the main room, watching their heads turn from the TV, grins emerging.

“Mornin’ honey,” Toji coos. It’s dark outside. You have no idea what time it is.

You step over to the sofa, sinking between the two men again, taking their lips and tongues while their hands roam and fondle your body.

You sit back, enjoying how they’re drawn to you magnetically, allowing their pleasure to fill your body once more while you ride out the most ethereal high of your life.

⋆⁺ [see you in hell]

toji | m.list

[hacksawboy]

she web on my fish till i ing

[x-heesy]

𝗡𝗜𝗖𝗘 𝗧𝝝 𝗕𝗘𝝠𝗧 𝗬𝝝𝗨

𝗙𝝠𝗡𝗖𝗬 𝗗𝗜𝗦𝗖𝗥𝗘𝗣𝝠𝗡𝗖𝗬 ⚛️

𝗗𝗘𝗟𝗨𝗫𝗘 𝗠𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗦 ☣️

𝗠𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗦 𝗠𝗬 𝝠𝗦𝗦 ☢️

𝗠𝗬 𝗠𝗘𝗠𝗘𝗦 👽

𝗣𝗨𝗡𝗞𝗦 𝝠𝗥𝗘𝗡’𝗧 𝗗𝗘𝝠𝗗 ☠️

𝗠𝝝𝝝𝗗 𝗕𝝝𝝠𝗥𝗗 / 𝗣𝗨𝗡𝗞𝗦𝝠𝗥𝗘𝗡𝗧𝗗𝗘𝝠𝗗 / 𝗟𝝝𝗩𝗘 & 𝗟𝗘𝗧 𝗟𝝝𝗩𝗘 / 𝗟𝗜𝗩𝗘 & 𝗟𝗘𝗧 𝗟𝗜𝗩𝗘 / 𝗞𝗘𝗘𝗣 𝗜𝗧 𝗦𝗜𝗠𝗣𝗟𝗘 𝗞𝗘𝗘𝗣 𝗜𝗧 𝗥𝗘𝝠𝗟 / ​𝗡𝝝 𝗚𝝝𝗗𝗦 𝗡𝝝 𝗠𝝠𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗥𝗦 / 𝗣𝗥𝝝 𝗟𝗜𝗙𝗘 𝗠𝗙𝗭 / 𝗣𝗛𝗨𝗖𝗞 𝗧𝗛𝝠 𝗦𝗬𝗦𝗧𝗘𝗠 / 𝗙𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙 𝗬𝝝𝗨, 𝗬𝝝𝗨 𝗙𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙𝗜𝗡 𝗙𝗟𝗨𝗙𝗙 / 𝗜 𝗗𝝝𝗡’𝗧 𝗚𝗜𝗩𝗘 𝝠 𝗣𝗛𝗨𝗖𝗞 / 𝗣𝗛𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗜𝗧𝟰𝗣𝗛𝗨𝗡 / 𝗙𝝝𝝝𝗟𝗜𝗡𝗚𝝠𝗥𝝝𝗨𝗡𝗗 / 𝗧𝗥𝝠𝗦𝗛𝗠𝗘 / 𝗧𝗥𝝠𝗦𝗛𝗖𝝝𝗥𝗘 / 𝝠𝗡𝗗𝗥𝝝𝗜𝗗𝝠𝗥𝗧 / 𝗘𝗘𝗞 𝗣𝗘𝝝𝗣𝗟𝗘 / 𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛 𝝝𝗥 𝗗𝗜𝗘 / 𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛 & 𝗖𝗥𝗬 / 𝗚𝗟𝗜𝗧𝗖𝗛 𝗠𝗬 𝗟𝗜𝗙𝗘 / 𝗕𝝠𝗟𝗖𝝝𝗡𝗬𝝠𝗥𝗧 / 𝗘𝗡𝗘𝗥𝗚𝗬𝗦𝗨𝗖𝗞𝗘𝗥𝗭 𝗡𝝝𝗧 𝗪𝗘𝗟(𝗟) 𝗖𝗨𝗠

#xheesy #glitchmylife #glitchmafia #artsyfartsy #artfuckery #expressyouself #iphoneart #popart #appforthat #punksarentdead #newcontemporary #worldoffmusicon #trallala #Digitaloriginal #photoart #photoartist #photoartwork #photoartistic #photoarts #blissfulphotoart #photoartistique #photoarte #photoartistry #contemporaryphotoart #photoartists #photoarty #photoartgallery #photoartspirit #urbanphotoart #darkphotoart #photooftheday #photographylovers #aesthetic #photographylover #ilovephotography #photographyart

Soundtrack:

Po̵̳̞̖̖̩̻̩̎̍̓́p̸͎̝̲̬̗̳̺̥͗͌̑̽͑̍̈͒ Go̵̳̞̖̖̩̻̩̎̍̓́e̵̯̞̎̈́̀͑̂̓̽̕͝s̶̢͎̮̝̭̫̞̏̒͛͗͜ Th̶̨̢̺̪̻̱̞̓̓͊ͅe̵̯̞̎̈́̀͑̂̓̽̕͝ We̵̯̞̎̈́̀͑̂̓̽̕͝ǎ̸̹͔̅̈́͘p̸͎̝̲̬̗̳̺̥͗͌̑̽͑̍̈͒o̵̳̞̖̖̩̻̩̎̍̓́ṋ̷͆̽̍͊ b̵̧̙̮̰̜̳̟͈̞̓̀͋̅̓̔ͅy̵̧̛̝͙̪̘͑͋͌͂̓͌̉ͅ Pr̵̠͖̂̀̄́́̕o̵̳̞̖̖̩̻̩̎̍̓́p̸͎̝̲̬̗̳̺̥͗͌̑̽͑̍̈͒h̶̨̢̺̪̻̱̞̓̓͊ͅe̵̯̞̎̈́̀͑̂̓̽̕͝t̵̏͐͒��͎̳̠̐s̶̢͎̮̝̭̫̞̏̒͛͗͜ Of̵̢̘̦̺̼͈́̒̈́̊͝ Rǎ̸̹͔̅̈́͘ǵ̷̦̈͐̓̀̉͌e̵̯̞̎̈́̀͑̂̓̽̕͝ 🎵

[redladydeath]

Hc: Valentino's favorite part of Hell isn't even the debauchery, it's the invulnerability. He absolutely destroyed his body during his human life after only a decade or two in his chosen fields; he simply doesn't have the ability to take care of himself in the ways that matter. His body eventually ended up just giving out on him and he died quietly and alone in a hospital bed. Arriving in Hell– where everything heals and nothing matters and you can do whatever you want to yourself/others– was the best thing that could've happened to him.

[slingbats]

almost human

[coolishfoolishness]

I like when rappers rap about sex, drugs, and violence! Reblog if you too like when rappers rap about sex, drugs, and violence!

[ladyimaginarium]

Hey y'all, just figured I'd let y'all know about something that's been going on in "Canada" lately.

The RCMP is planning on disposing the evidence of the victims of Robert Pickton, one of Canada's most notorious serial killers, with most of them being indigenous women and/or sex workers and/or addicts; there were also a few Black women that have gone missing and/or murdered, as well.

For more information on the victims, here's a list of a few of them. Just be warned it's very graphic & tragic. This is important because today, on December 17th annually, is The International Day To End Violence Against Sex Workers.

Advocates, academics, indigenous women's groups & lawyers have repeatedly said that this is a violation of human rights and it's extremely telling that the RCMP is trying to borderline cover this up and dispose of evidence when it's not even just Pickton who did this, he's stated that there were others involved and people who knew about what happened and nothing's being done about it. It's genuinely horrific that this is even being considered, and the victims and the families of the victims deserve better, especially the lives of indigenous, black and/or sex workers, because the fact that this is even being considered is basically telling them that their lives — these women's lives, but also the lives of Native women, Black women, addicts and sex workers — don't matter. It's fucking disgusting, especially as a reconnecting two spirited person.

Please keep the victims & their families in mind!!

[tctteredwings]

[ cody fern, genderfluid, they/them ] — whoa! LUCIAN CARTER just stole my cab! not cool, but maybe they needed it more. they have lived in the city for ALL THEIR LIFE, working as a HOMELESS SHELTER LEADER/BARTENDER AT GLOW. that can’t be easy, especially at only 35 YEARS OLD. some people say they can be a little bit CARELESS and BLUNT, but i know them to be PASSIONATE and EDUCATED whatever. i guess i’ll catch the next cab. hope they like the ride back to QUEENS!

IN A NUTSHELL; placards fighting for injustice, an ever-changing wardrobe, messy bedhead, a constant need to help, scribbled-out math problems, brightly coloured cocktails, a battered surfboard propped against the wall, keeping everyone at arms length, silly texts in the small hours.

tw: drug abuse, abortion mention, violence, drug overdose, sex work, mental health

Name: Lucian Carter Age: Thirty-five. Date of birth: April 23rd 1989 Birthplace: Staten Island, New York Occupation: Homeless Shelter Leader/Bartender at Glow Sexual/romantic orientation: Pansexual/grey-romantic

ABOUT.

They’re a native to New York and grew up in Staten Island.

Product of a possible one-night stand who was treated like crap by their mother from birth. She didn’t want them, had planned to get rid of them and made that clear each and every day. The cops were constantly getting called to their place because of the continual screaming and shouting.

At 7 they found their mum’s drug stash which suddenly explained why they had no money even though she was working all the time. It explained a lot.

Shortly after that they were joined by a younger sister, who their mom seemed to want this time. ( It became clear around that time that Lucian and their sister's possible father was actually their mother's dealer, but never actually confirmed whether they shared the same father or not. )

They threw themselves into school. They were a bit of a brainiac. Math club, constant tutoring of other students, anything to keep them away from home.

By the time high school had come to an end they’d found a passion for activism and spent all their time in the city involved in protests. Constantly spent their time clashing with the cops, chaining themselves to buildings and locked away for the night after peaceful protests ended up violent.

At around 21 they came out as genderfluid. They’d never fit in any kind of box anyway. Started going by they/them, something that has stuck ever since.

They spent the rest of their time working in bars, coffee shops, restaurants (whatever brought the money in) and a local homeless shelter.

Attempted a relationship for the first time. Failed. It lasted a couple of years but ended when they let them get dragged off by the cops without helping at all. They are a bit of a hopeless romantic deep down, but have never really felt they deserve love because of how they were treated by their mother when growing up.

Spent the next couple of years flitting back and forth between LA and New York constantly, unable to settle. Picked up a bit of a love for surfing while in Cali that they’ve not really been able to give up.

Moved back to New York permanently around six years ago after receiving a phone call from their younger sibling, who told them their mother had overdosed. Despite everything they still came running to take care of them both.

Picked up a job at a bar again pretty quickly, needing money to support themselves and their mother and sister, something they never thought they’d be doing. They live in an apartment away from them though, choosing to settle in Queens and near the beach, there was no way they were staying in the same house as their mom ever again.

The bartending eventually led to escort work… something they hadn’t expected. But they actually kind of loved it, even if it was complicated sometimes. They mostly dealt with guys looking for a good time or middle-aged women hunting for someone young to flash around the city. It wasn't ideal, but it supported the lifestyle they were trying to hold down.

Around four years ago they were forced to give up their newly found job after a weekend away with a client turned into disaster. Their mental health took a small dip because of it and in the end, they made a move back to working at the homeless shelter, which eventually led to them becoming the leader there. They still work at Glow a couple of nights a week, unable to let that go.

Lucian is a vegan and has been for the past ten years. It's one of the few things they're actually pretty quiet about. For them it's a way of life, but they consider it a choice for everyone else and don't care if people eat meat around them.

Despite being ridiculously broken, they have a lot of love to give and consider their close friends their family.

They're rarely home and don't sleep much. Most of the time you'll find them doing extra work at the shelter.

[blimbo-buddy]

nonono blimmy you got it all backwards, they wanna hear it from a blonde white woman who they’ve convinced themselves is queer

fuck... you're right.

[subbytwink]

I have a depraved fantasy I would like to rp ^^

It’s about young (legal age) sluts getting bred to build a harem of mother daughter slave pairs/trios…

[narvaldetierra]

Ashley Johnson as Ms Taylor in Juveniles [Ashley in every role part 16/?]

[ravenclawshermione]

DC Fanfic - Thorns and Wings

Since I'll be posting a new Calla-centric fic on Thursday 9/3, I wanted to share my existing works for her leading up to then! ^-^

Calla and Dick team up to face down a new threat facing Bludhaven, Vessel - a mission that brings them back to the Underworld, the nightclub from their very first mission together. They've both agreed that they should stay just friends and metamours, but this mission has other plans…

Smut and big feels folks!

There was a hunger in her voice, a need I couldn't refuse. She gave the sweetest little sigh and I realized I'd pulled at her hair a little harder than I'd intended. The sound was like kerosene, and I slid my fingers up into her hair starting from the nape of her neck, pulling slow and steady, keeping my grip controlled. I was immediately rewarded with a moan so soft I almost thought I might have imagined it as she melted against me, lips parted, expression blissful. 

It took all of my strength to release her, to go back to gentle comforting hair strokes. It would be unforgivably wrong to take anything she might say or do as consent right now. She might find me attractive and she might be needing, but she wasn't interested. Not in me. 

"Tell me something," I said, desperate for any distraction from things I shouldn't be thinking, shouldn't be feeling. 

"Like what?" Her voice was softer, dreamy almost. 

"Anything," I said, forcing myself not to say what I wanted to, "Whatever you're thinking right now."

"Mmmm… thinking about that first undercover mission."

Exactly the kind of distraction I'd been trying not to think about. "What about that mission?"

"I…" she gave a little yawn, her words almost blurry, her hand finding my thigh again. I had to fight back a groan, "I wanted to apologize. For on the way to the club. I knew you weren't interested, it was wrong… to push like that."

The feeling of her hands on me, the fire that had burned behind those emerald eyes, the sound she'd made when I'd… "That's exactly the problem, Cal. I've always been interested…"

I looked down to see her sleeping, expression perfectly relaxed in a way I'd never seen her before. She was so beautiful, and I couldn’t help leaning closer to kiss her forehead. It was for the best that she hadn't heard my confession. I knew that she wasn't interested in that, knew that it was just friendship and alcohol and maybe just a bit of physical attraction. But if I wasn’t careful, I was going to end up getting my hopes up again. I was going to lose my heart.

[astarab1aze]

hmmm.

in modern verse, sorti runs the escorting service faith works for. would explain why the mysterious man who approached and hired him doesn't really matter (he's an undead thrall anyway), and also why faith is so strong in his belief that exactly zero harm will come to him while he works for her, and even if he was, he would see some semblance of justice in the end. sorti's a complex woman - willing to commit unspeakable acts of violence and cruelty to get her way, but she's not an idiot. there's a time and a place for everything, and it's elementary: they'll perform better if they're not afraid, hooked on any substances, homeless, starving, or otherwise aggrieved. what's good for the goose is good for the gander anyway. a second chance in return for any inklings, whispers, implications, hints, rumors, references, anything that could possibly point her in the right direction. they were free to keep 100% of the money they earned, too, just as long as they did what she asked. such was the agreement with faith as well, in the end.

he doesn't care about all that though. he gives her every scrap of pertinent information he manages to squeeze out of certain clients, about the sanguine star or otherwise, though this is a treatment he reserves for clients he particularly dislikes (imagine what you'd have to do in order to find yourself in this category). he can keep a secret; the question is whether he will. self-preservation is arguably his strongest instinct and, if brought to tangible harm, he will divulge every secret he's gleaned, every single one - may hargraven and the fates have mercy on the stability of their life. one way or another, they won't be seeing him again. this is code for 'he isn't afraid to ruin anyone who abuses him, because sorti will do one of two things: kill them, or legally destroy them, no in between.' faith is also complex, happy to wash his hands of disliked clients the very minute he starts talking, but it isn't something he resorts to frequently. i'd say he's only done it once, and it's strictly, specifically because he was drugged and raped on two separate occasions, and he wasn't the only one. he's lucky he has excellent memory, damn near eidetic. otherwise, he's not so sure he nor any of the other victims would've seen any justice at all.

so there's a lot of give and take here. it's simple but complicated, and all very circumstancial. faith is a good person, but he's also incredibly flawed, willing to bear the shame so long as something is done about the people who victimize others. insodoing, the distance he's created between himself and the consequences of unpersoning someone else (regardless of context) deeply disturbs him. anyone could understand why a victim would kill their rapist, but taking someone's life, conceptually and in practice, is an entirely different matter, deserved or not. it isn't a righteous, triumphant feeling. it just makes him feel so sick, but something is better than nothing, and his morals are loose enough to accept what that means for him. vigilante justice, whatever form it takes, will always be faster than any sorcier or cop. he accepts everything about this even though it disgusts and even hurts him to. the logic is circularly punishing for him, so, for the most part, he simply ignores it. buries it a thousand miles under his cute, playful, freckly facade, makeup and shots of tequila (i lied, he drinks more than you think), and sex. expertly pretending everything is fine, getting up and going to work the next day as if nothing happened in the first place, he has never been touched by a violent man in his life or been spoiled in any way, no sir.

really helps that he gets to keep all of his earnings and maybe sometimes help others with just the right tidbits of information used at just the right times - and that he has very good friends in very high and low places.

[newnoirstories]

Dark, Surreal Noir Comedy

[Once again, the inclusion of a religious or mystical practice in any of my stories does not constitute an endorsement of it.]

"Arjuna's Bow"

Chapter I

Detective Sammy Drayson, NYPD, dealt mainly with crime in the East Village. Art, drugs and the occasional homicide, Drayson thought. Drayson specialized in the homicides.

1986 was the year, the hipsters of the new kind were rising, the kind Broadway would immortalize, the kind that would be cliché in two or three decades, but at the time, they were the new hippies, and being one meant something, whether you liked them or not.

But then, there was the other side of it: The addiction, the AIDS epidemic, both so common among the artists, and wherever there were narcotics, some would fight to the death over them, others to the death over who sold them, and then there were those who killed for reasons no one understood.

But while Drayson, who believed in nothing he could not see, pored over the tedious red tape at his desk, in an apartment in East Village, Apartment 61 on 13th Street, a woman known to her neighbors only as "Adam L", no context or explanation, was trying to invoke powers at which the cynical Sammy would have laughed, but soon he would believe.

Taking an ebony wand, hardly a traditional wand of the old Druids, given where ebony trees grow, Adam L touched it to the portrait of a man, then to a treasure chest of sorts, and back and forth, chanting in the old Enochian language of Dee and Kelley, until finally, with a yell, she exclaimed, very much in English, "Puppet!"

Chapter II

On a rainy day about a week later, the first of several unsolved homicides occurred. No robbery, no apparent motive: A 52-year-old man out walking his dog was the victim, taken by surprise with a knife. Though his faithful canine friend obviously put up a fight, and likely left some mark on the assailant, the dog, mixed in breed, was too small to prevent the crime.

Drayson heard of the case, but it seemed like the random act of a junkie, and no leads could be found… until four days later, when similar injuries were found on the remains of woman, 27, on the same street, then, just over a week later, an elderly couple, octogenarians at that, all the same: Probably the same weapon, the same lack of motive, and within a radius of less than a quarter of a mile.

Even as Sammy was on the scene of the poor elderly man and woman, in came a call that a young man of 19 died in identical circumstances in a parking lot, perhaps two hundred yards from where Drayson stood, but by now, the killer had gotten away, and Drayson was hearing no end of it from the Captain, though Captain Marsh was concerned more with bad press than with lives.

This time, though, there was a witness, but not one that a district attorney would covet. An old Cornish man, Tom Carew, a painter of some local repute, claimed to get a fleeting glimpse of the killer, but having a limp, he said, it was no use giving chase. In his Cornish dialect, he insisted that the killer was a woman wearing the mask of a man, but also rambled something that Drayson took to be about a man carrying a boom box playing music.

Nine times out of ten, Drayson would have put one word in his notes, that being "gibberish", over such a story, but his job had been threatened, and he was desperate enough to take dilligent notes, in so far as he could understand Cornish:

"Flick o' the wan' o' the cunning wom'n, 'tis what took the souls. Street 13 an' oak, proper fit for her, pale and wan wi' a wan', she is. Looks a maid, 'tis old in deed. Cunning maid pilfered the ol' swag chest 'o Blood Barq."

Such was Carew's explanation of who he thought responsible for the crime he had witnessed.

Chapter III

"I am so desperate," remarked Drayson at headquarters, "That I'm going to Sleepy Brown."

David "Sleepy" Brown was a Lieutenant in the force, 62 years of age, whose greatest asset to the force was as a historian and linguist. He had solved many an antiques caper and fraud, spoke and wrote perfect Greek, Latin, Spanish and Hebrew, as well as English and every Celtic language, and though not from Cornwall, but from Devon, originally, before his parents moved him, as a child, to New York, it was for this last bit of expertise that Drayson needed him.

With typical lack of protocol, finding an unlocked door, Drayson simply let himself in to Brown's office, where the old man seemed to be nodding off, fitting his nickname. Drayson sneered.

"Lovely sneer, Detective. By the way, the sole of your right shoe needs mending," remarked the Lieutenant, revealing that, as was so often the case, his drowsy appearance was an act, "You are here about the Cornish witness, I presume?"

Analyzing Drayson's jumbled notes, Brown opined, "Look for an Apartment 61 on 13th Street, and if you find a woman fond of Druid wands and treasure chests, you will find someone relevant to your investigation."

"How on earth do you know what apartment to look for?"

"This… shall we say, eccentric old fellow was speaking in a sort of mystical code. 61 is the gematria- that's a kind of esoteric code- for 'oak'."

"What about Blood Bark?"

"Blood Barq, with a 'q', Detective, though there are several theories as to the etymology. It's a legend of a British pirate with a lost treasure. No one knows his real name, or even whether he existed with certainty, so they call him Blood Barq."

"You are seriously proposing that a dead pirate has something to do with this case?"

"No, I am proposing that a delusional person might believe he did, however."

With that, Brown closed his eyes and returned to what was either slumber or meant to give that impression.

Chapter IV

Detective Drayson found an Apartment 61 on 13th Street, not far from where the murders occurred, but while a woman's voice answered, all she would say is that, if he had no search warrant, he was not welcome, and that she would answer no questions. It was Adam L's apartment, and Drayson scrambled off to try to find her birth name, but before this, another unexpected witness, as it seemed, came forward.

A man was at the station claiming to be the man with the boom box seen by Carew, saying that his conscience was bothering him. His name was George Clay.

"Okay, officers, I'm taking the chance. You know I got a record and I don't want no trouble, but I swear to you, I didn't know anything about a murder."

"What did you know?" asked Drayson, in his sternest voice.

"Look, all I know is this man, sunglasses and a beard, maybe a fake beard, I don't know. Sunglasses and it was rainin'. Anyhow, he shows me this freaky person, not sure if it was a guy or a girl, but anyway, he says he'll pay me $500 just to follow him, or her, or whatever around and play my boom box for a few blocks, as long as I play the song he wants."

"What song?"

"'Tragedy', a Bee Gees song. Now I'm more a funk man, and that ain't…"

"Get to the point!"

"Anyhow, this crazy person freaks hearin' the song, pulls a knife and attacks the nearest person, as far as I could see, some skinny white kid."

"And you did nothing?"

"Look, man, I got a record. I panicked, okay? But I'm here now, right, and I didn't have to tell you anything, or even let you know I was there!"

Chapter V

Kenny "Dum Dum" Wallace Jr. was the bassist for a struggling glam metal act calling itself "Long Live the Buzz Flies". On his way to a poorly-built recording studio aptly named "The Leaky Roof", he was approached by a man with a beard and sunglasses, again on an overcast day, offered $500 for the simple act of carrying a boom box playing "Tragedy" by the Bee Gees and following someone, someone with the face of a man, but a feminine walk.

Wallace shrugged, and did as instructed, but as in Clay's story, the strange person flew into a frenzy, pulled a knife, and for a moment, Dum Dum thought he was the intended target, but instead, the victim was a 39-year-old accountant, Anderson Tall. This time, though, there was a witness to the entire sequence of events, and not only the killing, Marjorie "Meddler" Davison, a 67-year-old woman feared as much as any man on the streets, in her own way, as a notorious gossip rumored to leverage information for blackmail, someone who knew everything about everybody, it seemed.

She considered blackmailing the band, until attending one of their concerts and seeing the small crowd. Instead, Davison went to the police, but tried to insist on being paid for her information.

"In the first place, Meddler," said Drayson sharply, "If we paid you, it would set a precedent where every lowlife like you could shake us down. Second, it would destroy the credibility of what you saw, to the DA. How about you tell us what happened and we won't go after you for about, maybe, six or seven blackmail operations you have going on at this moment?"

With that, Davison described what she had seen, and the pattern was undeniable, if grotesque. Drayson was planning on looking into whether anyone known to be unstable, like an escaped hospital patient, might be involved, when Lieutenant Brown casually strolled into the room with a dossier on just such a person, Courtney Randall Cline, noted as "paranoid schizophrenic", "homicidal ideations", yet for some reason given permission, just two days before the killings began, "to visit family".

Chapter VI

Uniformed police and street gossip had it that Courtney Cline was living out of a van, an old hippie one, but painted over a silvery gray. Police approached her, and she was wearing a mask in the detailed likeness of a man, though which man was unclear.

"I don't care if you're cops. You play that disco song, you die."

The officers, with great difficulty, cuffed her as a dangerous suspect, but she calmed down when promised that no disco music would be played, and after that, blandly and indifferently recounted committing all six murders, explaining that strange men kept following her with "that horrid song", and "made me do it". When asked about the mask, which she removed only with reluctance, she said that she found it in her room at the mental hospital, and it was a likeness of William "Wolf" Woolley, soon verified as an actual patient in the same wing of the same hospital, and a known murderer himself, albeit found insane. Woolley, however, had been in the hospital during all six killings, and so could not have been directly involved.

Courtney R. Cline was arrested on six counts of second-degree murder, though it was suspected that she would, like Wolf, be acquitted by an insanity defense.

"You think you have solved the case, eh, Drayson?" said Brown, ambling out of nowhere with his customary quiet ease.

"Of course, and you don't?"

"We know who physically carried out the crimes, but why this same song, and this mysterious man I hear of, the false beard and the $500 offers to random men?"

"I admit that is odd, but how can I ever prove any of that?"

The Lieutenant shook his head and smiled, "If you would only use a bit of imagination, Detective. None of Cline's notes say anything about a fixation regarding music, as one might reasonably expect if said music drove her into homidical fits."

"And what does that suggest, Sherlock Holmes?" asked Drayson insolently.

"Sherlock is suggesting that someone at the hospital conditioned Miss Cline as a sort of post-hypnotic suggestion. Follow that lead to the ends of the earth, Detective. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go back to earning the nickname 'Sleepy'."

Chapter VII

Again reluctantly following Sleepy's advice, Drayson found, rather to his surprise, that Wolf Woolley's notes did indeed include the warning, "Violent reaction to disco". There could also be no question that Cline's mask was a perfect likeness of Woolley.

Dr. Karl Steele gave the NYPD full access to both records and to the premises. One thing struck Drayson, however: All of the staff agreed that, at least in Cline's absence, there could be no question that Woolley was their most dangerous patient, yet Wolf was not in the "isolation room", a sort of equivalent of solitary confinement.

"That's Dr. Steele's idea," explained a nurse, "He said that Mr. Woolley is incurable, nothing changes him, but that the isolation room might change the behavior of some of the other patients."

Detective Drayson was permitted to look into the isolation room, and could scarcely believe the surreal horror within: A man in a straitjacket wore also a mask of William Woolley's likeness, as faintly, the song "Tragedy" could be heard playing, interspersed with the voice of Wolf ranting his hatred of the disco genre, and back and forth, causing the patient to writhe in torment.

The nurses and orderlies seemed to think nothing of this, calling it "an experimental therapy" and "Dr. Steele's idea". An even greater shock: Detective Drayson was suddenly face to face with the gaunt yet imposing figure of Dr. Karl Steele, his deeply recessed eyes glistening cold malevolence, a tight-lipped smile seeming to speak death.

Chapter VIII

Even Drayson's hardened nerves got a terrible start, but suddenly, Steele's demeanor seemed to relax, and he laughed, albeit with a cynical ring.

"Detective, Detective, we mustn't have anxiety. I let you see that. I knew that you would deduce it sooner or later- either you or that old Lieutenant."

"You're the killer!" exclaimed Drayson.

"The killer? I never touched a soul, never gave any instructions to anyone so much as to jaywalk, Detective."

"Conditioning… you hypnotized them!"

"Welcome to the future. The quaint moral laws of Abrahamic times are dying slowly, Detective. There are chessmasters and there are pawns. I have demonstrated that I am a chessmaster. Mr. Woolley… well, he has the will to power, but not the clarity. I have both. You have the potential for both too, Detective. I read in your eyes a deep distrust for the lies of the old ways, and a potential for the new."

"Maybe so," replied Drayson, recovering his nerve, "But what you fail to read is that I would rather die than break my oath to uphold the law. You won't touch me, will you, Doctor? You want others to do the dirty work."

"That is what you call it," shrugged Steele, "But return as you like, you have nothing on me."

The next day, Detective Samuel Drayson, instructing his uniformed help to wait outside the building, returned to the hospital, barging directly into Steele's private office.

"I've been expecting you, but to what avail?" smugly cooed the Doctor.

"That's right. You never said a word. Never told them to do a thing."

"Exactly…"

"Neither did I…" Drayson retorted, his eyes set cold as the Doctor's. Into the room, unrestrained and feral, lurched William Woolley himself, a sight that shook even Dr. Steele.

With a theatrical air, Drayson took out a tape recorder, then stepped back, so that Wolf was closest to the Doctor.

"Tragedy, when the feeling's gone, and you can't go on, it's tragedy…"

In the frenzy of a rabid beast, Wolf attacked, fists and teeth, as Dr. Steele screamed, the last sounds he would ever make, as Drayson locked the door behind the two, escaping as hospital staff desperately rushed to respond.

Chapter IX

"Wolf will be trying to escape, likely out the front way, and if not, I have men at the back," said Drayson.

Indeed, Wolf, covered in evidence of his savage attack on the late Dr. Steele, helped himself to the front exit, only to be captured by nine policemen, one of them Drayson, though not before biting one of them.

Wolf looked up at one of the cops, who in spite of the struggle, still had a cigarette in his mouth. For the first time, Woolley spoke, laughing and saying to the smoker, "You're crazy too."

Meanwhile, somewhere in the United States of America, the quality control inspector of the very cigarette this policeman smoked lived a life in turmoil, his wife having an affair as he tried to drown his sorrow. As the factory man threw a bottle of whiskey at a photograph of his wedding, Jeremy Thomas met with the flashes of cameras. Thomas was founder, chairman and CEO of Jeremy Thomas Holdings, which held a controlling share in the liquor company profiting from the broken man's sorrow, but he was announcing giving a portion of his billions to United Governments, a philanthropic organization dedicated to world peace.

The flash of the cameras gave way to the flash of lightning, however, as the money Thomas "donated" was being illicitly invested in the Medellín Cartel of Colombia, as haggard Colombian workers picked coca leaves in a storm of rain and thunder, the lightning giving way to neon lights in the middle of the night, somewhere in an American city, a man slumped over, a man broken by cocaine.

Jeremy Thomas, as it turned out, had not always been wealthy, though he had always been unscrupulous. Prior to his wealth, he was briefly married to Lillian Morgan, now calling herself "Adam L", bitter over never having touched Jeremy's later fortune. If the Fates were not capricious enough, the very secretary named as co-respondent by Morgan in her divorce from Thomas had, in turn, just married none other than Lieutenant David Brown, twenty-four years her senior, as if an aging Sherlock Holmes wed a surviving Jayne Mansfield, though Mansfield, of course, was more clever than the public knew.

Brown's loud sounds on the wedding night, in somewhat of a British accent, annoyed the neighbors. Meanwhile, Detective Sammy Drayson, ever the contrarian, was a basketball fan, but not a fan of the New York Knicks, but of the Boston Celtics, and on a rare vacation, was in Boston, watching the most successful playoff run of the 1985-86 Boston Celtics, for once forgetting the wretched world around him.

The end.