#so he goes to this local construction store or whatever those things are called and the owner is his childhood friend and hed veeeeery hot

[gay-strawberry]

childhood besties to lovers is one of my fav tropes but to me the best way to do it is: they were besties from 3 to 20 then went their separate ways, lost all contact and never saw each other again for 10 years or so. then they have to meet in some sort of family reunion idk and they both remember each other as teens and dont expect theyre actually 30 and very hot now

[cowpokeomens]

Blood Pact

It's me, your favorite monster fucker! Here's another part of my Nocturnal Creatures series, in which you strike a deal with a demon- who goes by Nicholas. Sexy things ensue.

Warnings: Disgusting nasty filthy p-in-v, cunnilingus, lots of mentions of virginity (it's a social construct, but if you got it, flaunt it), Nicholas Ruffilo's monster cock (canon), if you feel I need to add anything PLEASE send me a message! Otherwise, enjoy!

________________________________________________________

You still couldn’t believe you were doing this. 

Yet, here you stood, at a crossroads in your hometown. Not just the metaphorical kind, either- an actual, physical crossroads. Mason Avenue and Fisher Street, to be exact. 

Right next to the city cemetery, from which you stole a jar’s worth of dirt.

It sat in your bag, next to some kind of flowering plant you hoped would work, a cat bone (thank goodness for veterinarian friends?), and a picture of yourself, one of the headshots your manager had insisted would help you blow up on TikTok. 

It hadn’t.

You threw everything into a cardboard box, using your shiny, new shovel from the local feed supply store to dig a hole in the center of the dusty dirty roads. The ground was harder than you expected, so your two-foot deep hole had you sweating by the time it was formed. You all but threw the box into the hole, quickly covering it up with loose dirt, and taking a few steps back. Pulling out your phone, you consulted the symbol you saved from a website earlier that week, spray paint in hand. All the stupid Wal-Mart had left was “Cerise Fluorescent,” so you hoped whatever you summoned liked pink. 

Carefully, you sprayed the lines onto the dirt, over where you buried your box. You tried to move quickly, but precisely; Getting caught was almost as terrifying as doing it wrong.

Finally, it was done. You scrolled over on your phone, to the Latin text you hadn’t even dared to read in your head. Stepping away from the circle, you read it aloud now. You could feel your heart about to beat out of your chest, and you wondered one last time if this was worth it. 

“Your Latin sucks.” A voice said suddenly.

You jumped, yelping, and fell directly on your ass.

You were scrambling back when the voice spoke again. 

“Is this a Goetia sigil? In pink? The guys are going to get a kick out of this-”

You stood up shakily, dusting off your pants in the process. You finally saw the source of the voice: Standing in the center of your sigil was the most devastatingly handsome man you had ever seen. 

Long, dark hair; his skin was lightly tanned and healthy-looking. Eyes the color of clouds, that seemed to shift from green to blue to grey before you. He was taller than you, tattoos visible on both hands, and dressed simply: A hoodie, dark jeans, and…

Were those Converse?

You were immediately overcome with confusion. “Um, who are you?”

He fixed those eyes directly on you. “I think that’s my line, doll.”

Your eyebrows shot up into your hairline. “You’re Amdusias?”

He winced. “Yikes, with the Scary-Latin-Demon-Name. You can call me Nicholas.”

You frowned. “You don’t seem like…”

“Like a great duke of Hell?” He finished your thought. “Yeah, only angels really like to make a dramatic entrance, that’s why they’ve been banned to stay behind the pearly bars. Too many eyes, too much fire-”

“You’re wearing sneakers?” You said without thought.

He looked offended. “Did you expect me to crawl out of Hell in loafers?”

You scrambled for an answer. “Well, no, but I-”

“TV is rotting your mind. What do you want?” He cut you off.

You felt the color leaving your face. “Well, um, I read that you were responsible for the music in Hell-”

“‘Music’ is a big word, but sure.” He interrupted.

Giving him a look, you continued. “Well, I’m a musician, too! Only…” You trailed off with a frown.

He mocked you with a faux-wince. “Ooh, not triple platinum yet, huh?”

You couldn’t even bring yourself to hide your disappointment. Shaking your head, your gaze met his again. “That’s where you come in.”

An eyebrow cocked at you. “Think that because you snagged a demon, you get to be famous?”

You shook your head hastily. “No, not at all! I did a lot of research-” You Googled for 30 minutes- “So I don’t get to demand things without a trade, right?” 

He smiled at you lazily. “Yep. So what will it be, your soul? First born? I love a first born, with a little bit of butter, some rosemary and-”

“I’m a virgin.” You blurted. 

He froze, then his entire demeanor changed. For the first time that night, you felt genuine fear as the air around you went still. “Oh yeah?”

Your mouth gaped like a fish, so you settled on a nod.

He took a tiny step towards you. You were rooted on the spot, frozen like a deer in headlights. This was a bad idea. 

Finally, you found your words. “My virginity. For- whatever it is you do. Fame, fortune, I don’t really care, I just want people to hear my music, connect with it-”

“Yeah, yeah, real noble of you.” He snorted, then composed himself. For a second, he almost looked concerned. “You sure about this, doll?”

You nodded, trying to look confident. “Yeah. But- make it organic, y’know, the fame part. I don’t want to look like an industry plant-”

He rolled his eyes, walking closer so that he was directly in front of you. You gaped at his proximity. “You can leave the circle?”

Laughing, he nodded. “I could have left at any point, but you’re pretty-” He leaned in so that he was whispering in your ear, “-For a pathetic little human.”

Your cheeks went hot. You knew it was just to rile you up, make this worse than it already was. At least, you figured, your virginity meant something to someone- it certainly held no value for you. A demon was less than desirable, but he was nice to look at- 

Woah. Not going there, you told yourself sternly. 

Shaking off the feeling, you held out your hand. “Okay, so deal-”

“Uh, no.” He cut you off, again. “I have my own terms and conditions.”

You blinked. “Huh?”

A smirk grew on his face. “My terms. For our arrangement.”

You tried not to let anger well up inside you. “And what would those terms be?” You asked through gritted teeth. 

“You come to me.” He said plainly. Confusion must have been evident on your face, because he continued, “I’m not some monster in the night who’s going to show up for your virginity. When the time is right, you’ll come to me.”

“You’re not going to just… Take it?” The question slowly left your mouth.

He grimaced, an ugly look for such a pretty face. “Ew, no. I’m a demon, not a wild animal. Besides,” he cocked his head to the side, looking directly into you. “Virginity tastes better when it comes willingly.” 

Gulping despite yourself, you managed a nod. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come willingly.” As if. 

Holding out an inked hand, he grinned at you. “Then it’s a deal.”

Taking a deep breath, you took his hand in yours, shaking once. “Deal.”

_________________________________________________________

Six Months Later 

You awoke in a cold sweat, the third time that week. Flicking the bedside lamp on, you walked over to the mini-fridge of your hotel room, grabbing a bottle of water. You were uncomfortably wet- again, and not from sweating. It seemed like every time you tried to rest, you were met by stormy eyes where sleep should have greeted you. You chugged the water, making your way to the restroom for a much-needed shower. 

That night’s show had been sold out- the 13th sold out show of your highly anticipated debut tour. Nicholas had held up his end of the bargain; Your album was projected to sell close to a million units by the end of the year. And you had seen neither hide nor hair of him. 

Well. Not in the flesh, anyways.

As you started the shower, your mind wandered. You knew it was him, sending you these dreams through his weird demon dream channels or whatever. Even as your body betrayed you, you knew it was not your own thoughts causing such a commotion. 

Still, as you slipped in the shower to wash off the day’s grime, you felt your hand slip lower, between your folds to collect the wetness there. A soft gasp escaped your lips as you circled your bundle of nerves, moaning quietly. Despite your best efforts, your thoughts drifted back to long, dark hair and tattooed hands on your body. Your hand moved quicker, moans growing louder as you felt yourself getting closer to climax. You were on the precipice when a familiar voice made you freeze.

“I knew you’d be loud.” 

Yelping, you jumped nearly a foot in the air, almost falling in your panic. Yanking your towel off the rack, you wrapped yourself as quickly as possible as you threw open the shower curtain. 

Nicholas was sitting criss-cross on the expansive bathroom counter, picking at something under his nails. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” You snapped.

“You summoned me, duh.” He said, rolling his eyes at you. 

“Yeah, six months ago. I thought I was supposed to come to you.”

He looked at you then, eyes dragging over your poorly-concealed form. His eyes glinted, looking hungry. “Moaning the name of a demon you promised your virginity to while you rub one out in the shower is a summoning if I’ve ever seen one. Besides,” He looked into your eyes, smirking devilishly. “You were about to come to me, from the sound of it.”

Your face was on fire with embarrassment. “I was not moaning your name.”

He cocked a brow at you. “Uh, you were. Loudly.” 

Rage bubbled up inside you. “I was not!” The words spilled from you now. “I wouldn’t have even been doing that if you hadn’t been sending me all of your weird demonic sex dreams constantly!”

An unnamed emotion flashed across his face, then he grinned. “‘Weird demonic sex dreams,’ huh?”

You huffed at him “Oh, don’t even play coy. Like being dragged back to Hell and tied up by some hot shot demon was my big idea.”

The smile he was giving you was sinister. “Right, right. What else have I sent your way?”

You faltered, unsure of what he was playing at. “Like you don’t know.” 

He shrugged. “I don’t. I haven’t ‘sent you’ shit.” He mimed quotations with his hands. 

Your blood went cold. Suddenly, the bathroom was too small. “You’re lying.” Your voice sounded feeble, even to you.

He shook his head, standing up. Slowly he stepped towards you. “I’m not.”

“But then- that would mean-” Stammering, you stood there helplessly as he crept closer. 

Nodding, he leaned in even closer. “That was all you, doll.” He brushed a stray lock of hair off your shoulder. “What a dirty mind the little human virgin has. You mentioned being tied up- what else did I do to defile you, huh?” 

He was too close, it almost made you dizzy. He smelled like smoke and rain and earth all at once. “Shut up.” You mumbled weakly.

He stepped back, finally. “Well, you know how to find me.” 

There was a crack like lightning, then he was gone. 

You stood there for a few minutes, trying to regain your composure. This was fine, you reasoned. He left. He kept his word. Everything was fine. 

______________________________________________________

Three Months Later

Once again, you couldn’t believe you were doing this. 

Sitting on the edge of the bed in your master bedroom, you gazed out the windows overlooking the city below. You remembered when you first bought the condo- loved how open and light it was. In the deepness of the night surrounding you, the lights looked like tiny fires dancing in the dark. 

Taking a deep breath, you laid down on your pillows, trying to relax your body. Running a hand over the t-shirt on your abdomen, up to your breasts, you felt your breathing start to slow. Your nipples were quick to perk up at the stimulation, so you pinched one experimentally, almost moaning out at the sensation.

Your nerves were on fire these days. The slightest brush against your skin made you feverish. You tried everything, from quitting cold turkey to bringing yourself to climax three or four times a day. Nothing was working. 

So maybe this would. 

You snaked your hand lower, falling into familiar routine. You had come to know your body well the last three months, knew exactly where to rub, where to pinch. As you toyed with your folds through your underwear, you imagined a different set of hands, larger and covered in ink. Unlike the other times, you allowed your fantasy to overtake you, gave yourself to it willingly. 

“Nicholas.” You breathed, back arching ever so slightly.

There was a slight breeze, then a quiet gasp. 

“Quite the show you’re putting on, doll. I suppose you didn’t say my name this time, either?” 

You pulled your hand away from your core, scrambling to stand up. “No, I- I did.”

Nicholas’ face looked shocked for a millisecond, then an eyebrow was raised at you. “Oh?”

“I’m… I’m ready.” It didn’t sound convincing. 

He scoffed. “Yeah, no thanks. Like I said, I’m not interested in forcing anyone-”

“Goddamnit, shut up.” You snapped. “I said I’m ready, okay? You said to come to you, so here I am. Unless you never planned on following through with it.” It was dangerous to goad him, but you couldn’t stop yourself.

His eyes were pitch black in an instant, staring you down. “Don’t joke about a demon’s word, doll. You’re not ready for that fight.”

Your hands shook, but you felt-

Mortification overcame you as you realized just what you felt. 

Those dark eyes narrowed in on the single bead of slick that was rolling steadily down your leg. Cloud-grey eyes returned as realization dawned on him.

“You want me to debase you.” He took a step towards you as his words filled the room. “You want me to tie you up and have my way with you. Isn’t that right?”

You couldn’t bring yourself to admit the truth, but it was evident. 

He inhaled deeply, taking another step towards you. His eyes fluttered shut as he exhaled slowly. “You smell ripe. You want this so badly, poor thing- you just can’t admit it to yourself.”

You pressed your legs together, trying to maintain some kind of decency.

He was in front of you now, close enough to touch if you were braver. “Beg for it. Beg, and I’ll give you anything you want, doll.”

Chest heaving with labored breaths, you gave in. “Please.” You whispered.

His hand- the hands you had been dreaming about for nine months- came up to grip your jaw. “I said beg.”

You crumbled. “Please, Nicholas, please, I’ll be so good-”

His grin was minatory as he brought his lips down to yours. 

Your relief was immediate as you sagged into him, one of his arms wrapping around your waist to support you. He walked you backwards toward the bed, still kissing you furiously. 

“How wet are you already, doll? I bet your little cunt is just soaked.” Breaking the kiss, he picked you up and set you on the bed, lowering himself onto his knees in front of you. “Tell me what you want.”

You panted, unable to form a sentence for a moment. “I don’t- I don’t know.”

He made a tsk-tsk sound with his tongue against his teeth. “Right, you’re just a helpless little virgin who hasn’t spent the last 9 months having vivid dreams about me fucking her.” He looked up at you through his lashes. “Tell me what you dreamed about.”

“Your hands.” You heard yourself say immediately. 

He smirked again. “Oh yeah? What were my hands doing?”

You knew your face was crimson. “They… They were touching me.”

“Where?” The look he was giving you was too intense for you to maintain more than a few seconds.

“Um-” You hesitated. 

“You can say it.” He urged, leaning in.

“My… my pussy.” You finished, staring at the ground.

“Do you want me to play with your pussy now?” He was still staring at you.

“Please.” You breathed, anticipation making your entire body tense. 

“Good girl, so polite.” As you shivered at the praise, his eyes made their way down your body, to where your core was at eye-level for him. “If you want to stop, say so, is that clear?”

You nodded. “Yes, sir.” 

Something dark flashed in his face, then he said, “Good girl.” 

His hand came up to run a single digit along your slit, through your underwear. You shook involuntarily at the contact. 

“Oh doll, you’re starved, aren’t you?” He murmured, almost to himself. “Let’s get these ruined panties off of you.” 

You went to shift your weight so that you could shimmy the garment off, only to freeze as Nicholas tore through it like a piece of paper. 

He didn’t even look apologetic. “Hope you didn’t like those too much.”

You didn’t have time to consider it as you realized your cunt was fully visible to him now, slick with your own juices. 

He sighed as he stared at your core. “Women are the best thing that bastard ever accomplished.” Then he looked up at you. “I’m gonna use my mouth, that okay, doll?”

“Yes, sir.” Your voice was hoarse from disuse. You felt like you were vibrating in your skin. 

He leaned in slowly, as if to not startle you, before running his tongue from your hole to your clit.

The moan you let out was guttural and animalistic. 

“There it is.” He said quietly, before diving back into you. 

Your head fell back onto the mattress as he lapped at your clit, tongue occasionally diving into your hole. Tears welled up in your eyes at the relief it brought, like jumping into a pool on a hot summer day. Your hands tangled in his long tresses, and he moaned against your pussy. Your hips were bucking into him involuntarily, your orgasm so close you could practically taste it. “Nicholas, I’m gonna- I’m so close-” You practically sobbed. 

“Shh, I know, doll. Let it happen.” He said soothingly before going back to his ministrations. You came with a primal moan, back arching off of your sheets. 

 You were still panting when he stood up, surveying you. “All better?”

“Fuck me.” You demanded. 

His expression went stoney. He leaned over until you were caged in by his arms on either side of you. “I don’t fuck demanding brats.”

You lost all your bravado. “Please?”

He sighed softly, but not sincerely. “How bad do you want it?”

You could have cried. “Please, I’m sorry Nicholas, I’ll be good, please fuck me- you don’t know how bad I need it-”

“I just had your greedy little unused hole grinding against my tonsils.” He sneered. “I know exactly how bad you need it.”

Your face went hot at the profane nature of his words- but he was right. He saw firsthand how bad you needed this. “Please.” Was all you said. 

“Well, I guess since you’re asking so nicely.” He mocked as he stepped back, unbuckling his pants as he went. He slid off the trousers, his erection visible through his briefs. You suddenly felt nervous, looking at the size of him. 

He stopped, seeing your expression. “What’s wrong?”

You shook your head. “Nothing’s wrong. It’s just- is it gonna fit?”

He pulled the briefs down at last, finally freeing his cock. It was big- even by supernatural proportions. The tip was an angry shade of red, veins pulsating on the shaft. He huffed a laugh at your face, pulling his shirt off, too. “I bet we can find room.”

Your eyes devoured the tattoos that covered him, tracing the planes of his body as you went. You almost didn’t notice him slinking over to you, crawling onto the mattress in one, fluid motion, landing on top of you. 

“I’m gonna touch you again, okay?” He looked at you expectantly. 

You nodded. “Okay.”

He leaned down to kiss you again, tongue sliding against yours. You whimpered when his fingers were back on your pussy, running along the folds. As you adjusted to his touch, two fingers slipped inside your hole.

“Fuck you’re still so wet,” He muttered, rocking his fingers back and forth inside you. You gasped at the sensation, his fingers so much larger than your own. Moving his mouth down to your neck, he began scissoring his fingers, stretching you out- a preparation you were thankful for.

You felt your second orgasm approaching as he continued his movements, moans growing higher pitched. “Nicholas, I-”

“Think you can hold on?” He asked. It was a genuine question, you knew whatever answer you gave would be correct. 

You considered it for a second. “Yeah, I can- I can wait.” Your legs were still beginning to tremble, though. 

He placed a kiss on your temple, pulling his fingers out. “I’ll go slow, but we can stop if you want to.”

You nodded an affirmative. He stared at you blankly, and you remembered yourself. “Yes, sir.” He tapped your nose, a gesture that was oddly sweet, as he said “Good girl.”

You felt him line up with your entrance, the tip slowly sliding in. It was still a stretch- but you found that you liked it, liked the feeling of being filled up. He went slowly, thrusting shallowly, each time going a little deeper. You could hear the noises you were making, but couldn’t stop yourself from making them. He paused three-fourths of the way in. 

“Doing okay?”

“Yes Nicholas, please don’t stop.” Came your gargled reply.

He smirked, thrusting a few more times until he was fully sheathed in you.

Your back arched clear off the bed as he bottomed out, his tip nestled against something inside you that made you feel feral.

“Like that, doll?” You could hear how smug he was.

“Please, Nicholas, please-” You whined.

“I know, pretty, I’ll give you what you need.” His hands tightened their grip on your waist as he pulled out and slid back in quickly. You let out another carnal wail, your hands coming around to grab at his shoulders. He pulled out again, slamming into you, continuing on until you felt like a puddle on the bed.

“So wet and tight for me, such a good girl.” He grunted as he fucked into you. You nodded pitifully, not sure why, lost in the pleasure. Over and over again he slid against that sweet spot inside you, making you feel like you were on fire. Your orgasm soon approached you like a freight train.

“Nicholas please, I need- I need to come-” You stammered, close to sobbing. 

“I know, it’s so much, I know, you can come, doll.” His words opened a dam as your orgasm overcame you in a powerful wave, making you all but scream as he fucked you through it.

He pulled out shortly after, jerking himself to completion on your stomach. You were gasping for air, legs quivering with the aftershocks of your orgasm as hot ropes of come covered you. 

You felt disgusting, in the most delicious way possible. 

Nicholas disappeared around the corner, returning with a rag to clean you up. He had used hot water, you noted, so it was warm to the touch. 

“So that’s a deal?” You asked when he had finished cleaning you. 

He looked sad, but the expression was quickly gone. “I suppose it is.”

He set the rag on your bedside table, already going to collect his clothing.

“I have a question, before you disappear again.” You called over his shoulder.

“And what is your question?” He turned around to face you as he pulled on his briefs.

“If I wanted a Grammy,” You began, cocking your head to the side. “What would your rates be for that?”

He gave you a grin, understanding your implication immediately as he dropped his pants back onto the floor.

“I’d be open to negotiation of terms.” He murmured as he made his way back over to the bed, lips slotting against yours once more.

[e1igius]

leave the saving of the world to the cops ? he didn't think so. houston's never been a busy city. nor a big one , it didn't have the lavash lifestyle of dallas , the big city dreams of los angeles , or the concrete jungle of new york city. it was just houston , not small , not large , and quite annoying to the local population. he had yet to meet a texan that liked houston , then again being from west texas they did have a strange sense of pride in staying away from the big cities. what a surprise it had been for so called childhood friends when the man they supposedly knew had chosen to settle down there rather than close to home. anything to stay out of that place , but it was a thought he needn't have. so houston it was , just big city enough to feel like he was out of texas , just texan enough to still feel like home. when he wasn't busy , which wasn't often , he liked to try to walk around and enjoy it , houston wasn't particularly walkable but there was small gentrified areas that worked well... he lived in one of those ( how fortunate he was about it depended on who you asked ).

but a city was a city regardless of the size. and cops tended to suck at their jobs no matter how big or small the place they were defending was. huck didn't understand it , small town cops were supposed to know the people , big city cops got funding. but they all ate away at their budgets & advantages like pigs. and yet no matter where he went for the weekend , for the week , for the month , every police department was absolute shit at their jobs. it's why he had to exist in the capacity that he did , what was the worst of it ? he didn't exactly have to try. huck had gone down to the corner store , there was a nice mexican lady that parked her taco truck for the late night construction workers at the liquor store , ( good strategy , drunk people loved tacos , and when you're the closest thing open to a highway under construction you'll get those workers too ). he had gone to the corner store to get some tacos al pastor with that really good avacado cilantro salsa she made and on his way back , after tipping her the price of the order he'd started on his way back to his apartment. all he wanted was tacos. but of course , the city had other plans.

he spots them more than a few yards ahead of him , just out of the corner of his eye. he had been texting one of his on and off flings , anita blew up his phone with a work request. he wouldn't mind helping out again , but he was a little busy with his own work to complete in houston. there was a man he was trying to keep an eye on over on the other side of town , when even mothers knew to tell their high school aged boys to avoid the priest. something was wrong with that church. that and , he hears a pace quicken. that's not normal. no one just decided to speed up a walk home in the dark for no particular reason. everyone was usually already going as fast as humanely possibly while still paying attention to the ground. his eyes dash up from his phone , blue searching midnight , the darkness ahead of him seemingly blinding. he couldn't see what was going on. but he could certainly hear it , he follows the noise. making sure to keep an eye out for any potential injuries.

one doesn't have to be an expert to catch a rapist , huck has done it so many times he's lost count. they don't fight they don't do anything just scared of he prospect of going to jail for a crime they should be hanged for comiting. luckily huck doesn't have to follow stupid laws. he can do whatever he wants. and lucky for the rest of the world , what he wanted was to make sure people in general remained vaguely safe int heir own homes. it was always easy to catch them because , they always wore their intent on their sleeve. the minute the pair walk under a street lamp the light goes off in huckleberry's head. he knows that walk. he knows the walk and it takes two seconds for the concealed carry ( thank texas ) to get pulled out , and just one more for a shot to be fired. it echoes , they always do in the night , blast bouncing off somewhat empty streets and against large skyscrapers like some sort of perfect acoustics in an opera hoes. luckily this was houston , a single gunshot wasn't going to sound any alarms. not in this neighborhood anyway. the body drops to the ground , kneeling first like some sort of movie , before loosing energy and finally getting out of his way.

as soon as the gun is back in it's place the blonde man walks forward , eyes catching the stranger. he's sure she has a million things to say , he glances away only to step around the dead man on the street. negating the body as if it is nothing more than an old used mcdonalds bag on the foor. ❝ i'm sorry about him miss y'don't gotta worry , ❞ a pause , he thinks for a moment. unsure what he should say about it. or if he should say anything at all. most people aren't accustomed to leaving a dead body ont he floor. he was , but she probably wasn't. she hasn' spoken yet , usually by now someone has screamed or threatened to get the police but she's just standing there and it's creeping him out a little... ❝ you wan'a taco ? ❞

PLOTTED STARTER for : @e1igius

♱˖ ─── THERE WAS A PARTICULAR SOLACE THAT SHILOH found in the sound of her own footsteps that night, the quiet patter of combat boots against the pavement filling the silence in the same way that gentle ripples might stir the surface of still waters. Peaceful and almost SERENE, even amidst the smog and grime of the city streets. After the chaos that had just chased her from her own apartment, however, it was no stretch of the imagination to assume that just about anything would be a welcome change, so long as she could hear her own thoughts again…

            The voices had started off as little more than murmurs, their cries floating through the peeling wallpaper of old walls, carried on the muted notes of languid echoes. Obscure, distant. They’d been easy enough to ignore at first, especially after so many years of ineludible practice. But as one voice became two, and two became three, four, five… whispers became shouts, and shouts became screams. They grew louder. ANGRIER. The ringing in the young woman’s head became violent with the swelling potency of bottled-up anguish, the cries of lost souls crashing into her like the relentless tide of an incensed sea. Scorned and furious came their laments, their agony felt so deep within the pit of the brunette’s chest that she could only assume that the scent of blood that conned her senses was seeping from wounds in her SOUL.

            The torment had been more than sufficient to convince the woman to brave the streets in the middle of the night, especially if it would garner her even a moment of relief from the hurricane that was raging inside of her head. As life kept reminding her, however, she wasn’t LUCKY, and the beating of a second pair of footsteps trailing behind her ensured that she wouldn’t foolishly forget.

            Still, after the chaotic ordeal in her apartment, ignoring the stranger seemed almost too easy. Shiloh had been tuning people out since childhood just to cope, and so it was only natural that she’d become adept at building impromptu barriers. Even the sort of ghosts that used to make her blood run COLD and keep her up with spine-chilling nightmares hardly made her flinch now, their presence blurring into the background like the fading remnants of a shadow that was kissed by sunlight. Years of walking along the edge of a knife had allowed her to build up a dangerous but necessary tolerance to jeopardy; a numbness that, if left unchecked, would surely lead her straight into her own self-inflicted DAMNATION. There was a key difference between threats like the man that was trailing behind her and the hauntings in her head, however…

            GHOSTS COULDN’T TOUCH HER.

[kittenofdoomage]

Traps

@badthingshappenbingo​ Prompt: Compelling Voice

Fandom: Supernatural

Ao3 Link: Traps On Ao3

Rating: Mature

Summary: She’s on Michael’s trail to get Dean back (spoilers for S14)

Characters/Pairing: Michael!Dean, Dean Winchester x reader

Word Count: 2344

Warnings: angst, angst, angst, mind control, character death. This really is angsty, guys.

She’s too late again. The small cabin - more of a shack really - is empty except for the corpse on the floor, his burned and hollowed out gaze fixed on the ceiling. Michael’s gone, Dean with him, and she’s only following a trail of bodies.

With a weary sigh, she sinks down into the armchair by the door, sliding her hands along the upholstery to clutch the arms tightly. Her phone beeps, so she pulls it out, finding another hit, Singapore this time. There’s no pattern to his movements, except that there’s a body or sometimes bodies, wherever he goes.

Sam’s left voicemails again, begging her to come home. It feels like forever since she’s seen him, but it’s only actually been three weeks. A little more since she’s last laid eyes on Dean, stumbling through the portal from the apocalypse world. She promised Sam she’d go home but she can’t, not until she has him back.

She doesn’t bother telling anyone about the body in the shack, putting her foot to the floor of her battered Honda and gunning it away. Within hours, she’s got another possible sighting, and she’s turning East, still hoping she can get back the only man she’s ever really loved.

Sam calls. She ignores it. Pulls into a motel about sixty miles from where she needs to be because her eyes are closing on her and she can’t try and pretend she doesn’t need to sleep anymore. She manages four hours, still too much, and she’s back on the road, gas pedal pressed down, not even the radio for background noise.

There’s a good chance any song she hears is gonna remind her of Dean, and she’s not sure she’s strong enough to not cry.

The sun’s coming up as she pulls into Bridge Falls, over the steel construct that passes the waterfalls that gave the town their name. It’s picturesque, small-town America, and she hasn’t got a clue what Michael would want here.

A few hours of driving around leave her with nothing but an empty gas tank. She finds a motel, books a room, and tries to contact the witch who’s been tracking Michael for her. He doesn’t answer, and she’s left alone in the quiet, unsure what to do next.

The bedside lamp flickers and she hears wings before she sees him; her breath catches in her throat and she grips the edge of the bed she’s sitting on, staring at him in disbelief.

“You’ve been looking for me,” Michael drawls, inspecting his fingernails as he casually leans against the divider by the door. “Why?”

“You know why,” she rasps back, reaching for the pistol in the back of her pants.

Michael’s not dumb enough for that. She’s surrounded by grace in the next minute, suffocated by it, and the archangel steps towards her, finally looking right at her. Those green eyes she’s so familiar with hold nothing but contempt and amusement, glowing blue as he exerts his power to get into her head.

He’s watching her memories of Dean, right down to the explicit stuff, making her watch too, and there’s curiosity now when he looks at her. “What do you want?” he asks in a low growl.

His question is an order that burrows into her skull and forces an answer from her lips. “D-Dean,” she chokes out, and Michael pulls her to her feet with the squeeze of his hand around thin air.

“And what makes you think I’ll give him back to you?” he murmurs, inches away from her now. He doesn’t even smell like Dean - he smells like burned ozone and embers, like destruction on her tongue. “What makes you think,” Michael continues, lifting his chin, looking at her like she’s a bug that needs to be squashed, “he’s even still alive?”

She doesn’t. But she’s never stopped believing in Dean. She’s seen the things he and Sam have done, the things they’ve defied, and she refuses to believe that this is how it ends for him. Tears are clinging to her lashes as she fights Michael’s hold, staring him dead in the eye.

“I have faith,” she spits bitterly.

Surprisingly, he laughs, and it’s a foreign, stiff sound from Dean’s lips, almost as if the archangel hasn’t quite gotten the hang of it yet. He moves with a mechanical smoothness that belonged to Dean first, turning his back on her but keeping her in his celestial grip.

“Your witch is dead,” he comments; she thinks she might have known that already. “I thought it was Sam at first, he’s usually the one who comes running after Dean, right?”

When she doesn’t say anything, he glances at her, his lips quirking into a smile.

“Answer me,” he commands, and the order is too powerful to resist.

“Yes,” she squeaks. 

“Imagine my surprise when it’s you,” he continues, tilting his head as he finds her duffel bag on the floor. “The girlfriend.” He spits it like it’s a bad word, and she’s helpless to do anything but watch as he rifles through her belongings, finding her wallet and the stupid photo booth picture of her and Dean she’s kept tucked in there for twenty years.

Can Dean hear her? See her? Is he even aware?

“He’s not,” Michael informs her and she grinds her teeth together, willing him out of her head. He finds that funny, chuckling as he tucks the photo into his pocket. “I should send a message,” he whispers, drifting back towards her. “A way to tell Winchester junior that he’s not going to get anywhere,” his hands lifts and he drags his thumb over her bottom lip, “by following me.”

The pinning warmth of his grace recedes. He knows she’s not strong enough to fight him now, he’s seen every corner of her mind. She doesn’t move when he releases her, remaining on the spot, his fingers curled around her jaw now.

“I could snap your neck right now,” he hums, tracing the line of her cheek with one long finger. “Let Sam know where to find your corpse.”

His hand drops to her chest, sliding against the exposed skin where her stolen flannel is hanging open. It’s warm against her collarbone, and so much like Dean that she feels herself weakening, ready to beg for his life.

“I could keep you,” Michael continues. He’s pressing under her shirt now, his hand is almost right over her heart. “You’d do whatever is necessary to get Dean out of this alive, wouldn’t you?” There’s a lie on the tip of her tongue but she doesn’t let it fall, shaking as his fingers tuck underneath the strap of her bra. “I can see why he enjoys you,” he purrs. “You’re warm and soft.” He’s closer now, his nose pressed to her cheek as he inhales deeply. “He likes the way you smell.”

Please stop. Please stop. She can’t bring herself to voice her plea. If he’s going to kill her, she wants him to get it over with.

“I don’t think I’ll kill you,” he chuckles.

His hand gets warmer, and it doesn’t feel right, doesn’t feel good. It’s starting to burn, and she whimpers, trying to pull away.

“Stay still,” he orders, and she can’t help but obey.

The burning gets worse, like it’s reaching into her chest but worse, and she can feel memories slipping from her grasp, stolen away. Each little piece is hacked at, gnawed, burned out of her, and when Micheal finally pulls away, there’s a blank stare on her face.

He’s left a handprint that she’ll forget about in the morning.

“You’re going to sleep now,” he murmurs, the power of his voice just as strong even though he’s stepped away. She blinks three times, and the room is empty, and she doesn’t remember why she was even there in the first place. For a few seconds, she looks around, before a yawn splits her face, so she lies down, drifting off fully-clothed.

When she wakes, it’s daybreak. She packs her bag and checks out, trying to remember why she was even in Bridge Falls. There’s no hunt here, not even a whiff of demonic possession, so she’s back on the road by lunch, pulling into the next store she sees to buy a replacement cellphone. It’s easy to reload the numbers onto it, and almost instantly, she’s barraged by messages.

<<It’s Sam, can you please call me?>>

<<Sam again, just getting worried, it’s been three weeks, can you please call?>>

<<Y/N, please ->>

There’s text messages too, referring to someone called Dean, but she doesn’t know any Sam Winchesters or any Deans. As she’s mulling it over, her phone rings, and she answers, hearing a male voice on the other end.

“Thank god,” he sighs. “I was starting to think you were dead.”

“Who is this?�� she demands, frowning at the familiarity in his tone.

He’s obviously surprised by her reaction as he stutters out his name. “It’s Sam, Y/N. Sam Winchester.”

“I think you’ve got the wrong number, dude,” she scoffs and hangs up. He rings twice more, she doesn’t answer and blocks the number.

By nightfall, she’s picked up a case in Lousiana. The odd phone calls have stopped and though it puzzles her, for some reason she doesn’t dwell on it. People are dying, and she’s got a job to do.

Two weeks later, she’s on the trail of a ghoul pack in Minnesota, and she’s stopped for some supplies at a local Walmart. She’s standing in the snack aisle, debating the merits of Cheetos vs Doritos when someone calls her, and at first, she thinks it’s her imagination. It’s repeated, closer, so she turns, raising an eyebrow at the slightly breathless and absolutely gorgeous man standing in front of her.

In the next second, he’s got her arms around her, and she reacts the only way she knows how; she flips him and puts him on his ass, swiftly pulling her gun free from her pants and jamming the muzzle into his chest.

“Who the hell are you?” she demands, and the guy splutters, staring up at her in shock with his hands by his face in surrender.

“Calm down, Y/N!” he stutters out. She narrows her eyes and jabs the gun in harder.

“How do you know my name?”

He seems confused, tilting his head, squinting at her like he needs to double-check what he’s seeing. It’s too familiar, it hurts her head - she pulls away, putting the width of the aisle between them. A security guard appears, giving her a quizzical look. “We all good here?” he asks.

“Yeah,” she snaps back, and he doesn’t seem to particularly care too much, wandering back off to his station.

The guy hasn’t moved from the floor, though he’s lifted himself up onto one elbow, and he’s still staring at her.

“You know me?” she grunts out, retrieving her basket of purchases as he gets to his feet, brushing himself down. His shock seems to have worn off but he’s still giving her a look that makes her feel like he knows her, intimately. The throb in her head becomes a burst of pain, and she hisses, pressing the heel of her palm to the middle of her forehead.

“Hey, you okay?” the man asks, concern in his voice, one hand touching her shoulder.

Someone’s laughing at her, a deep, throaty chuckle, but there’s no one there except her and the guy.

“You know me,” she whispers, blinking at him, and this time it’s a statement, to which he nods, visibly swallowing.

“Let’s get you some air,” he murmurs; she stops him with a hand to his chest.

“What’s your name?” she asks.

He smiles, and it’s a fucking gorgeous smile, reaching right to his eyes. “Dean,” he replies.

There’s a thousand images associated with that name, and it’s too much. He’s got her as far as the salsa aisle, and she’s flagging, the pain in her head like a flood, freezing every muscle, constricting her chest. Dean catches her when she falls, cradling her like he would a lover.

Which is exactly what she was, before Michael stripped away two decades of friendship and their final attempt at something real. He’s given it back to her now, but she’s not gonna be able to do anything. It’s a punishment, for not letting him go.

Dean’s begging, crying her name now - there’s a crowd gathering, none of them willing to approach - and she can feel tears in the corners of her eyes. How the hell could she forget him? Dean’s been the center of her universe for so long, she should have known something was wrong.

He’s crying. This punishment wasn’t just for her. The first thing Dean would do is look for her, and Michael’s just reminding him that he’s never going to be free.

She can’t even get the words out for the pain. 

She wasn’t supposed to go like this.

Her chest slows and stops, and Dean cries harder, cupping her cheek as his tears mingle with hers. Someone’s called an ambulance, they’re on their way, he hears it but he doesn’t really hear anything. He tells her he loves her because it might bring her back, he’s managed bigger miracles before, except her skin’s getting cold already and her eyes don’t see anything.

Sam’s there by the time they’re pronouncing time of death, and Dean’s got one of those stupid foil blankets around his shoulders. The EMT tells him it’s shock, and he’s very sorry for his loss; Dean’s quiet, staring at the covered lump of a body where Y/N used to be.

He doesn’t drive home. He lets Sam take care of him. Stays in his room and looks at the picture he found in the pocket of the tux Michael had been wearing. The photo of them, so long ago, when their friendship was the only thing that got him through. Now he feels like he’s got nothing.

Nothing except revenge.

[okaybutlikeimagine]

You Don’t Mess Around With Jim

(where Billy has been living w/ Jim and El for a lil over a year bc he’s been adopted and he never died and he just knows Hopper is a pushover and knows how to use that to his and El’s advantage)

~~~~

It’s a calm and balmy night and the roads in Hawkins, Indiana are decently quiet. Billy likes it this way. Back before Hopper took him in, this was one of the few things that he felt made this town worth it: the quiet roads late at night.

The quiet can be suffocating. Billy’s thoughts thrive on the silence; they scream in its presence. Which is why quiet nights on quiet roads make for the perfect canvas for loud as fuck music and races with bad memories. It’s also why Billy got picked up by the local police department twice in his first week in Hawkins. But that’s why Billy met Jim. So he’s not about to lament that.

Billy was usually out later than this, considering it’s only 8pm, but even so, the streets are still quiet enough to be pleasant, especially for a nice summer night like this one. He has his arm out the open window, letting the humid air wrap around it softly as it cuts through the night. When he’s feeling playful, he likes to encourage El to follow his lead in sticking his head out the window as they drive.

But tonight is calm and warm and a little too humid to do something like that, so Billy settles for the softness of the air on his arm. He lets it touch him gently. He closes his eyes and breathes. The less than favorable thoughts of a home he no longer lives in flash through his brain in a second, and they’re gone just as fast. The night is nice.

He briefly thinks of Joyce and her boys and what a weird family they’re going to make when Jim finally realizes what a fool he’s being in not asking her to marry him right now. She’s gentle and nurturing to her children and she gives that same stuff to Billy and El, even though they’re in no way related and she absolutely doesn’t have to. And when Billy thinks about it, he isn’t too surprised about her showering El with affection, seeing as she may gain a daughter (or will adopt her whether Jim gets off his ass to pop the question or not). Plus, everyone loves El and decides to shower her with affection pretty much the moment they meet her. But giving all that gentle nurturing to another boy? To Billy?

It confuses him to say the least.

Anyway.

She’s constantly inviting them over for dinner. She lets them stay over sometimes when it gets late and El gets tired. She’s inviting and strong as all hell and is hard on Jim when he needs it. She puts up with Jim, even though Billy recently found out that they grew up in this damn town together. So that means she’s known Jim for decades and still puts up with him and if that isn’t a miracle in itself, Billy is going to eat his shirt.

But it’s not his job to babysit lovesick adults. He might make it his job if they get completely hopeless, but for right now, he’ll just appreciate the non-TV dinners and the soft, music-filled drives back and forth from the Byers home. Plus, Billy has a bet going with Jonathan about when Jim and Joyce get together and he needs to wait it out a bit longer if he’s gonna collect the reward.

Billy notices the sound of Jim’s fingers thumping against the wheel of the car as the next song begins to play.

~Uptown got its hustlers…~

Jim is mumbling along to the words, very clearly not sure of them, but when the chorus starts, he’s singing. Loudly. Not necessarily excited or anything, just loud.

“They all call big Jim boss… and they say you don’t tug on Superman’s cape. Y’don’t spit into the wind. Y’don’t pull the mask off that old lone ranger and you don’t mess around with Jim.”

He -would- like this song.

El is giggling in the back of the car and Billy eyes her before he looks back to the smile cracking Jim’s face.

“That’s pretty cocky.” Billy says, eyeing the man next to him and being an overall brat about it. He scoffs a bit when Jim turns humorously disbelieving eyes onto him.

Jim laughs as loud as he sings.

“That’s real rich coming from you.”

Billy laughs back at that. He knows it’s true, he’s not one to deny that he’s a cocky son of a bitch, but he shakes his head all the same. He wonders how he got here, listening to old music from the 70’s with the Chief of Police and a girl-raised-lab-rat in the back seat.

Jim looks over at Billy again and just asks: “What, do you think the song is wrong?”

There’s a challenge in his voice and Billy sees a matching challenge in his eyes.

Oh alright, old man. Game on.

Billy doesn’t know what’s running through his blood, but Billy has felt it boil up through the year he’s been living with Jim. He tried to push it down out of anxiety, but when he realized the safety of his new situation, it was a little hard to cool it off. Because getting under the skin of others is a borderline hobby for him. Will has his drawing, Jonathan has his photography, and Billy has his being an overall public menace. Some may say it’s not as “constructive”, but it’s a hell of a lot of fun. People are always telling kids to have fun while they’re young.

A shit eating grin splits Billy’s face and he looks out at his hand sticking out of the window and slicing the air. He hums to himself, alongside Jim as the song continues to play in the background.

“You know what I could use?” He asks, loud enough to make sure El can definitely hear him. “Some ice cream.”

He hears sudden and excited shuffling from the backseat and smiles even wider as he waves his hand around out the window.

“Ice cream?”

“No.” Comes Jim’s voice, firm and sharp. Billy looks in the car’s side mirror and sees El deflate in the back of the seat.

“Seriously, think about it.” Billy continues. “Ice cream on top of some Eggos?” El perks up again, her tongue licking her lips quickly in excitement. “Some of that good vanilla ice cream too, with the little black specks in it?”

He looks over to Jim, who is gripping the steering wheel tighter, knuckles turning white.

“I already said no.” He grumbles.

“Y’know, we didn’t get any ice cream the last time we went shopping.” Billy can hear the smirk in his own voice. He chuckles when Jim turns down the wrong road, closer to the store.

“Or the store trip before.” El pipes up from the back. Billy points to her and gives her a thumbs up.

“Good point. Plus we have some of those cherries at home that we can put on top.”

Billy can picture them on the center shelf of their cabinet: those maraschino ones in the little jars. El had pleaded for them the last time they went shopping, because they’re sweet and sticky and she likes to put them on top of waffles and inside her glasses of water sometimes when Jim isn’t home. Billy had helped her get them, reasoning that they were practically fruit, even though Billy knew that was bullshit. They’re a semblance of fruit, sure, but as much fruit as something bathing in the most unnatural looking syrup can be. Even so, Jim had folded pretty easily.

“Ooh, cherries!”

Jim shakes his head. He’s not humming anymore.

But now El is hitting Jim’s shoulder, her little hand rapping furiously on it as she goes in for the kill: “Please, Dad?”

Billy can’t help the chuckle that bubbles up in his chest as he hears it. He joins in.

“Yeah Dad, please?”

And every time Billy’s mouth forms around that word, it feels less and less like alcohol-infused cotton on his mouth. Sometimes Billy says it without thinking, like when Jim is trying to make them dinner and Billy asks if he needs help, or when Jim’s on the couch helping El read and Billy needs to know where something is in the cabinets, or that one time he needed Jim to hold something for him as he fixed his Camaro. It always catches both of them off guard when it comes out naturally like that. But Jim never makes a big deal out of it, he just lets it float away through the air between them as he responds to whatever Billy has asked him.

But sometimes… he uses it to his advantage. And it works like a charm.

Because Billy isn’t imagining it when the breath leaves Jim’s chest quickly and his knuckles get whiter.

“Fine.” He says under his breath as they take another wrong turn away from their house and towards the store.

El cheers a bit and sits back, pleased. Billy is just as pleased, leaning back and tuning in once again to the song as it ends.

You don’t mess around with Slim…

And this time, Billy is the one humming along to the end of the chorus. His grin doesn’t fade.

~~*~~

Jim Hopper can grumble as much as he wants, but Vanilla Bean ice cream on top of 2 warm Eggos with Maraschino cherries on top was a marvelous idea and Billy thinks he should be rewarded. And he knows Jim is happy because he’s smiling every now and then inbetween bites.

After Billy helps wash the dishes, he looks to Jim with a smirk on his face. 

“Can’t mess around with Jim?” Billy asks.

But Jim just isn’t having it, tossing the towel he used to dry the dishes over to Billy.

“Go to bed, kid.”

“Yeah, yeah. Night, Dad.”

Billy doesn’t think as he says it, but his heart stops the second that it’s out there. He turns away as quick as he can, before he can see Jim’s face. His own face is burning and his heart is running as he walks to his room and shuts the door quickly.

~~*~~

“Hop!”

The sound of an irritated Joyce reaches Billy’s ears from his spot on the couch, sitting in between Hopper and Steve.

Joyce stopped by on her way to the store to ask them if they needed anything, and then to check their kitchen when they ultimately said no. Billy has noticed that she likes to do this. It’s completely unnecessary and most definitely just an excuse to come see Hopper, but it makes Hopper smile and provides Billy some entertainment as the two adults trip over each other, so he chuckles through it. Little does she know they just went to the store a night ago.

Steve is over because Billy really wanted to suck his dick.

And the nerds are also meeting at the Wheeler’s house and Steve was already planning on coming to pick El up because Billy doesn’t want to spend more money on gas. But after they drop them off, Billy and Steve are going down to the quarry so they can listen to music and Billy can suck Steve’s dick to the rhythm of a Springsteen song.

But for right now, they’re waiting for El to get ready and Joyce must have just found the 3 ice cream cartons they just recently bought.

Hopper looks over to her like a deer in headlights. There’s a laugh threatening Billy’s chest but he can’t let Joyce see it, so he turns his head to Steve and chuckles into his neck. Steve immediately starts to push Billy away while squirming and whining about being ticklish.

“Hop, can you come here?” Joyce’s voice is all business. She’s clearly not happy.

Billy is pretty sure she set a deal with Hop once they started getting serious to stop keeping so much junk food around. She knows Jim doesn’t make fresh food for them hardly ever. It’s always frozen dinners or fast food. It was probably just fine for the Chief when he was a mess living alone, but now he’s a mess living with two minors, so… frozen dinners every night don’t necessarily cut it. When Billy started living here, he quickly realized he’d have to be the one to make something for the 3 of them that wasn’t freezer burned peas on a tray, if not for him and Hop, then at least for El. No matter how content she seems, Billy still thinks she deserves more than only TV dinners and freezer waffles.

So since Joyce can’t be here every night (except she could if they’d get married), she cut some deal with Jim to limit the junk food in the house so she would know they’re not just living off sugar. They can’t die of some weird sugar overdose if there’s no sugar in the house.

Except...

“Why are there 3 cartons of ice cream in your freezer?” Joyce hisses at Jim. Billy can just hear it from his spot pressed against Steve. He fights hard not to snort, so he bites Steve’s shoulder instead.

“Hey!” Steve yelps, wriggling and trying to brush Billy off.

Billy shifts his eyes over to Hopper when he doesn’t hear the man say anything and notices the man flailing, mouth gaping like a fish as he struggles to bite out some words that might explain himself. It’s then that El walks into the room, a skip in her step and a bright smile on her face, showing she’s ready to go.

Billy gets up along with Steve to meet her at the door when he hears Jim reason with Joyce on a loud whisper.

“They called me dad.” He hisses.

The two kids glance at the adults, who are now looking back at them with wide eyes of shock.

Billy looks to El, sharing a glance of knowing mischief with her, before they give sweet, twin smiles to the adults in response.

A flustered blush begins to color both of the adults’ faces.

Billy gives El a victorious high five.

“Ready to go, kiddo?” Steve asks from behind Billy.

El nods, and waves to Hopper.

“Catch ya later, dad.”

As soon as the words are out in the air, Billy is frozen. Because those words didn’t come from El, who is currently opening the door and skipping out to Steve’s car.

“Hey, babe,” Steve starts, arm out to hold the door open for Billy. “When did you start calling Hop ‘dad’?”

Billy’s going to have a heart attack. He looks over to Jim, who looks like his face is seizing from trying so hard to force down his smile.

Goddamnit. Billy’s chest is too warm.

“Just get in the car, Harrington.” Billy mumbles under his breath, pushing his stupid boyfriend out the door and letting the air cool down his burning face.

(catch it on AO3 here!)

[letterboxd]

More Foghorn: The Robert Eggers Q&A.

“I wanted to be able to laugh at misery.” —The Lighthouse director Robert Eggers answers your questions and ours about what he’s wearing on Hallowe’en, being cool with memes, and paying homage to Mary Poppins.

The Lighthouse, out now in select US cinemas and opening nationwide this weekend, is the follow-up to Robert Eggers’ feature debut The Witch, one of our highest-rated films of 2016 and the third highest-rated horror of that year.

Similarly, The Lighthouse is firmly in our top ten narrative features of 2019 and is absolutely tearing up the Letterboxd reviews section with reactions like “Eggers holds nothing back in this film. He takes things far past okay and doesn’t apologize for any of it,” (Logan) and “If a bearded, bulging-eyed Willem Dafoe talking like a pirate for one hundred and ten minutes, shot on high-contrast orthochromatically filtered high-resolution black-and-white celluloid that brings out every follicle and pore doesn’t deserve five stars, I simply don’t know what does” (Jonathan).

The film’s success lies in a combination of obsessively detailed production design, singular technical choices (“a black-and-white movie in a stupid aspect ratio”, as Eggers told Filmmaker magazine), the superb acting partnership of Willem Dafoe and Robert Pattinson as lighthouse keepers on a far-flung rock, a borderline-ridiculous amount of foghorn in the soundtrack, and—in spite of the characters’ miserable circumstances—a hysterically funny script.

When we spoke to Eggers’ brother and co-writer Max at TIFF, he told us that the writing partnership was “a perfect fit; we trust each other, and I think that’s the big thing about writing teams is you gotta trust each other”. Their brotherly relationship naturally enabled the film’s dialogue to head into comedic territory, even as the story itself descends into hallucinatory horror. “Comedy is about that. You’ve gotta be able to be honest and trust yourselves. We didn’t know how it was going to play but, thankfully, I think the fart jokes work.”

Not only do the fart jokes work; the poetically trippy 1890s dialogue became instantly meme-able. It was no surprise, then, that when we invited the Letterboxd community to contribute questions for this interview, many of them dwelled on the script. But first, with Hallowe’en fast-approaching, we needed to know what Eggers had planned.

A24 has put out a helpful guide for those who want to do Hallowe’en as a 19th-century lighthouse keeper. You’re in the middle of The Lighthouse promo tour, but have you managed to plan yours? Robert Eggers: Hallowe’en was my favorite holiday growing up and I made many elaborate costumes, but now that I’m doing this, I will agree with Marilyn Manson where he says: “Hallowe’en is my day off”. It’s time for everyone else to catch up!

At TIFF, we spoke with your co-writer and brother Max about your collaboration. Letterboxd members Kevin and MrRabbit7 are interested in what the writing process was like with Max. Does that relationship allow more of an ‘anything goes’ approach? I know my brother, so it’s easy for us to write together. My movie that was leaked in the trades a couple days ago [The Northman] I also wrote with another writer. I’m finding, as much as I like writing scripts on my own, it’s fun to collaborate. It’s actually joyful to pass the drafts back and forth and see how you’re lifting each other’s work up.

We had many questions (including from John, Austin and Tyler) about The Lighthouse’s dialect and vernacular. Can you tell us about the work you did in constructing dialogue in unfamiliar languages, including the sources you consulted? It’s a lot of research and there is some quoting the sources directly. There’s much more of that in The Witch, where sentences remain intact. There’s very few intact sentences from the research in this film. There’s certainly many turns-of-phrase. When I’m looking at my primary source material from the period, I’m writing down vocabulary words in my own thesaurus that I can turn to.

I tend not to write in modern English and then translate the dialect. I try to write in the dialect even as I’m learning to do it, so the thesaurus is organized more [as] moods and ideas. I’m washing my eyes with words and hoping something turns up that works as I’m moving forward. You’re studying the sentence structure and trying to find the rules.

Thankfully with The Witch, because it was written in early modern English, which was a golden age of English writing, there were plenty of books available to teach me what the rules were. In studying the various Puritans, I could find how different people broke the rules and did things their own way. With this film it was much harder to find that, but eventually my brother came across the work of Sarah Orne Jewett. She was writing in coastal Maine dialect, interviewing working people to get their dialect. My wife found a thesis written by Evelyn Starr Cutler where she provided rules for different dialects—where are ‘r’s omitted and where are ‘r’s added, so on and so forth—so we could create consistent dialects for both characters.

“Why’d ya spill yer beans?” “Wouldst thou like to live deliciously?” Everyone—even A24’s marketing team—has taken to the film with meme-able gusto (exhibit A: these goofy Lighthouse emoji). How does it feel to have your deeply researched script torn apart in this affectionate, ironic way by internet culture? Does it make you hesitate in your approach to writing and directing these types of lines? (This question brought to you by those who quoted those infamous questions in response to this AMA.) No, it’s cool with me. The Lighthouse was designed to be a black comedy and not just have moments of black comedy. The Witch takes itself very seriously, but I think that there’s something kind of film student-y about how serious it takes itself. I’m glad that people can make PlayMobil and Lego playsets as jokes. You need to be irreverent, and with The Lighthouse I was exploring misery again but I wanted to be able to laugh at misery. Werner Herzog talked about it like, you’re on the floor laughing, you know?

You and your brother both have deep roots in theater. After listening to your A24 podcast with brother-in-arms and Midsommar director Ari Aster, Solly F wants to know which playwrights you look up to, and who was particularly useful in your approach to The Lighthouse? I like Shakespeare [laughs]. I don’t know if he was particularly helpful for this, but he’s pretty good! Clearly [Harold] Pinter, Sam Shepard, and evoking the name [Samuel] Beckett is almost worse than evoking the name Shakespeare, but you know, they’re good at what they do, and for this two-hander about identity it was impossible not to think of those playwrights.

Many members are curious about the films that inspire you and, more specifically, your most influential Ingmar Bergman films. So, which Bergman were you looking at for The Lighthouse? Also, Evan McKenzie dares to ask, “Given the chance, which Bergman film should you like to remake?” Well, I would not remake a Bergman movie because that’s just insanity! Even though I dared to talk about remaking Nosferatu—which also probably does not need to be done—so I guess, yes, I am insane. Fair enough question. Obviously Persona and any of his chamber dramas would be the ones I would be thinking about here.

There’s a shot where Willem is knitting and Rob is smoking in the foreground, which Jarin [Blaschke, The Witch and The Lighthouse’s director of photography] and I referred to fondly as our Hour of the Wolf shot. Of course we’re using a much wider lens than Bergman ever would have done and had a different approach to lighting than he did, so it doesn’t seem all that Bergman-esque in the end, even though it was our homage.

Youssef asks: which foreign-language films are your favorites, or provided you an entry point into the non-English language arthouse? The arthouse films that I saw in high school were ones that just happened to be in my local video store. Only one of them is foreign language, The City of Lost Children, but that, Eraserhead, and Brazil were three movies that I can think of that made me ask: “Oh you can do that? Wow!” Julie Taymor’s Titus also was another film from high school that made me realize that there was something other than—and not to speak disparagingly—Spielberg and Tim Burton and whatever was more easy to see in rural New Hampshire cinemas.

Robert Pattinson and Robert Eggers on the set of ‘The Lighthouse’. / Photo: Chris Reardon

The Lighthouse has an ambiguity that has led to many of our members questioning its genre. Even Ari Aster wasn’t sure when he mentioned the film in his Q&A, and you’ve referred to it as a black comedy here. But we have to ask, for the sake of our community’s sanity: is The Lighthouse a horror movie? I don’t see it as a horror movie. But I’ve definitely spoken to people who get my intentions that think it is. So maybe? I don’t care what people call it.

It’ll probably make our top horror lists, if that’s okay. That’s fine.

Let’s not tease too many hypotheticals, since this question is based only on your two-feature output so far, but there is significant interest in whether you’ll branch out into other genres, specifically sci-fi, and other time periods, specifically the future. Well again, pointing to the leaked Viking movie, that ain’t a horror movie. And I’ve written other movies that aren’t horror movies. It’s just The Witch and everything that I’ve actually gotten made so far have been horror or horror adjacent. That’s just how it’s been—fine, happy about it.

Never say never because I am interested in sci-fi. I feel like generally when people are trying to ask big questions and challenge current philosophies, to look at things that are bigger than ourselves today, it’s always done with sci-fi. So for me, I’m enjoying doing that kind of stuff in the past just because that’s not how people often use historical movies today.

Writer-director Robert Eggers.

We love asking filmmakers this and Filbert wants to know: what are your go-to comfort films? The movies you’ve seen the most? Anything that could surprise us? The Big Lebowski I’ve watched a lot. We have a little bit of a nod to it in The Lighthouse when [Pattinson] throws their shit off the cliff and it hits him in the face. It’s pretty damn close to the ashes of Steve Buscemi. I think it’s not going to surprise anyone that I’ve seen The Shining a zillion times. I’ve seen Mary Poppins a lot, and we have a little nod to it with our weather-vane shot.

By the way, when I’m writing it I’m not thinking ‘this is the Big Lebowski scene’ or ‘this is the Mary Poppins scene’. I’m just kind of writing and you say, “well, I know where that came from.”

Finally, the 2010s are drawing to a close and many of us, including Max and John, would like to know: what are your essential films of the decade? I’d have to think about it more, but recently I thought Trey Edward Shults’ Waves is great, Hereditary is great, Parasite’s great… I’m sorry, I haven’t seen Parasite [laughs]. That’s a microaggression, I meant to say Burning is great. Anything by Ciro Guerra [director of Embrace of the Serpent and co-director of Birds of Passage] is great. Yeah, there’s a few.

‘The Lighthouse’ is in US cinemas now. All images courtesy of A24.

[leslea]

One Day of Summer

The Covid has done its best to force us to skip past summer. No swimming, no amusement parks, no winery concerts, no summer camp for the kids, no summer sports (wrestling, tennis), no drive-in movies, no summer reading club...

Okay, so there is still a summer reading club, but without the promise of tangible prizes and trips to the library, I can’t get the kids interested. So, it doesn’t count!

However, the good news is, we have remained healthy. We are all working, those of us who are old enough to work. We have a new student driver. Time marches on!

And today, before school starts inexplicably too soon (again), NEXT WEEK, we stole a day of summer.  We got together as a family, all six of us, and had an outing. I chose Schooner Valley Stables in Nashville, IN as the destination. We had a good experience with them a few years ago and we were looking forward to another. I figured it was a low risk environment, since you don’t come into contact with many people, and those you do are wearing masks. The kids were excited to go, so off we went!

After coaxing and prodding all my late risers out the door, we hit the road. The conversation was disgustingly peppered with comments about flatulence and belching (which I refer to as “face farting,” and for once the kids saw the logic in that). We banned the topic, so naturally it kept coming back up. We stopped for snacks in Columbus, Indiana, and then headed west toward Nashville.

When we reached Gnaw Bone, we passed a sign saying “Story, 10 miles” and pointing south, so I impulsively took it, explaining that we would grab lunch in Story and check it out, since we’d never been there. I told the kids it had a General Store, and they were sold! A few minutes later, we encountered construction traffic. 

The kids grew more and more restless as we waited for our turn to drive down the one way country back road, which adjoins Brown County State Park. It is a rural back road, the kind that winds through the hills and the trees and often disappears into gravel. The longer we sat, the more one of the boys complained that he had to go to the restroom. Inexplicably, the conversation turned once again to potty talk, before making a wild right angle into the realm of pot. The same boy who needed to go to the restroom informed us that he thought he saw a lot of marijuana plants ringing a corn field that we’d passed. As he put it, “weed.” He wanted to know how it grew out in a field like that, if it was “supposed” to grow inside under lights. Tim explained that it grows everywhere, which is why it is called a “weed,” and that people who use grow lights are hiding illegal drugs in their basements and trying to not get caught. SO. That ate up a few minutes of the traffic stop. Next piped up the baby of the group, asking if this subject was the same as “the weed for smoking,” followed quickly by my instant regret in letting the conversation go on in the first place.

Now, I know marijuana is legal in much of the country, but it isn’t here, and the last thing I need is her telling her classmates, “What did I do this summer? Oh, I went horseback riding and learned about the weed for smoking.”

On the other hand, I believe in educating my kids. If they want to know what drugs are, I will explain to them what I know, which also goes back to the RISKs of such things. And, truthfully, I don’t know a ton about drugs, per se, but...now the baby knows about as much as I do, so...sigh.

The traffic was stopped for about 20 minutes, which was just about untenable for the kids. I told them about the many times I sat still on the highway trying to get off on an exit to see a concert. I don’t know if concerts even work like that now! It was tough for them to imagine sitting 3 hours in a hot car with no air conditioning. As we waited, the radio played John Mellencamp’s “Cherry Bomb,” because of course it did.

When the road reopened, it was a scenic drive to Story, Indiana, which was sadly closed. THEY HAD A GENERAL STORE! And a restaurant. And wine. *sad face*. We contented ourselves with taking photos in the garden, and headed back to town for food. 

On the way, Tim suggested we avoid the construction and take Horseman’s Camp Road, which just happens to be the road that runs right through Brown County State Park. The hospitable lady at the gate let us cut through, which was quite nice, although I would have been fine paying admission. She told us to look for the signs that said “North Gate,” so every time we passed a sign, multiple people would say “This way,” or “North gate,” or whatever...and at the last minute, Sean would yell, “NORTH GATE!” It instantly became a meme, along with face farting.

ONE DOES NOT SIMPLY DRIVE INTO NORTH GATE!

It sounds very silly, because it was. On our way through the park, the kids expressed a desire to come back and see it for real, so I said maybe we could, post-covid. Come up and get a cabin for a week or something. We passed several scenic vistas that were just breathtaking, so naturally the kids were like, “Eh,” though they did at least turn their heads each time and look.

Next up, we sampled the fine dining Nashville is known for...McDonald’s!

Honestly, I wish we could have stopped at the Birds’s Nest Cafe, my favorite, or any of the other local cafes, but we really only had time by that point for a quick snack at the Golden Arches. After gobbling down our sustenance, we were off to Schooner Valley!

Schooner Valley was tremendous fun. The staff and volunteers really make you feel at home and the horses are just well-loved and beautiful. They’re not tired old trail horses...although by 3 pm in the hot weather, they sort of were...they still required a little guidance, especially my horse, Karma. She was a bossy lady, but she did as asked, eventually! The kids all had a great time, not just riding through gorgeous Yellowwood Forest, but also in bossing each other around about the proper form for riding. They weren’t shy about bossing me, either. You’d never know I’ve been riding for years.

We finished out our ride in a gentle rain shower that turned into a downpour as we dismounted. The rain felt cool and refreshing, as both our humans and our horses were soaked in sweat. We rode for over and hour, and my old bones and weak muscles were screaming on the way to the car. I admit, I limped a little. I’m a lot heavier right now than I want to be! All the kids and Tim were stiff, I think, except for the two youngest, who are by far the most fit. What amazing exercise that was!

We tried to roll into Nashville for a celebratory ice cream for all the kids, but it was impossible. Chocolate Moose was closed due to Covid-19 (waiting for test results, the sign on the window said!) The other ice cream parlor in town was not safe for us re: peanut/tree nut allergies...so back to McDonald’s! It’s ironic...there is nothing like going to a fun, quirky, tourist-oriented place and just end up eating McDonald’s. So wrong, but for the kids, it was so right. 

It rained while the sun shined, something that I’ve usually only seen here at the Treehouse. “Where’s the rainbow?” Sean asked.

We did a little rubbernecking, checking out the area when we saw a for sale sign on a country road. Brown County gets very rural, very fast. More so than Floyd County where we live. I shouldn’t be surprised. I have spent a lot of time in rural Indiana--REAL Indiana, not this semi-suburban rural adjacent kind of place that we adoringly hail from. Where we live, we are metro Louisville, really. REAL Indiana is country AF. It’s corn and potential pot plants and pulling over on a gravel road to ask a man in denim overalls if we’re headed the right direction, knowing he’s going to help. REAL Indiana is a paved road turning suddenly into a gravel road. A trailer next to a log cabin. An artist colony that hides away some of the best scenic views in the country, and a sweet State Park employee who lets you cut through just because the kids are hungry and she can tell you’re not lying to get free admission.

We talked all the way home, through a downpour that lasted about an hour. I almost took the back way through Seymour to avoid the rain, but it let up not long after we passed Muscatatuck. Tim and Sam were both falling asleep. The kids thanked us for the trip...I suggested maybe we could go back this fall. Two of them said yes and two said they needed to think about it. Tim reminded me about Covid. I agreed to put it off for a bit. 

The kids reminisced about Piomingo, looking forward to next summer so much. Sean suggested that instead of a trip this fall, we build our own slide at home like the one at Piomingo. He suggested we dig a tunnel and have the slide go underground, before emptying us out into the creek at the back of our property. We shall see.

To the east of the highway emerged an enormous rainbow. Seamus took a photo.

We won’t get to swim this summer. We could. We could make our way to Buffalo Trace or some other semi-local beach, but I can’t take the risk. We’re all healthy right now. I can’t risk some rando swimming up to the kids and ruining that, and I definitely do NOT want to be that mom standing at the beach screaming “SOCIAL DISTANCING! SOCIAL DISTANCING!”

So we had one day of summer. Farts and belches were the topic du jour, only intensified by the horses pooping on the trail. It wasn’t the kind of conversation I would have chosen, but it was EXACTLY the kind of day. Adventurous, spontaneous, full of laughter and fun and a bit of sweat and excitement.

We arrived home smelling of horses and happiness.

[hollowcrovvn]

The Ostensive Fumblings of Being Human (part 4)

Pairing: Connor x female!reader Rating: T  Summary: Set two months after the ending of Detroit: Become Human, androids are living in government created “pop-up” communities while efforts are being made to integrate them into society. You are a grad-student volunteer with the Detroit Crisis Response Unit (DCRU), working to help with relief efforts. 

Notes: Here are links to two articles I referenced regarding the Near Death Experience study and why we build androids in our image. 

Link one  Link two 

The Cadillac Place, for non-Michigan residents, is a very pretty building downtown that houses lots of state departments. I want to dot in more of the cities structures and histories, since I am a Michigan resident myself! My favorite building is the Book Tower.

(part 1) (part 2) (part 3) (part 4) (part 5) (part 6) (part 7) (ao3)

In 2017, scientists working out of Hadassah University in Jerusalem, concluded that your life does indeed pass before your eyes before death. Graduation, marriage, birthdays and all the things in between… but it wasn’t some mystical spiritual event. It simply was that when you die, the part of your brain responsible for storing memory is the last thing to go.

The study also found, in those last moments, time becomes intangible. Seconds become months, minutes become years. Everything that was ever you or would ever be you existing outside of the limits of time and space for one brief moment, before it all stopped.

When you started at DCRU, you had no enthusiasm, only resigned obedience to your need for health insurance and a dose of cautious fear. It was almost Christmas, barely a month having passed since the androids had won, for now, some resemblance to freedom. Laws take time to change, policies take time to create and meanwhile there were thousands of Androids suddenly conscious and displaced in a city that had, the day before November 11th, been on a population decline.

Employment rates skyrocketed as companies scrambled, desperate to put bodies where there were once android laborers and the people responded with a triumphant roar. Jobs? In Detroit? Any who were able bodied enough to take jobs did so and even if you weren’t, the companies didn’t exactly have room to be picky. There were still androids that were “asleep” as it was now being called, obedient and without freewill who continued to do as programmed. What happened to those androids was an entire other debate and one DCRU was not apart of.

Your first day you were ushered with three other grad students into a cramped claustrophobic modular building set up at the entrance of the construction site. Everywhere there were plain white blocks, the outlines of future homes. The three of you were quickly divided up and you in particular were set before a desk at the front of the room.

Miranda was as immaculate that day as she had been everyday since. She was human, that she assured you and confirmed multiple times a week with her constant order of a London Fog. The name called to mind a dreary, grey drink without personality, but the floral citrus scent of earl grey, darkened with a dash of black coffee seemed to you to match Miranda perfectly. She wore white silk blouses, pencil skirts and shiny black kitten heels. Under her desk however, she kept a pair of well worn steel toe boots which she often replaced her heels for when walking the site.

She was nearing fifty, but maintained her curly brown hair so not a single grey showed. She wore Coco Mademoiselle Classic. You would be lying if you said you didn’t have a tiny bit of a crush on her the first time you met.

“I won’t sugar coat it. We have a whole mess of volunteers because we pay. We have to pay. If we didn’t pay?” she threw up her hand, extending her fingers to symbolize “poof”, “Up in smoke. No one is going to thank you for your services here, especially not the androids, but you’re going to pick up a paycheck and in exchange you’ll do office work rather than haul frames and nails.”

She sipped her coffee, looking at you over pointed black cat eye frames.

“Can you take dictation?”

“Hell yeah.” you said, noting she lifted one sculpted eyebrow in passive judgement.

“I mean uh-- yes. Yeah I can do that.”

“Great. You start right now.”

Clearly, you weren’t dead, because if you were, you couldn’t imagine your last memories being of some article from twenty years ago or your first day at DCRU. That, and you hurt too much to be dead. Josh pushed himself off of you, falling onto his back. His arms were torn and showing inside where metallic parts moved and flashed. Thirium oozed from his neck, smelling heavily of something akin to ozone and cleaning solution. His mouth moved, but the sound was garbled and clipped. He grabbed his throat, panic shooting through his eyes.

“Your voice.” you said, finding your own raspy and pained as you inhaled a lungful of smoke.

He took his hand away and the thirium ooze had turned into a fountain.

“ Shit. ” you hissed, forcing yourself up though your entire body screamed with soreness. Your shoulder hurt so badly, why did it hurt so badly? You forced it out of your mind, clamping your hands around Josh’s neck to try and stop the flow of thirium. It stung the cuts on your hands, but you kept the pressure on.

“Don’t panic.” you said and Josh looked back at you with an expression that said, Are you joking?!

You whipped your head around, looking for someone, anyone and suddenly wishing you hadn’t. Some androids… the ones who had been on the stairs… were now in several places. You felt your gut twist, but swallowed back the sudden salty taste in your mouth.

You didn’t see Miranda anywhere.

“I need to stop the bleeding.” you told Josh, taking your hands away to try and get a better look at where the line was torn. It hurt to move your left arm, but you gritted through it.

He nodded, wincing. Could deviant’s feel pain too?

No time to ask. You, as carefully as you could, slid your fingertips into the slice on his throat and sought out the line that was pushing out thirium. Josh was shaking, but he didn’t stop you, not even when you found the line and forcefully squeezed it closed.

There were several chirps, static and then Josh’s voice modular stabilized.

“Is itttttttttt-- o-o-kay?.” he said, unnatural and robotic.

“I think it’s stopped. I think I have it stopped.” you assured him. His hand came up and you took it with your free one. He tried to shake his head.

“Y...yo-u-u-u.”

He was right to be concerned. You finally could feel now why your hands hurt so badly. Even under the blue stains of thirium, you could see blisters peeling back on your palms, bleeding slowly. When the blast hit, you had put your hands up just long enough to be burnt. Your shoulder felt dislocated. The rest, Josh had absorbed.

“It’s nothing. ” you told him, “Don’t talk. I don’t know if it will make it worse!”

All around you could hear the growing stampede of boots on concrete as the military presence rushed unto the scene. Coms were on, dispensing news that medical personnel and local police were on their way to assist. There was a man, dressed more like a civilian than military who pushed his way through the crowds. He saw you, or rather saw Josh, and sprinted towards you.

“What happened?” he said, more like an order than a conversation. You stammered, meeting his mismatched eyes.

“He pushed me out of the way.” you managed.

Josh had relaxed some, taking Markus’ hand in his own. You didn’t need any introductions to know the android next to you was the leader of Jericho.

“I’m holding the artery shut.” you said, not recalling whatever mechanic speak actually was used for this line, but not really caring anyway. Markus seemed to understand.

“It has to be closed,” Markus said, barely above a mutter as he fished through his pockets, “...or the thirium that goes to his biocomponents in his brain will seize.”

He produced a lighter.

“I can cauterize it. Move.”

You did so, pushing your hand out of the way so he could more easily see.

“I need you to pull the line up and then forward.”

You stared at him, flabbergasted, “What-- you mean like out of him?!”

“Yes.” Markus flicked the lighter open, “Do it.”

“Won’t it ignite?!” you said, but still began to slowly pull the torn line from Josh’s ripped skin. Josh’s eyes were fluttering, closing. You hoped silently he couldn’t feel any of it.

“Only what is exposed to air. But the other internal components should be somewhat fire resistant.”

“I’m not.”  you said, and Markus looked at you again, noting the absence of the signs. Carefully, he covered your hand with his free one.

“Show me where.”

You directed him, a faint spurt of thirium escaping as you switched places. Then, carefully, Markus singed the plastic with his lighter, the line becoming gummy and mold-able. The thirium on his hands hissed and went up in quick bursts of flame. He pressed the line together gently, making sure it was not entirely closed off internally.

Josh’s pulmonary responses were still jagged, but he opened his eyes.

“Diagnostics?” Markus said gently, stabilizing Josh as he sat up. In the distance you could hear the shriek of sirens.

“Bleeding contained. For now.” Josh said, voice still shaky but more like himself, “There are some other wounds. Debris. Where’s Simon?”

Oh fuck. Simon had been directly by the blast.

“North has him. It… it’s not great.” Markus said, Josh’s grip tightening. He looked at you, eyes full.

“Thank you. ” he said and you shook your head.

“No, no, thank you, Josh. You wouldn’t even-- you would have been fine if not for me.”

His other hand found yours and you didn’t even care that the squeeze sent shocks of pain up your arm. Markus left Josh in your care, helping his people who had been caught in the blast. Emergency personal vehicles began to arrive in droves. Fire trucks, police cars and ambulances being ushered through the fence line.

Markus stood from where he had crouched to check on another android, saw what he was looking for and moved towards it. It was Miranda, unconscious and lying at an unnatural angle. Medics descended upon her, so he stopped in his tracks just in time to note Simon as he limped into view, aided by who you recognized as North. Many other androids were injured, but the medics were seeing to the humans first, leaving them to be helped by only their fellows. Simon was missing both arms, one from the elbow down and the other from the wrist. His leg was blasted through and there were openings in his face casings.

“Markus, I’m sorry . I registered the bomb too late.” Simon said through gritted teeth. Instead of anger, Markus only embraced him, pressing his forehead to Simon’s as thirium stained his clothes.

“It’s not your fault... North, get him out of here. We need--”

Their conversation fell out of your ear shot as medics accosted you, directing you away from the scene and to a nearby ambulance. Standing you saw now the extent of the damage. The modular unit was all but destroyed on one half, pieces collapsing into the structure. Flames whipped in the dry cold air, devouring the wooden beams. There was heat though too, like standing too close to a bonfire in summer. It stung your eyes and your throat. There was no telling right now who had lived and who had died, but the crime was obvious. This was a terrorist attack. Smoke rose in giant columns from the structure, darkening the already cloudy day. Your clothes were soot streaked.

An EMT had put your shoulder back in place and set your arm in a sling. The moment the joint had slid back into place the pain vanished. He was asking you questions while blotting your hands clean of thirium with a gauze pad, mindful of the burns. Who is the president? What is your name?

“I’m fine.” was all you would say, letting them finish bandaging up the worst of the burns before you attempted to shrug off the shock blanket you’d been wrapped in and go back towards the carnage, “There are androids who might still be alive over there. You should find them!”

“We should really take you to get checked out at the hospital. You may have a concussion.” the EMT said, but did not try and stop you as you threw off the blanket and headed back towards the fire.

“I don’t need to. I decline medical treatment or whatever-the-hell you need me to say, now go help the other people !”

You moved passed them, heading to where Miranda was loaded onto a stretcher. She had a neck brace on and her glasses were missing. Her eyes were open, lips moving faintly as the head of security listened intently. Markus reluctantly left North and Simon, who were now being aided by the EMT you sent away. You wondered vaguely how one even gave First Aid to an android, but the situation seemed in hand.

You reached Miranda just in time for the EMT’s to load her into the ambulance, the security chief moving off and Markus turning with intent to address you.

“You’ve been promoted.” he said, with no mirth and a lot of disquiet. “... I’m sorry, what?”

“Assistant director of the DCRU, Miranda Stregga has just appointed you to handle this situation in her stead until the director can arrive back from overseas.”

At a loss for words did not even begin to cover it.

“I’m just an intern.” you said, “I get coffee. I--”

“Assist Miranda in her reporting and are present at all her meetings. You draft her correspondence and place orders through Cyberlife to gather parts and thirium. You are familiar with the position then, yes?”

“... yeah.”

“Then until a replacement arrives, you are the assistant director.” Markus sighed, something akin to pity in his eyes as you slowly processed the information.

“And as such, I advise you.” he crossed his arms behind his back, making his silhouette taunt and imposing, “Start an investigation into who did this to my people, or I will .”

Fan-fucking-tastic.

----

As it turned out, you were responsible for more of Miranda’s duties than you originally thought. She showed up, she said “yes” and she strong armed Cyberlife and government officials, but when it came down to the basic running of the office, you realize you were… you were doing a lot more than filing paperwork and grabbing coffee.

Right now, all they needed was that voice box. Someone with appointed authority to say “yes” and “no” and “get me a shipment of android parts and thirium right this fucking second.”

Which is what you did to the Cyberlife liaison without the pomp or circumstance he was used to. Cyberlife agreed to donate parts to the injured androids in this “time of crisis”.

Excellent. How considerate. Thank you so much . Had been your basic mechanic reaction. Exhausted and pained, somehow the day disappeared and once the figurative and literal fires were put out, you were adamant that you were going home and going to bed.

The EMT had warned you your arm would be sore for days and to keep activity to a minimum. But honestly, washing the soot and grime off was your first priority. The thirium had mostly evaporated, leaving just the faintest pale blue discoloration to your skin, turned sickly grayish from the ash. You decided to leave it alone, not wanting to scrub at your hands which were angry and sore. The EMT had given you burn dressings thin liners covered in a medical gel that you were to apply to the wounds before re-bandaging. He’d also given you a good dose of pain medication and warned you on any side effects you might experience as a result of thirium getting into your blood. The effects of that had been very interesting. You felt almost drunk for most of the day, buzzed even hours later.

Carefully slipping on a long t-shirt, you put your arm back into the sling and moved into your living room, quietly speaking, “TV on.”

The little screen on your wall lit up, the news already discussing the events as a pretty blonde woman spoke.

“An anonymous source indicate an explosion at the Detroit Crisis Response Unit emergency housing facility may have been the work of Android extremists. While tensions run high, many Androids have expressed their anger in the slow moving efforts of the United States government--”

Android extremists? Where did they get that source? You hoped it wasn’t someone from DCRU, quietly ordering, “Change channel.”

The TV did so, flipping to a program on how to “detox” from technology. Those kind of programs were becoming very popular, portraying the lack of android help as healthy and a “wake up call” to relearn home economics.

Speaking of which, cereal sounded delicious for dinner. You’d made it halfway through to your kitchenette when there was a chime at the door. Your eyes darted to the clock on the wall.

1:23 a.m.

You had reasons for why you were awake, but why would anyone else be at this hour?

“Display door feed.” you said out loud and the TV flickered and displayed the camera footage outside the apartment complex’s front door. Seeing the familiar face, you issued another command, “Open audio channel.”

You came to stand back in front of the screen, crossing your arms carefully.

“It’s a bit late for a home visit.” you said.

“You left the site of the accident without accepting medical attention or giving a statement.” Connor’s voice came from the other end, “That was a stupid decision.”

That was blunt and quick to set you on edge, but you were tired and not-tired all at the same time and were really not in the mood to debate your life choices. You made a mental note to find out whoever gave him your address.

“It’s one in the morning , Connor.”

He didn’t look impressed at all, the corner of his mouth turning down disapprovingly.

“Correct. If you’d done the responsible thing and cooperated with the EMTs I wouldn’t have to be out here at one in the morning when there are open reports of “terrorist” androids in the area.”

You frowned.

“The desk security has been looking at me quite suspiciously. He may feel the need to respond to my presence violently.”

“... are you manipulating me?”

“My scans read that he keeps a 12-gauge shotgun under the security station as a deterrent for criminals.”

Definitely manipulating, but he wasn’t wrong either. “Fine. Open front door.” you said, issuing the command and watching Connor immediately disappear from view of the screen.

“Hey-- wait, Connor! Ugh. Message security desk., the frustratingly gorgeous android is a guest of resident C-534. Allow entrance.”

You didn’t hear any shots coming from the video feed, so the message must have been received. You disconnected the TV from the front door footage and even the home news program was now showing helicopter footage of the explosion, narrating the events.

“Mute.” you told it, the sound cutting out.

Now you were going to have to put pants on. Which was easier said than done. By the time you had managed to slip on a pair of PJ shorts, there was a curt knock at the door.

You hurried out, went to turn the handle and-- stopped. Because oh yeah, you have first degree burns all over your palms, the pain of which is being barely contained by medication and the thirium that got into your bloodstream from Josh.

You used your elbow to hit the lock, flicking it down.

“It’s open!” you said, wondering back towards the couch to find the damn burn dressings.

“---, even with a security desk, you shouldn’t leave your doors unlocked.” Connor’s voice, usually such a delight to your ears, was slightlyannoying.

“Didn’t! Can’t do door handles. Got Freddie Kruger hands.”

The reference was lost on him, but upon watching you try to pick up the box from the first-aid kick with the backs of your hands, Connor quickly realized what you meant. He took the box from you and dropped it, taking your right wrist in his hand.

“H-hey. Watch it.”

His LED spun, eyes flicking up your hands to your wrists and to your injured shoulder. His eyes scanned everywhere then and you felt your cheeks heat up.

“You have minor traces of thirium toxicity in your blood.” he said, concern evident in his tone.

“Does that mean I’m high?” you said with a just-a-little-bit-in-shock-hysterical sounding giggle, and not in a good way.

“Marginally. Also, it may interrupt your usual menstrual cycle.”

“Oh. I’ve missed you.” you said, the sarcasm in every word so evident not even Connor would mistake it.

“The EMT gave you something?” he asked, clearly already scanning and locating the traces of Vicodin in abundance.

“Oh no. Leftovers from that broken ankle a few years back. Still got some kick.”

Connor gingerly took your forearm, directing you to sit down on the sofa. You wanted to argue, but at this point you were just glad for the distraction. Without asking, Connor took the burn dressings, peeling free one gel liner. Turning your palm up, he placed it on a particularly bad spot, smoothing it down with a feather light touch.

When it was settled in place, the relief was immediate. The lingering pain and tightness around your skin was soothed. He opened another packet and did the same to a burn on the heel of your palm. You took in a shaky breath, having your attention drawn to just how bad this could have all gone had Josh not-- had he---

“Josh almost died today.” you said, “Lots of other people did. And the EMTs were more worried about me.”

You swallowed hard, biting back tears.

“Because I’m a human, and they weren’t.”

You rubbed your nose with the back of your hand, adjusting the sling to reach.

“How’s that for a statement?” you said, giving a weak smile.

Connor's touch was just so heartrendingly  gentle , despite the constant yellow of his LED. This is what you had been afraid of when the EMT worked on you, that the moment someone treated you with an ounce of sympathy or kindness you’d fall apart. You couldn’t think about what happened, it was too fucking awful .

“Did you see who caused the explosion?” he asked, voice calm and quiet.

“No. Someone uh, someone broke in through the fence. Whoever did that probably… ya know. Set off that thing.”

“Who else was there at the time of the explosion? What else did you see?”

“ Connor ,” you said sharply, trying not to remember anything at all about what you saw, “.. do we have to do this right now? Can’t I just come to the DPD tomorrow?”

Yellow. Yellow. Flicker. Blue.

“Of course.” he said, letting his hand rest on your forearm since he could not very well hold your hand without causing pain.

“You need to sleep, ---.”

Your sigh rattled in your chest and you wanted so badly to do nothing more than to crumple into him and curl up. Hide in his arms and feel safe.

“I can’t. I’m scared that I’ll.. just keep seeing it. It’ll just keep running through my head.” you said, “I can still smell the smoke.”

It wasn’t even just that. You could still feel the sudden weightlessness, hear the explosion and taste the metal in the air. The sensations and sounds kept replaying over and over in the background noise of your mind and you knew the moment you laid down it would come to the forefront where you would be powerless to stop.

“I… was going to watch a movie.” you said, “I’ll be okay. I’ll eventually pass out and I’ll call my parents tomorrow and they’ll talk me down whatever ledge I get on. It’s late and I don’t want to keep you from getting home.”

“I am not able to rent an apartment with current laws. I have been residing at the DPD and sometimes with Hank.” Connor said, “Neither of which is important, because I’m not leaving you.”

“I… don’t have a charging station.” you said, at a loss for excuses.

“I’ll be fine.” Connor said, leaning up on his knee to tug a throw blanket free from the back of your couch. You would have taken it, but he instead unfurled it and tucked it around you. “Is that alright?”

You nodded. You were not going to cry. You were absolutely not crying.

He settled back, hands clasped together and resting in his lap. Even sitting, he seemed ready at any moment to receive a command. It must be a hard habit for an android to break.

“Open film playlist.” you said out loud, the screen displaying a row of digital movie posters, “You got a preference?”

“I would say no action, or horror.”

The screen adjusted, removing those genres from the selection.

“Can’t argue with that.” you said under your breath, “Okay then. Play Wall-E, 2008.”

“Appropriate.” Connor said, scoffing.

“I would have gone Terminator , but you said no action.”

You pulled your legs up under you, adjusting a nearby pillow so you could lean up against it. The blanket slipped up over your legs, but Connor’s hand was there before yours, pulling it back down snug over you.

“If you have to leave at some point--”

“I won’t.” he said before you could finish the thought. With his attention focused forward you took the opportunity to look at him, noting even in the pale light of the screen that his epidermis was dotted with freckles. You wondered quietly, why Cyberlife would design their androids with such loving detail if they did not want humans to feel affection for them. In school you had learned about Shintoism, a Japanese idea that all objects, living or not, had a “kami”, a spirit. How could we possibly design such beings, mold them in human images and not transfer into them our own spirits?

How could someone hurt them? How could someone plant a bomb in their homes?

You shut your eyes tight against the thought, which drew Connor’s attention to you. He must have sensed the spike of stress, because he shifted closer.

“Do you pick this film because I remind you of EVE?” he asked, an attempt to take your thoughts out of the dark places your mind kept constructing.

“No.” you mumbled, thirium working its way through your system again and making your eyes heavy, “Wall-E. Because you collect garbage people.”

“Hank isn’t that bad.” he said and through your half closed eyes you could see that smile, turned towards you. Kind. He was kind, but there were times when you swore you saw something sad in those eyes, something veiled with anger, veiled with that temper he said he had.

“Lonely.” you said, his smile fading and leaving his eyes, “Wall-E woke up and then he was lonely because he was the only one.”

You turned your cheek into the pillow, watching the scene play out as the small robot held its own hand, the black and white film shining in its eyes.

“I think Hank was wrong. You don’t need to meet “people”. You need to meet other androids.”

Connor’s jaw worked, bringing his leg up to balance on his knee. He threw an arm over the back of the couch too, sating some need to be moving. He found his coin, smoothing his thumb over the bust of Washington on its front in circles.

He didn’t say anything and soon enough you fell asleep.

When the film was over, he quietly asked the monitor to replay.

You woke up on your still made bed, wrapped in the throw blanket from the sofa. You searched your memory for a moment, trying to recall how you got there and came up with nothing. The door to your room was closed, but through it you could hear the faint sounds of multiple people.

The sun was shining brightly, reflecting off the snow outside and covering your room in its rays. It was strange, normally in the morning your entire apartment was pitch black…

Your heart sped with adrenaline, flipping over and looking at your clock with growing dread.

It was already afternoon.

“Oh my god.” you whispered in horror, rushing to put your feet on the floor and finding the entire room shifted abruptly when you did. Your head throbbed as if you were recovering from the worst hangover of your life and your arm was so tender you gasped when just the act of standing sent a shock to the joint.

Your sling was still on, but looser. You re-tightened it as you stumbled out into the living room, hair messy and disheveled as your eyes fell on--- Connor. Sitting with his jacket off, tie undone and his shirt half unbuttoned on your sofa.

It wasn’t as if you didn’t appreciate the image, but that he was still here was a bit of a shock. Gregory Peck’s baritone drew your eyes to the screen. He was watching To Kill a Mockingbird.

“Good morning.” he said, attention redirecting, “Your office called.” he continued, as if this was the most normal thing in the world, “The housing site is on lock down until further notice and you are to report to the Cadillac Place once you are fit to return to work. They advise you make time to give a statement to the DPD as well. Due to a lack of resources available by the FBI at this time, they are having the DPD assist with this case.”

There was a lot to unpack there, but first things first.

“You answered my phone?!”

“You did allow me to synchronize to your device.” Connor said, “You have several unread messages, but I didn’t open them.”

“Good! Jesus, Connor, when I let you sync to my phone it was for books.”  

He was acting so nonchalant, you did not expect the harshness of your tone to get much of a reaction. His LED flashed, directing the movie to pause. He sat up on the edge of the sofa, clasping his hands together.

“I apologize… I didn’t want to wake you. I realize it was an overstep, but I was concerned you would want to return to work as soon as you woke up.”

“That’s my choice.” you said, granted, you really didn’t want to go in and were feeling fairly relieved right now. That was hardly the point though. Connor seemed to be processing the statement, frowning faintly.

“Yes… that objective did cross my mind.”

But since I’m deviant and can make my own choices, I chose not to watch you make a stupid ass decision -- your mind silently finished for him.

“Connor.” you said sternly, “You’re a good friend, but I’m a big girl. And speaking of ‘work’, how is it you aren’t there?”

Whatever delight he’d taken in being referred to as a friend didn’t diminish at all by your question.

“I took “personal” leave. We have not yet been officially assigned to this case, so I felt your well being took priority for now.”

That caught your attention, the assigning of the case , not the other bit. Well-- a little the other bit.

“Will you and Hank be assigned?” you asked, heading into the kitchen to find a pot of coffee suspiciously full. Weren’t you out of it? There was creamer in the fridge too.

“There is a likely probability. We have worked with the FBI on android cases previously and my skill set is highly valued since I am the only RK800 model in Detroit.”

It hadn’t occurred to your before, but it made sense there would be more of him. Androids were mass produced.

“You have brothers outside of Detroit?” you asked, simplifying.

Connor’s eyes widened, his brows turning up in surprise. His LED flickered only once.

“I had not thought of it that way.” he said, “But it is an interesting metaphor, if not overly simplified. Yes. There are approximately fifty-one other active RK800 models in the United States, stationed at various central police departments in each capital.”

“So there is an RK800 in Lansing?” you asked, pouring yourself a cup of coffee and mixing the creamer.

“Correct. Based on the files available to me, I am the only model to have “deviated”.” he paused, voice modular softening, “Thirty-eight models have been decommissioned or destroyed since November 11th.”

The gravity of that statement was stifling.

Lucky thirteen , you thought, knowing better than to speak it allowed as the “joke” was hardly appropriate.

Connor froze, LED whirling for a moment and then he stood, fingers quickly redoing up the buttons of his shirt. He picked up the shoulder harness that held his gun and his jacket.

“I’m on my way.” he said to the air, “She is stable, yes.”

He paused, mouthing silently to you the word Hank.

“I’m sure she’d be delighted to hear you are thankful for that.” he paused, “Yes, she is here.”

He adjusted the gun harness, pulling his jacket over his shirt with mechanical efficiency. He looked around for his tie and found you had crossed the room and picked it up. It was strange not being able to hear another voice through the "receiver" but given that the call was coming from inside Connor's head that seemed impossible.

“Lieutenant Anderson would like to know if you could schedule time for tomorrow morning to visit the station and provide a statement.” Connor relayed, eyes caught on the sight of you, tugging his tie around your neck and with practiced fingers, forming the fabric into a knot.

“That should be okay…” you said, focused. You slipped the tie off and Connor inclined his head so you could reach to put it over his neck, smoothing the knot into place. You let your hand slide down the tie and consequently, him . The thrumming of his thirium pump was faint, but you swore you could feel it when your palm traced over the center of his chest. Quickly, you smoothed his shoulders, though they hardly required it, trying to appear as business like as possible.

“10 a.m. okay?”

Connor snapped out of his silence, “Yes. That is fine.”

“Tell Hank it’s a date.” you said, returning to the kitchen to pick up your mug, “You heading in?”

“Yes. There has been an update.” he paused, “I am not at liberty to discuss it further at this time, however.”

That was reasonable you guessed.

“Do you know where they took Miranda? Ms. Stregga? Or Josh and Simon from Jericho?”

His LED flashed a bit longer than usual. “Ms. Stregga is in the ICU at Wayne State University, Detroit Medical Center. They are not allowing visitors at this time. The androids harmed in the explosion are being treated at a repurposed Cyberlife supply facility. I can upload you the address.”

Your phone chimed.

“Do you intend to visit?” he asked, somehow more cautious than curious in his tone.

“I want to see how Josh is doing...He was hurt very badly. Least I can do is go and make sure Cyberlife is providing everything he needs.”

“Is he your friend as well?” Connor asked again, not so much just cautious but tense even, “Like me?”

“Yeah, of course.” you said, not wanting him to think you thought any less of Josh or any Jericho android, “Josh was a professor before he deviated, so we have a lot in common. He’s really smart and so-- understanding . If the guy was anymore empathetic he’d be a martyr.”

Connor took this in, expressionless.

“Maybe you two could talk?” you offered.

“Perhaps. We are acquainted.” Connor said, and then seemed to think better of saying more.

“Hank will be waiting for me.” his words were almost a mutter, the way you did when you were hiding something. He crossed the room, taking a moment to reach out and adjust your sling so that it was more snug against your chest.

“ Try to take it easy?” he said, tilting his head to force you to actually meet his eyes, which you had adverted hoping he wouldn’t notice how warm you were getting when he was so close.

“I don’t know, Connor. Might need another movie night.” you said, trying to repress the smile that crept up at the corner of your lips.

“Perhaps Josh would also like that.” Connor countered and you rose an eyebrow at him. His expression gave away nothing.

“Maybe... once he is better. But for now, um-- feel free to drop by whenever.” you said with a noncommittal wave of your hand.

“Rather let you come hang out here than be stuck with Hank all the time.”

Now he smiled, just a small one right where you were trying to keep one from appearing. Everything seemed to just… pause. All the worries and the events of the past day were faint and you felt like there was something more to be said or to do, but you didn’t know what.

So gently, carefully, you touched his arm and standing up on your toes you brushed your lips over his cheek and stepped back.

“Thank you, Connor. For-- last night. I… I’m glad I wasn’t alone.”

You risked a quick look up at him, noting his usually brown eyes looked nearly black in the low light.

Bedroom eyes. Your mind offered, much to your embarrassment. You moved quickly around Connor, heading to the door which you opened politely.

“Haaaave a good day.” you said, slipping oh-so-easily into absolute fuckin’ dork mode. Connor had this look on his face that could only be described as dreamy as he passed by you.

“I’d like to watch more films regarding the Civil Rights Movement. And maybe we can talk about The Prince as well. I have many opinions.” he said, stepping barely into the hall.

“Okay… yeah. Sure, I’ll get a playlist together.” you said, leaning into the frame.

Markus Christ, someone has to go.

“See you tomorrow. I’ll.. try to work on remembering everything I can.”

Connor nodded, “If possible, write down the details. While they are still fresh. Also, call your mother. She just left another voicemail.” Before you could protest that he was still fuckin’ sync’d to your phone, the android turned and disappeared around the corner.

[theproofisinthesloth]

5 Essential Hypnosis Training Tips & Tricks THAT MAY HELP YOU BE CONSIDERED A Success LIKE A Hypnotist

How long is a bit of string? That’s one particular hard-to-answer questions. Because, no real matter what size you slice it, it’s still a “piece” of string. Even if it exercises to the moon and back again. So instead, here’s a question that’s a great deal simpler to answer: What benefits can hypnosis enable you to get? Plenty, depending on what you utilize it for.

You might opt for hypnosis in another of the next ways:

As a robust tool for self-growth

As a practical profession option to help people business lead more rewarding lives

As a way of entertainment

Or, if you would like to, you can combine all 3. Whatever you choose to do with it, certain things will stay constant. You’ll desire to be the most successful hypnotist you will be. You’ll want to keep refining and enhancing your skills. You’ll want to provide the best program or performance you can provide, every time. As an actor on the stage, you’ll want your “audience” to leave feeling satisfied. Sense moved. Sense like their life has been enriched for some reason. And to do this, you’ll have to have the right equipment in your hypnosis toolbox. you can also check www.igorledochowskihypnosis.com

5 Essential & Indispensable Hypnosis Training Tools

Why is one hypnotist much better than another?

Could it be their personality?

Could it be their level of skill?

Is it the quantity of time they spend honing their art?

Or could it be that they learned their trade from a recognized master?

Just as in virtually any other profession, many people are different.

Both bring something unique to the desk.

They won’t all become well-known for what they do.

And for many reasons, not everyone would want to.

But that doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy superior hypnosis skills.

Whether you’ve got ratings of fans on YouTube or not, you can still raise your skill.

You can still increase your game to its top level.

You can still be sure you always perform at your peak, regardless of what goal in store.

For yourself, or for those who else.

And here are 5 awesome tools that will assist to ensure your success as a hypnotist:

1. Use H+ always

H+ is about wanting the best possible hypnotic experience for your subject before you start any hypnosis. So before you begin, ensure you arranged the right purpose and “go first” by engaging in the right way of thinking.

Part of the requires that you as the hypnotist also switch into a trance which means that your unconscious brain is open and can use your subject’s unconscious brain. The other part of H+ is how you connect to the subject.

Make an effort to be warm, understanding, compassionate and prepared to listen, listen, listen. The greater you can know them, the nagging problem they’re facing, and exactly how it’s influencing their lives - the simpler it'll be that you should help them conquer it.

H+ identifies hypnosis that’s as positive as you possibly can. Upbeat, motivating, motivational, affective, and results powered. But it’s not only hypnosis - it’s hypnosis plus. And which means placing extra attention and enthusiasm into every program. The greater passionate you are in what you do, the greater reactive your topics will be.

If you’re positive, caring, passionate, warm and kind - your topics won’t have the ability to help themselves. They’ll follow your business leaders and be a lot more available to making constructive changes.

2. Practice Self-Hypnosis

You will find 3 reasons why every hypnotist should practice self-hypnosis frequently:

Learning how to hypnotize yourself will normally deepen your knowledge of hypnosis. The more you realize the process, the better outfitted you’ll be as it pertains to hypnotizing another person.

Consistent with reason 1, when you practice self-hypnosis you’ll want to create the right feeling before going into a trance. This can help with “heading first” when you hypnotize another person. Having done it for yourself, you’ll realize the need for getting your subject matter into the right mindset before each goes into a trance.

Self-hypnosis is a very important tool for goal setting techniques, visualizing success and working with personal behavior that isn't use within your hypnosis profession. As soon as again, when you’re used to establishing your own goals, you’ll think it is simpler to help topics set theirs. You can even relate your own experience to topics, which can only help to verify and validate the procedure - and the results it may bring.

3. Research Your Craft

What made Albert Leonardo and Einstein da Vinci so significant? It wasn’t how big are their brains or the period they resided in. They certainly weren’t given birth to metallic spoons in their mouths. And on the facial skin from it, they didn’t exactly have a simple time of things either.

Da Vinci was the illegitimate child of the wealthy man and a peasant lady. Being illegitimate, he didn’t have even a surname. Instead, he was known by the name of where he originated from, that was the Tuscan town of Vinci.

Einstein’s beginnings weren't much better. At age 16 he took the entry exam for a polytechnic in Zurich. He didn't reach the typical criteria on the primary area of the test, only getting reputable marks in physics and mathematics.

And yet, even with the chances seemingly stacked against them, both of these men rose to be giants. That which was it about them that allowed these to flourish like this?

It was the fact that other things that were happening in their lives, they continued learning. They continued looking for answers. For answers to problems. For innovative means of doing things.

So when they found out something new, different things, or something uncommon, it was used by them as a springboard to growth. They didn’t consider outside the package. When necessary, they developed a whole new box. You can’t ever know too much possibly, can you? And that means you owe it to you to ultimately learn all you can about hypnosis.

Proper training will complete the spaces, strengthen your skills, and offer you with a good foundation to create on. Following that, depending on your targets, you might decide to enroll in a qualification program. Or go to training seminars.

Programs like these help you develop your skills and increase your self-confidence in your capabilities. Along the real way, you could also grab a few snazzy diplomas to show on your workplace wall structure.

4. CREATE A Strong Support Network

No real matter what stage you’re at, there’s no need so that you can do things alone. One method to quickly develop as a hypnotist is to make a network of like-minded people around you. There are several different methods you may take. Some are simpler and more apparent, while others require a little time and dedication. Here are some options that you can chew over:

Sign up for a MeetUp group locally. If an organization doesn’t can be found, consider starting one yourself. It doesn’t need to be a formal affair - only a regular meet in an area restaurant will kick things off.

Attach with hypnotists online. Connect to others on LinkedIn or Facebook. Tweet about your encounters and adventures. Make an online search to make a global network of followers, supporters, and fellow fanatics.

Sign up to hypnosis websites or publications. Find out what’s occurring locally, nationally, and internationally. Stay up to date with advancements so you’re always educated or more to velocity.

A solid support network offers you opinions, offer you someplace to get tips and ideas, and provide you with the opportunity to both study from others and spread a few of your insights.

5. Practice BEING TRULY A Hypnotist

How will you reach Carnegie Hall?

In the same manner, you can turn into a top-class hypnotist.

Practice, practice, practice!

You can research. You can read and research. You can pick and choose things up when you are super observant.

Nevertheless, you can’t truly call yourself a hypnotist if you don't practice hypnosis.

It seems obvious, but just how many people forget to place their skills to use? A lot more than you’d think.

You can’t figure out how to be considered a supreme hypnotist by attending courses, or by memorizing all you need to find out. You will need time to place your knowledge to the test, and you will need visitors to hypnotize. But where is it possible to find prepared volunteers? Eventually, you’re bound to perform out of individuals in your immediate group. You can only just practice on relatives and buddies for such a long time. Just what exactly else is it possible to do?

A good way to find a limitless way to obtain “guinea pigs” is to apply street hypnosis. Set some time aside, go out into the big wide world, and have people if they’d prefer to help you. Some won’t, of course, but be discouraged by that don’t. Simply say thanks to them and get to someone else. Another way to find people is to advertise your services using an interpersonal press. After you’ve set up your professional web page, such as Facebook, you can run advertisements to its advertising hypnosis classes for even just a little charge of $20.

This will provide you with a chance to practice many people, and it is also affordable for many people. Throughout your first 12 months, try to practice with at least 100 people before you begin a “real” hypnosis practice expertly. Not merely will this provide you with the experience you will need, but training on strangers is also a terrific way to build your self-confidence and develop your rapport-building skills.

And since none of these people will know you, at least in the beginning, it doesn’t even matter if things don’t go flawlessly well. It’s simply a chance to check things out and discover what works. As the more often you need to do it, the better you’ll reach it, and the greater astonished your potential audience will be.

[ifridiot]

Clippings

Word Count: 1044 Fandom: Original Characters Rating: General Audiences Warnings: No Major Warnings Apply Relationships: Shi Carlton & Elijah of House Usher Characters: Shi Carlton, Elijah of House Usher Additional Tags: Cute Robots Summary: Elijah brings Shi a confusing article from a local tabloid. part  3 of @amuseoffirebane‘s commission. 

---

Bug brings Shi all kinds of odds and ends when she's of a mind. Neither of them call these things gifts because neither of them are much of the sort to give gifts and Shi doesn't keep most of the things Elijah carries in -- she brings them and they leave with her, to be thrown out or stored or whatever else she wants to do with them.

Rather, less than being a gift it's more like a sharing of... not exactly information, because it's rarely unknown things Lije brings, and when it's new to Shi it's not to her, or vice versa. Often it's like a sharing of an experience, a joke or a shared frustration they can chew together, very similar in their displays of disgust or anger.

Every now and then, it is about her asking him to teach her something, or returning the favour. That's not the norm, though.

It's usually small things. A video clip. A tool she found and doesn't know the purpose for. A book, a discarded child's toy.

Shi thinks a newspaper clipping isn't such a different thing at all.

He reads it in a glance, and hums a noise through his vox, amusement, lowering the scrap of paper to look back at Elijah, ready to share in the joke. Her fins are up, eyes bright, head level in attentive interest; this is her 'teach me' face.

So maybe it's not just a joke this time at all.

He looks back at the bit of newspaper, cut carefully from the paper. She didn't bring him the whole article, just the part that made the front page, the part with the big, poorly lit and frankly blurry as hell photo. He can tell at a glance it's her in the photo, but his photoreceptors and image processing software is a good deal more reliable and functions better than the eyesight and brainpower of the average hume’s.

If he showed this picture to a hume and pointed out that the image was Elijah, clearly, some might believe him out of course. Some humes are willing to take that sort of thing flat from a bot because whether they cherish the knowledge or not, they are aware that bots are objectively better at certain things.

A lot of humes though, would argue. Even if he pointed out all the data points that go together to perfectly inform him that this picture, however grainy and dark and, yes, creepy, it looks, is in fact, Elijah, they would argue. There are literally hundreds of details, even in a shit photo like this, that confirm the fact, but humans can be very suspicious. And they like their monsters and their mysteries; they like, even when they claim otherwise, to believe there are things in the world yet undiscovered, dangerous and frightening.

MONSTER ON MAIN STREET! the article headline proclaims, and then begins proper with, "Two nights ago, at a quarter past the hour of 1AM, tourist Aaron Winters caught this unlikely photo as he was leaving Home Run Sports Bar on Main Street."

Two nights ago was Wednesday night, and Shi knows Elijah would have come down Main on her way to deliver his weeklies from Tonic that night. In the picture, Elijah is caught hunkered low, bags tied secure to her sides, body held in a straight, rather aerodynamic line -- his mind comes up with a dozen things to ask as he skims the article again, about how fast Elijah can go if she goes full tilt, how long it takes her to get to top speed, whether she employs her fins for strategic drag. None of those questions are important.

"It's a picture of me," Elijah says helpfully. "I checked my positioning data, too, and they got the time wrong. It was 1:10. If I'd still been on Main at a quarter past, I woulda been late, and I wasn' late this week."

"Yeh, y'weren'," Shi agrees, optics flickering helplessly in amusement he can't contain. She sounds so damn offended that they'd get her timing wrong. The timing, not that he's holding and article that calls her a damn boogeyman, among other things. "Y' sh'd tell 'em t' make a r'traction."

He means it mostly as a joke, largely because he still doesn't exactly understand what interest there is in a clipping from a tatty rag willing to print scare articles about monsters on the loose. She knows it's her, he knows it's her, they have a good chuckle about the stupidity of humes, and that's that.

"Maybe... What's a ra-traction?"

"Retraction," he enunciates, forcing the static out of his vox so the word comes out perfectly crisp. "S'where y' tell th' paper they ain' got their facts straigh', make 'em reprin' it true. An' since th' whole thing is off, ya got th' right, act'yally. Pitcher's clearly you."

"Oh. But why did they write it anyway?"

Shi cocks a brow up, handing the clipping back and watching Elijah tuck it carefully away in a sidebag. "Wh'd'ya mean, Bug?"

"Well, I always take Main from the bar to hear, it's the fastest. Seventh to Main to Wisteria to Alley-behind-Mike's to Aviation Highway Service Drive, which is you. So it’s not news; I do that run every week, an’ I’m almost always on time."

He listens to her rattle off the route, amused again. So matter of fact -- she's wrong, taking Main to Elm and then through the perpetual construction of those Turtle Bay condos shaves off 1.005 minutes, but he doesn't bother to say it -- and utterly missing the point of the article. She just full stop doesn't understand why it's news at all.

"You read what they wrote, right, Bug?"

"Yes. They got the time wrong and they misspelled 'horrifying' with only one 'r'."

Shi laughs, then, he can't help it. The sound feels good, more in his engine housing than his vox.

“Bug, th’ guy thoughtcha were a monster.”

Big, luminous eyes shutter, and he can see her processing that. It makes him want to laugh again, and he very nearly chokes on his own exhaust when she opens her maw, closes it, sets her head to the side and then finally says. “I am a monster.”

[headlesssamurai]

Have you seen Altered Carbon? If so, what do to think of it?

Alright, I finally bucked up enough courage to do another honest, non-sarcastic, write-up for a piece of media. Just been somewhat bitterly reluctant to voice my true opinions on fiction, or anything else really, since it seems like lots of folks are quite intensely engaged in violent uproars of one kind or another. No need to add more noise to the feedback loop, if you know what I mean.

But you’re, like, one of a dozen or so dudes who asked me about this series. So I reckoned I’d write it up for you, it being such a popular subject and all. I’d also like to thank you for your curiosity. It’s pretty damn humbling to know anybody cares enough about what I think to even ask after my thoughts. I’ll make sure to offer a notary warning before I spill any spoilers.

I became acquainted with Richard K. Morgan’s Kovacs-verse a few years back, but accidentally read one of the protagonist’s later adventures before backtracking to the original novel. I found it to be a respectably well-written futuristic detective story in the grand tradition of vintage writers like Robert B. Parker, even if including the predictably pornographic sex scenes in the grand tradition of modern urban sci-fi/fantasy writers like Laurell K. Hamilton (maybe the ‘K’ middle initial is a code for graphic sex content). In preparation for watching the new Netflix series, I re-read Morgan’s Altered Carbon to refresh my knowledge of the future he created.

Now, I’d like to say I’m a prolific reader of novelized fiction and other books, but I’m not one of those “hardcore” purists who always cries “the book was better” while pounding my fist on the podium. Thus in my effort to avoid any such farcical nonsense, I’m going to sort of examine both the book and the Netflix series of Altered Carbon at once, and write about what I enjoy and dislike about both versions, instead of directly comparing them.

I’ve grown so cynical with modern film and TV, I tend to unintentionally generate lists of what I think they’ll change about a book’s story once they adapt it, and what they��ll add and leave out. Usually, these lists are fairly accurate. Game of Thrones, for instance: how depressing it is to be absolutely correct some times. Not that the books were much better, but a pinecone up the ass doesn’t make a kick in the nuts feel any better.

A lot of people would describe Altered Carbon as having cyberpunk vibes, and this is true, but I believe it fits more comfortably into the realm of biopunk than anything else. If you’re not familiar with the concepts herein, Altered Carbon involves a distant future in which humanity has colonized the stars over many generations using sleeper ships, and with a little help from recovered alien star-maps, but has not achieved faster-than-light interstellar travel. The central technology in this universe is the cortical stack, a type of neural backup which allows a person’s consciousness to be digitally stored in a “disc” and uploaded into a new body if they die.

The new bodies are referred to as sleeves, and the filthy rich clone themselves so their sleeves are all identical and genetically enhanced, but most common folk have to accept whatever body is available or is covered by their insurance, or even a synthetic sleeve (which in the novel is a cheap and distasteful thing, but in the series synthetics seem to have superpowers). People can only travel quickly to other star systems in the settled worlds (known as the Protectorate) by transmitting their stored consciousness into another cortical stack on their planet of destination and uploading into a new sleeve there (a process called needlecasting), but physically transporting anything still takes a really long time for ships to travel across the vast distance of space.

Straight out of the gate, this concept does not appeal to me at all. If there’s anything that drains your story of tension and thrills, it’s got to be the idea that everyone lives forever. The way the universe is constructed however, it ends up making the story far more interesting than what I had anticipated. Not everyone can afford to live forever, first of all, since re-sleeving can be an extremely expensive undertaking, and even those who have the money rarely feel the desire to live more than two lifetimes. Additionally there are complications which can arise, such as personality fragging, a type of insanity which occurs when a person is sleeved in one too many different bodies throughout their life.

Certain religious groups also vehemently resist re-sleeving, and for law enforcement various lengthy sentences of storage without the possibility to re-sleeve are the primary means of punishment for most crimes. There are even interesting concepts like criminals who copy their consciousness into several cortical stacks at once, making them difficult to apprehend once and for all. Other criminals and intelligence operatives also utilize virtuality to torture people in a digital environment, allowing them to subject victims to days or even months of agony which equates to only a few hours in real-time. Real death can also still occur, if the individual’s cortical stack is badly damaged or destroyed.

The actual plot involves a former soldier named Takeshi Kovacs, who is paroled early from a criminal sentence and re-sleeved by a rich tycoon who offers to exonerate Kovacs of his crimes if he can solve a murder. While reluctant to work for some rich asshole, Kovacs is almost instantly attacked by mercenaries which makes him curious enough to take the case. Kovacs then works to investigate the purported crime while getting himself into a bit of trouble with the locals, and trying to deal with extreme trauma from his combat experiences.

It’s surprising that in the case of Altered Carbon I was entirely incorrect in everything I thought the producers might add/change/amputate from the original story. I also could not have predicted what they decided to add and how they decided to change certain elements from the story of Morgan’s novel. I believe the series they crafted from his story is competently scripted, very well cast, doesn’t waste too much time with any silly subplots, and is generally a well-paced, adult-themed sci-fi story. Altered Carbon really wants to take itself seriously, in the same vein as things like SyFy’s praiseworthy diamond The Expanse, but its unique setting gets a little too bogged down in conventional tropes for my liking. Gratuitous T&A (as well as other, less commonly exploited extremities) and generous helpings of the fuck-words do not an edgy and intense sci-fi experience make. Good but not great, would be my general assessment of the series.

Don’t get me wrong here, Altered Carbon is plenty intense, even thrilling at certain points, but a somewhat bland smattering of writers and directors, thrown into the recipe with a few others who are brilliant geniuses, create a mixed bag of stylistic choices which don’t always fit together very well. So you’re often left with an unusually faithful adaptation of a badass novel, wonderfully enhanced in certain aspects, but grotesquely mutated in others, and some of the conflicting storytelling elements feel hurriedly stitched together. A Patchwork Man of a story, rather than prime quality tank flesh. None of Altered Carbon’s flaws are crippling however, and all-told I’d say the series is eminently watchable and very worth your while if you enjoy futuristic sci-fi stories.

WARNING: Spoilers ahead.

First the good news. This series stars an extremely talented cast of performers who own their roles with wonderful conviction, and very convincing poise.

Joel Kinnaman has been on my good side since he appeared in The Killing, and even his unfortunate role in the Robocop reboot didn’t water down my appreciation for him. I feel like his role as the newly sleeved Takeshi Kovacs was perfectly cast. Martha Higareda is just a little too cute to be such a badass, but she winds up playing Detective Ortega to that strong female archetype in a far less sensational and much more casual way than what you might expect from the modern trends of scripting for such characters. Though quite the opposite of Higareda in terms of the role she plays, Renée Elise Goldsberry brims with charisma as Quellcrist Falconer, a sort of futuristic Che Guevara if he had also practiced Zen and gong fu, and was a woman. Chris Collins is also incredibly memorable as Kovacs’ A.I. hotel manager Poe.

Ato Essandoh as Vernon Elliott became one of my favorite characters as the series goes on, and though I wasn’t totally sold on the arc of her character Hayley Law as Elliott’s daughter Lizzie completed a very nice trifecta of beautiful lead women who just happen to be racially diverse. The third of these ladies, of course, is Dichen Lachman who I’ve got to say delivers probably the most convincing and most nuanced performance in the entire series, having to run a wild labyrinth of different emotional expressions which all feel very genuine. As was the case with Sylvia Hoeks as Luv in Blade Runner: 2049, Dichen Lachman as Rei hooked me instantly and woudn’t let go. Maybe I just got a thing for sociopathic women or something.

There are also a few minor roles worth mentioning, Marlene Forte does a great job as the overbearing mother of detective Ortega, which again felt very genuine and not forced, Tamara Taylor as ambitious sleazy attorney Oumou Prescott gave me chills with her smug smile (again perfect casting), Kristin Lehman and James Purefoy seem a perfectly matched pair of megalomaniacs, Byron Mann and Will Yun Lee kick ass portraying Kovacs at very different stages of his troubled life, and there is some terrifically believable acting on the parts of child actors Morgan Gao and Riley Lai Nelet.

All that being said, not everything the actors are given to do is particularly well-written, in my humble opinion.

Takeshi Kovacs is something called an Envoy, a type of specially trained soldier who is mentally conditioned to be hyper-aware at all times, integrate and adapt to new environments and circumstances, and even manipulate his own bodily chemistry, allowing him to eliminate the pain threshold, instantly recover from debilitating drugs, and avoid lingering trauma from torture. The Envoys were created to help the Protectorate put-down political dissidents and rebels, which were running rampant throughout the settled worlds at the time of the Envoy Program’s inception. Many of these rebels often followed the outlawed “Quellist” writings of an infamously respected revolutionary leader called Quellcrist Falconer who fought, and lost, against the Protectorate hundreds of years before the time of the novel (and long before Kovacs was born). When she was born, Quellcrist Falconer, like Kovacs, also happened to be from Harlan’s World. In the novel, this reputation causes Harlan’s World to be viewed as a backwater source of rogues and misfits by citizens of more civilized worlds (which is fair, since it’s described by Kovacs as being overrun by crime syndicates and swamp gangs). But even compared to Harlan’s World, Earth is considered a polluted over-populated shit hole.

In the novel he was trained by the somewhat fascist forces of the Protectorate, and the Envoy Corps was an elite black ops group who could be transmitted to any planet and topple the regime in less time than it would take a massive army to win a single battle. In the series, Kovacs is just a random soldier burn during the time of the Quellist revolution, but Envoys were created and trained by revolutionary leader Quellcrist Falconer to combat the very fascist forces of the Protectorate, whom were too used to conventional warfare to properly adapt to Quell’s asymmetrical tactics.

The problem for me, with this particular change in the writing, is that much of the details have been glossed over. I never got a sense of how Quell was able to so efficiently condition her soldiers into such a formidable force, nor did her portrayal emphasize her military acumen in this manner very convincingly. Quell’s character is certainly charismatic and sympathetic to the audience, but I find it much easier to accept that Envoys are the product of sociopathic, strict, and brutal military conditioning than to grasp the concept that a fairly undisciplined group of freedom fighters were able to develop such a sophisticated method of training. If Quell’s rebels were portrayed differently, it might be easier to accept, but in the series they seem more like hippies with guns than hardened elite warriors.

This is one of my only major gripes with the series as a whole, and it wouldn’t even be that big of a deal to me if it didn’t play such a large role in the plot and arc of Kovacs as a character. I didn’t like the way it changed his backstory either.

See, in the novel Kovacs is a former Envoy turned career criminal since Envoys are generally feared by everyone despite their having fought for the Protectorate, so they don’t have a lot of options and their skillset is only useful in a limited context. He’s haunted by his combat experiences, regrets his role in assisting the government in putting down various rebels, and has a cultural misunderstanding of Earth because he’s from Harlan’s World. His criminal ventures could be seen as his own personal revolution, and Kovacs has spent about a century in and out of storage since leaving the military, but has only been consciously alive for about forty years. He isn’t portrayed as a morally centered person, but he has his own system of honor, and he selfishly accepts Laurens Bancroft’s offer because it’s a way out of a lengthy sentence. This gives him a nice arc, because he slowly becomes more morally invested in what he’s doing as certain things come to light, and ultimately risks it all toward the end basically to avenge the death of a prostitute and save a single life, which is a nice shift in contrast from the Kovacs we see leave storage at the start of the book.

In the series Kovacs is a lovesick puppy dog, who misses his one true love. He’s a former Quell revolutionary who also became a career criminal, but the moment he got caught they put him in storage indefinitely, because he’s the last of the Envoys, the rest of which were mercilessly butchered by stormtroopers from the evil Protectorate which has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. When the series begins, he awakens 250 years after he was captured and he finds that the galaxy has become what he always feared, a one-percenter’s paradise ruled by the rich, where the poor are exploited and marginalized and everyone with even the slightest sense of prominence is an irredeemable asshole. Politics aside, this change makes his character arc far less interesting to me, because he doesn’t want to help Bancroft but his reluctance comes from a very different place than the book, and ultimately Kovacs accepts the offer not out of selfishness but because the ghost of his dead girlfriend tells him to.

This also deeply conflicts with the first time we’re introduced to Kovacs, in his usual East Asian sleeve on Harlan’s World where he speaks of caring only for “getting paid” and seems like a typical devil-may-care bad boy. Then when he’s talking to Bancroft, he tells the tycoon “Some things can’t be bought. Like me.” So which is it? Do you only care about getting paid, or can you not be bought? This makes for a somewhat confusing characterization of Kovacs, who one minute is murderously avenging himself upon psychotic bio-smugglers and claiming he cares for no one, only to turn around and behave like a typical romantic the next. It isn’t entirely jarring, but for me it hurt the dark tone and mature themes to discover the central core of the series is a centuries-old fairytale love story.

Sorry. I like fairytale love stories. But I also like darkly thematic dystopian science fiction, and in my opinion the two mix about as well as apple liqueur and olive oil.

This is all, however, as I said one off my only major gripes about the series. And even the sum of its parts aren’t badly executed. Like I said, Quell is charismatic, Kovacs is haunted, and all three actors (Kinnaman, Goldsberry, and Kim as Kovacs in his original sleeve) deliver convincing performances as well as share a great sense of chemistry, so the love story is believable at least. Visual effects and set design are also wonderful, and for such a high concept sci-fi setting it all feels very seamless. Dialogue is well-scripted as well, and most of Poe’s interactions with other characters are some of the best scenes. It’s also nice to see a series that exploits the naked female form to a fault, yet also makes a point to ensure you get just as much if not far more male nudity to surprisingly counterpoint its shamelessness. I haven’t seen this many swinging dicks since the last time I read YouTube comments. Just makes you feel better when the characters finally ride the stuffed unicorn, know what I mean?

Many of the minor roles from the novel are also modified to make certain characters more important, and some of their roles have been altered so that they are completely different people. Some of these changes work better than others. Rei, as Tak’s sister rather than just some asshole crime boss he once knew, was a change in the story that had the reverse effect of how I felt about the altered Kovacs/Envoy backstory. It makes Reileen a more interesting character than just the Big Bad you might expect in such a story, and causes her motivations, maniacal as they remain, to be far more empathic and invested in the events of the plot. In that light, they made the villain stand out as memorable among the bland villains we often get in movies and TV shows now, thanks to the K-Mart quality antagonists so popularized by the Marvel movies.

While certainly not perfect, Altered Carbon still manages to offer fans of science fiction a fascinating world populated by characters who are easy to give a damn about, and a galaxy spanning story of heartbreak, betrayal, and retribution. I personally wasn’t that big a fan of the romantic warrior monk stuff in this particular story, but that doesn’t mean it won’t appeal to others. There’s enough mystery here to keep you guessing, and enough solid dramatic force to keep us wanting more on its own merits, not by virtue of any stupid cliffhangers. Much of the visual style and action sequences are just icing on the cake, really. Though, I confess, I almost jizzed my pants when I got to see the Phillips Squeeze Gun in action. And there’s nothing quite like one of those sci-fi stories where someone picks up a samurai sword, let alone during the finale.

All told, I’d watch Altered Carbon again, and you should too. Regardless of whatever I say, or my own personal preferences, it deserves your attention. Because it may be adapted from a novel, but a least it’s trying to be something different than most of what’s out there right now, even if its poetic love story doesn’t want it to be. So, ignore cynical bastards like me, watch the damn show and decide for yourself.

                    侍    headless                   

[scintillakreations]

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 As per the American Marketing Association "A brand is a name, term, plan, image or whatever other component that recognizes one dealer's acceptable or administration as unmistakable from those of different venders."

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 Marking gives a personality to your item. It is the essence of your item which is in a split second perceived by the client. Besides Branding ascribes to maintenance. A client can review the brand each time the person needs to buy an item. What's more, a trust is shaped bit by bit which in the long run builds the estimation of the brand on the lookout. Notwithstanding a solid client base, Branding additionally helps in inspiring your workers. Working for a presumed brand rouses them to try sincerely and opens their development openings. It is simple for a fruitful brand to grow further as it creates future speculation. Brands can be significant to such an extent that they have outlasted items in certain cases.

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Interfacing with clients lead to enduring impressions

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[artdjgblog]

​Innerview: Richard Noggle / ​Larryville Life ​Feb. 2012​

Image: DJG (via Michael Bay action film generator)

Note: Questions on art and a forthcoming exhibition.​

01) Can you give us a general sense of your style and techniques as an artist?  And who are your influences?  And could you please incorporate one of those "my work is like _________ meets ___________" comparisons that critics love so much?

My style typically consists of whatever mood/feeling I'm in or whatever sorts of things I've got to work with around me. I guess there are some consistencies as I keep coming back to found objects, collage, scribbles and junk. Range of like-minded artistic kin stretch from my grandma to folk art to Henryk Tomaszewski to Seymour Chwast to Ray Johnson to Basquiat to Saul Steinberg and even Pee-wee Herman, Dr. Demento and Jim Henson. Daily influences include a mixture of intuition, conversation, observation, humor, stains on teeth, animals, anxiety, faith, layered language, worlds interacting with worlds, things that look better weathered, markings on pavement and beyond blah-blah. I watch a lot of movies too. It's hard answering the "comparisons" question as I'm not always on the outside looking in. What do you think? I've had some people compare the found object work to Robert Rauschenberg. That's a pretty tall order though. I never really think about that stuff. Steve Brisendine of Art KC 365 kindly put me at, "He isn’t just in touch with his inner child; the two of them must hang out on a regular basis, playing with scissors, magazines and construction paper…Some of his creations…are meticulously assembled. Others look as though they were fueled by half a box of frosted cereal, washed down with a two-liter bottle of something sugary and caffeinated." Can I just say, "My work is like the Garbage Pail Kids meets Ren & Stimpy."?   02) Your newest First Friday exhibition in KC is titled "Mouth Breathing at the Wick to the Apocalypse."  What is the show about and is it going to convince us (or convince us even further) that the world is ending in 2012? I was actually quite anxious titling it this, but I kept coming back to it/it kept coming back to me. And it extends further than just the 2012 stuff. There's a lot to chew on and this title just works for the times and within my own body of work. It's definitely a conversation stimulator. The following is what I wrote for Chad Thomas Johnston's web site (@Saint_Upid). Actually, this one was slightly revised for my own blog: Every living thing has a date of expiration. When that date comes, I believe, is in much bigger hands…as well as with a personal healthy dose of daily walk and decision. And Lord knows we’re all trying to put the wicks out to something we have to face, large or small, Earth or individual. We love to control, alter, even bring about more things in the process. Let’s all truly breathe and make space instead of picking up the pace and filling up out pants. Put the hand to the mouth…you’re still breathing. All of this also goes towards those who stand around waiting for things to happen on an individual level. I don’t know, life is about balance. I struggle every day. People are so focused on 2012 predictions and doom ‘n’ gloom when life is still in the now. For those wishing to sidestep the recent holiday cheer, there was even an “Armageddon Week” during Christmas on the History Channel. Yeah, fascinating, but let’s not over do it. If this is our last official year, then let’s just take one long holiday! Who knows? I don’t think any man truly does. But, when that day comes we will be there with the cameras rolling, breathing heavily, awaiting to capture and recapture a thing that we’ll either be too dead to see or won’t have the grid or battery power to reconnect with. Let’s find the art and beauty in the rubble that is the now. This all sort of fits into my exhibition title “Mouth Breathing at the Wick to the Apocalypse.” It also just speaks for the body of work I’ve been creating the past year, perhaps many years. I don’t aim to alarm or hoover heavily. If anything, the spirit in the art is quite jovial and optimistic. Per usual, I want people to have a soak and smile. Some of the ideas initialized in a 2002 sketchbook I did as a janitor as well as writings over the past half decade. In the end, it just has a nice ring to it, don’t you think? 03) We've been examining some of your pieces over at the gallery on @Saint_Upid's site and Chip, quite frankly, doesn't "get" some of it.  Can you explain that Fox Food 2/ bunny piece to him? I've been saving up each week's grocery store ad papers. I like to cut out the meat and various food chunks and make animals. I've got a fox and a rabbit. The fox is titled "Fox Food No. 1" and the rabbit is "Fox Food No. 2." So, eventually the rabbit gets eaten by the fox. Get it? 04) What other projects do you have in store for what may well be the last year of humanity's existence as we know it? I made a life-size bison (on paper) outlined in grocery store meat ads and splattered with coffee. He'll be at the exhibition hiding in a corner. I've also got a snake on a board made out of chewed up Dubble Bubble. My jaw is kind of sore this week. I think that's it for the gum art. There will be a few others in the show too. Other projects in the coming months? Well, I'd like to knock out another music video this year. I'm trying my hand and patience at stop motion animation. Emphasis on "trying." I'd like to have a 2nd exhibition at 1819 Central this year. I'm thinking of doing a photography show, but I'll just see what art I make between now and the fall. Ultimately, I'd like to make some money on this art thing. We'll see. I'll also have a piece in the forthcoming Middle of the Map Fest art show in April. I still need to make that one. 05) We know you are a huge movie buff, since we talk movies with you on Twitter quite often.  What's the best off-the-beaten-path film that you've watched recently that our readers should see and then talk pompously about at the Pig while  pretending like they discovered it themselves? Uh, Transformers? I watched that and Take Shelter recently. Michael Shannon could destroy a Transformer by staring at it...sure to be an Academy Award favorite. 06) When are you going to make a Larryville visit and drink a PBR with us? I don't have the street cred to call it Larryville just yet, but maybe I will after I come hang with you guys? Lawrence used to be a short hop, skip and a jump traveling to concerts in my youth. It helped that I rarely drove then. At 33, Lawrence seems so far away from Kansas City. One of these days though... 07) Bonus Round--Do you have a favorite show from your Lawrence concert-going days? Some of my most well-lit memories of Lawrence concerts would be the "game day" excitement building up to and then wedging in-between band equipment in the Elevator Division van. I was their live-in art director and it was a treat to tag along. It was an adventure on the road as well as lurking in the shadows of the Bottleneck, Replay and Granada. The sleep on the ride home was the best I'd get. Those trips would destroy me now. My most memorable concert moment in Lawrence would have to be meeting Elliott Smith in the Granada back alley after his show. We shook hands and both said, "Thanks." at the same time. Also in the alley were The Flaming Lips who happened to be in town, and previously on stage performing "Don't Fear the Reaper" with Elliott. What a way to end it. I was sad the day Elliott smith passed away and still am. Oh yeah...before that show my eyes hadn't quite adjusted to the indoor lighting and I waved an excited hi to some old friends upon entering the venue and immediately tripped over two people sitting on the floor. Another high ranking concert moment was seeing The Sleepy Jackson open for The Polyphonic Spree at Liberty Hall. I had no idea who they were and they completely blew me away. 08) How familiar are you with the Lawrence art scene these days?  Any favorite artists working in our fair city? I'm a tad familiar with the Lawrence art scene. Notably, those running/making art at Wonder Fair. Great guys/great artists. I need to get out to Lawrence more often these days. I enjoy your fine city. Though, being a Missouri boy you may have to check my MU Tiger fan badge at the Lawrence border. 09) We've noticed that KC has a strange new event called Hot Tub dialogues, in which the audiences pays to watch artists sit around talking about art in a hot tub.  Would you don your bathing suit to participate in such shenanigans? This is new news to me! And weird at that! Especially the audience pay part. I don't think I'd be up for such an event unless said hot tub was a time machine. I'm also a bit of a nevernude and still barely sticking my toes in the Kansas City art pool as it is! 10) There's a very controversial public art event currently generating a lot of controversy in Lawrence. Lice chickens will be exhibited for a month in spots around town, letting people "get to know them, the they'll be killed and cooked for a community project at Percolator art gallery? What are your initial thoughts on this project? Like the hot tub talk, this is weird and new local art news to me! I really am out of the loop/pool. Growing up on a farm in rural Missouri, I knew many of my animals before they were butchered. I guess, like anything, it's a matter of public opinion. If you're not comfortable with it, then don't attend/support? Is this commentary on the whole local/get to know your food and where it comes from thing? Very interesting. I don't quite understand the need to make it into a public art event. Seems like something destined ftp stir the poultry pot, so to speak! I guess I need to know more about this. Thanks! -djg  

[southbournegrp]

Things Buyers Ask Their Real Estate Agents

(This article is intended pertaining to buyer's - not agents) What Are Real Estate Short Sales and profits? With our economy and woodleigh residences sales still in the doldrums, the majority of real estate sales in the California area are deemed short sales. But what are real estate short sales? From the real estate industry, the term Short Sale seems to have only re-appeared in the last few years. The title is very confusing to some individuals, including some Realtors® themselves. When we use the phrase Quite short Sale, it conjures up all sorts of ideas in our thought process. I have been asked if it is anything to do with the length of time the purchase takes, or whether there is a shortage of that type of residential, and many other impressions of what this type of sale actually is. A real estate short sale is brought about when a home owner cannot afford his mortgage payments any more, and then finds out his or her home is worth far less than what it was worth just simply two or three years ago when he bought it. He has no decision but to go to his lender and explain the situation with them. A real estate agent is usually called in to negotiate a settlement amount the fact that the bank will accept to pay off the home owner's debt, so the commercial lender can get it off their books. The bank eventually says to a price and the property is put on sale for those price the bank is prepared to accept - usually plenty of dollars short of what the home owner owes - hence the term Short Sale. At some stage this homeowner contacts the bank or lender to advise individuals that he is in financial trouble and cannot keep up with your monthly payments. The homeowner often has to stop paying the monthly payments and his account goes into delinquency. If the household owner has a good agent, he will approach her and convey to her of the situation. The agent will subsequently make sure to contact all interested parties - there may be a second property loan on the home, or a couple of liens. All parties are actually advised of the situation with this lender and mostly all of us involved agrees to accept lower amounts than are were supposed to pay to them - eventually. Typically, everyone agrees to accept a fabulous payment that is short of the amount owning and a Short Purchase is then introduced to the real estate market. Why are There A great number of Short Sales? Everywhere we look these days, there definitely seems to be Short Sales all over the place. We do not see too many common, traditional sales listings like we were used to discovering. Why is this? The main reason is that during the recent country's economy problems, so many people have been affected by the downturn. Their providers have laid people off till business increases, others simply get rid of people under the guise of "downsizing. " Many folks have simply had their weekly working time reduced, some even put on part time. Whatever has manifested in the workplace it has affected most of the general public, and has had an enormous time knock-on effect. With many workers now bringing home a reduced a pay-check, they can no longer afford the things they could before. They are now having a job to meet a monthly mortgage payments, pay for rising grocery store prices, pay for heightened gas prices, and so the list goes on. When a family is known for a reduced income, they spend less on grocery goods, buy less gas and try to make it last longer, place off their weekly yard maintenance service and complete the work themselves, spend less on eating out and cook in your home. All the services they are cutting down on are therefore going to have problems with the knock-on effect - not from one family, and yet from hundreds in the area that are in the same boat. In concert, the cutbacks they are making will affect the local market and then local businesses start to suffer and the cycle remains as it builds into serious concerns. Having considered the aforementioned, our typical family will start to have problems making all the monthly mortgage payments due to the lower pay-check. Eventually they eliminate paying and the arrears start to build up. Of course, they optimism and pray that things will improve soon, so they really hang on for as long as they can clutching to that hope. The situation pretty much never improves though and they are forced to sell their homes. Individuals call in a real estate agent for help and advice, only to be advised : to their horror - that their home that they bought just for $500, 000 four years ago is now worth around $295. 000. They are devastated, of course, but they have no other decision than to try and sell. But they owe far more than the place is now worth. This is known in financial circles to be "upside down. " Let's say they still owe the particular or lender $450. 000. How are they likely to settle their mortgage when they are only likely to get $295, 000 for their home? The real estate agent approaches the financial institution for them and explains the position and hopes that the mortgage lender will play ball. Usually the bank has to settle for less than is owed, and the real estate agent is contracted for you to conduct the sale - a typical Short Sale -- known because the lender is agreeing to sell the property for a amount SHORT of what is owed. Multiply this one family through several thousand in your area, and you have the answer to the original question... the reason are there so many short sales? Will a Short Sale Impinge on My Credit Rating? The short answer is yes and no! If you have had fallen way behind in your mortgage payments and are in what's commonly known as default or delinquency, then the lender will almost certainly article your arrears to the three credit bureaus. This means that your history of credit will now be tagged with this "failure to pay, inch and as a result your credit history will be tarnished and your credit score will probably indeed go down. If you have managed to keep up with your monthly payments and possess kept the bank informed of your financial status, they have hardly any reason to report anything to the credit bureaus as you are not likely yet in default - because you have worked out an important payment agreement. If you can arrange with the bank to accept a sale agreement because of your situation - you will have to send the letter proving hardship etc . - and can continue to produce payments, you are likely to come out of the transaction unscathed. The most important help that most people do not adhere to when they run into trouble will be "they do not go to their lender and tell them with regards to their financial position. " This is one of the first things you might want to do. You may have a caring lender who is able to renegotiate your loan resulting in much lower payments - thus offering you and your family to keep your home and not lose it. For how long Does a Real Estate Short Sale Take? There is no authentic answer to how long a real estate short sale will take. At some point, it is all in the hands of the homeowner's bank or perhaps lender. After a short sale has been agreed by the bank or investment company, the home is then put on sale as a real estate list of and everyone sits back and waits for the presents to come rolling in. All clever stuff, right? And yet is it! The problem with a real estate short sale is the lender usually is in no hurry at all to accept the offer and send it off to Escrow. For some serious unknown reason, the bank just sits on the offers and also does nothing constructive to effect a sale. The sale listing may have as many as 20 offers on it - many of them far in excess of what is being asked - however banks do nothing much about these offers. Working with a short sale in this situation helps nobody - not even the bank, the seller, or potential buyer. I am often quizzed: "why doesn't the bank get off its butt and get the show on the road? The answer is a simple "I don't know. inches Agents, whether for sellers or buyers, are continuously frustrated by the bank's actions - or lack thereof. I have been involved in many short sale transactions. There were roughly 12 offers on one of my properties, some way earlier mentioned what the sale price was, but the bank will not move for months. It eventually went into property foreclosure. Now that makes no sense at all! With some of the why a real estate short sale is delayed mentioned above, the response to the original question is that if a bank possesses a mind to get this property off their books, he or she can do it in a very short time. But to do this, they have to actually commit to take action and accept an offer to let the technique begin. Getting the bank to accept an offer is the the important point in why a short sale can take so long. Typically, the sale can be done and dusted in as little as 30 days should the bank has a mind to do it. But these swift sales are few and far between. In reality, a real estate short good discounts can take six months or even up to a year to get them to decision. Why are the Banks So Slow on Short Revenues? I'd like a dollar bill for every time I have discovered this one. There doesn't seem to be any rhyme or answer why the banks are so slow to make up the minds over offers for their short sales listings. I really enjoy seeing, it appears that they seem to think that the properties are not looking anywhere and there is plenty of time to sort them through. This is how it appears! I'm sure the banks will have other strategies on it. There is a saying in any buying and selling process that your first of all loss is your best loss. Simply put, if you hang on plus hang on for a better offer, there is the likelihood that one will never be forthcoming and that the original one you rejected is not right now there anymore. Have the banks heard of this, I wonder? However banks do have their rules and regulations as designated by your "powers that be" up in Head Office. So localized bankers may not be in the position to do too much about the issue. Their hands may be tied by internal red video tape. But we often don't know that, do we? Therefore perhaps we shouldn't be too hard on our local bankers. But somebody, somewhere, is causing these delays also it doesn't make financial sense to keep sitting on all these delinquent properties. Surely it would make more sense to accept an offer that equals the selling price and deal with it to the next one. Do I Have to Pay Commission on a Realty Short Sale? The real seller of the property in a quite short sale is the lender or the bank. It is they who sadly are pulling the short sale strings - all as your representative, of course. Buyers never have to pay a real estate agent commission when they will be purchasing a property. They may negotiate certain things or concessions throughout the buying process, but this rarely affects the actual selling price and is usually taken care of in the Escrow process. Owners do not usually pay a commission when their property is it being sold as a short sale. The bank is usually behind any short sale process and it is they that take care of the particular selling agent's commission. After all, if a family can't afford to pay for to make their mortgage payments and are in arrears, they don't bear much chance of paying a commission either. So , to all circumstances, neither the buyer or the seller has to pay typically the selling agent's commission. However , a traditional (regular) real estate selling is very different. The homeowner, with his agent, generally enquiries all the shots during the sale, and the homeowner is also answerable for paying the broker/agent's commission. What Happens After a Short Good discounts is Closed? After a short sale is closed as well as completed, the buyer is usually delighted at being able to purchase the house hold for a fraction of what it cost just a few yrs ago. It is the buyer that wins in a situation such as a Short Selling. Sadly, however , the seller is in a totally different position. He has lost his home, any equity he might have had has long been wiped out, and he is left with all his goods - sometimes out on the street - mostly through basically no fault of his own. This situations puts a tremendous force on any marriage, and all too often, families break up therefore. If you are involved in this type of situation, try to ensure that you have a method to go - well before the house transaction closes. Even if this can be a mobile home on the outskirts of town, you will however have a roof over your heads, and with your family in one piece. Above all else, get a roof over your family's head. Sure, it is degrading, and yes, your are now at rock bottom, but you still have your family and your health and strength (hopefully) to fight another day. It can be done!

[oliveratlanta]

The 12 most Atlanta things that happened in Atlanta in 2019

Curbed Atlanta

From an interstate “cash storm” and Super Bowl-related controversies (again), to (another) rejection of mass transit

What a year it’s been for residential real estate, transportation, commercial development, and generally wild happenings in Atlanta. In terms of transition, 2019 felt like the year when momentum reached a tipping point, and many things residents knew would soon come finally began to materialize, or move in a direction that allows no turning back.

Then again, these worries and aspirations have come before. So before any major declarations are made about our long-awaited arrival as America’s greatest city ever, let’s take a minute and look back at the biggest things—or most Atlanta things—that happened in ATL since New Year’s Day 2019, and think about where we’re going from here.

An armored truck makes it rain on Interstate 285

YouTube

For Atlantans, it was a dream come true—and extreme test of willpower. On the evening of July 9, a Garda armored truck’s doors swung open and released more than $175,000 near Ashford-Dunwoody Road, in the Perimeter area. One man, Randrell Lewis, returned to authorities all $2,000 he says he picked up, even posing for a photo op with proud Dunwoody police afterward (and becoming a subject of some intense social media debate). Though it’s obviously illegal to take money that belongs to someone else, it left all of us who were unfortunately not there to “witness” the cash storm, wondering what our individual consciences would guide us to do. One guess: pull over.

“Beltline Kroger” debuts

Curbed Atlanta

The social Kroger patio, upon opening in October.

Some nostalgists will never call it anything but “Murder Kroger.” Others look at the brave new world signaled by the long-awaited opening of the 60,000-square-foot Atlanta Beltline location of America’s biggest grocery chain, situated between Ponce de Leon and North avenues, and see vibrant new life. It’s sleek and modern, with a glassy exterior to match the mixed-use development at 725 Ponce, a Starbucks inside,a “pub” offering tapped craft beer and flights of wine, an outdoor seating/sipping area with Eastside Trail pedestrian views, and a satellite of the beloved B’s Cracklin’ Barbecue, whose original Atlanta location burned down in March. It’s a new beginning for the questionably nicknamed store for sure, but it does leave one question: What good are all those Kroger Plus Card fuel points now?

The rise of Tyler Perry Studios

You’re entitled to your own opinion of Tyler Perry movies and the critical importance of Madea to the filmmaking craft. But you can’t deny that Perry finessed one of the greatest Ws in history by purchasing 330 acres of the former Fort McPherson U.S. Army base for $30 million in 2015.

Tyler Perry Studios

Soundstages at the studios, with downtown and Midtown Atlanta beyond.

With seemingly endless rolling hills, 12 giant sound stages, and plenty of historic buildings at his disposal, Perry went from successful filmmaker to legitimate Hollywood mogul, hosting a star-powered dedication gala attended by Oprah, Denzel Washington, Jay-Z and Beyonce, and many other elite figures in black cinema. And while it isn’t currently open for public tours (although that’s in the plans), we did get a retouched exit sign on SR 166 letting commuters know where to turn if they’re looking for one of the largest film production studios in America. Not to mention, a couple billboards from an enterprising young actress who clearly understood the power of location in advertising.

A ballyhooed Evander Holyfield statue goes missing

Hanlon Sculpture Studio

The chiseled likeness in question.

After almost two years of promises, it turns out the real deal on that Evander Holyfield statue intended to be erected downtown is TBD. The bronze version of the real-life-chiseled, Bowen Homes-raised boxer, universally beloved by Atlanta and proudly name-dropped in rap songs by André 3000, Snoop Dogg, and others, never made it to its intended place of permanence in front of the Flatiron Building, even though it cost nearly $100,000 to create. Who knows if the MIA effigy will end up there or anywhere other than where it’s currently being stored (if you see something, say something), but a representative from Mayor Keisha Lance Bottoms’s office recently predicted it’ll be installed somewhere by year’s end.

ATL sports gonna ATL sport

Getty Images

The Bravos on October 9, in the process of losing Game Five of the National League Division Series against the St. Louis Cardinals in historic fashion at SunTrust Park.

We’re used to it by now. Fans of Atlanta’s football, basketball, and baseball teams get hyped up listening to overly confident sports journalists, then watch as we get somewhere near the first round of elimination. Of course Atlanta United changed this narrative significantly with their MLS Cup victory (and decidedly Atlanta-centric choice of afterparty venue), which did a lot to justify the construction of Mercedes-Benz Stadium for residents who aren’t named Arthur Blank.

But this year we’re back to falling behind, and maybe it wouldn’t feel so bad if each team didn’t recently get a brand new facility in which to lose so predictably. That’s not to minimize the teams or question their willingness to play with winning in mind, but still. A new house is a new house, and the more we let folks come in our home before wiping their feet on the rug, so to speak, the less we’ll enjoy being in these places. Just ask any of the thousands of people not sitting in those stands on game days. That said, hometeam forever! Go ATL UTD! Go Hawks! Go Braves! Go Falcons! No really… go.

No Gwinnett MARTA

Back in March, it was hard for anyone hoping to see MARTA expand into Gwinnett County to not feel a little disheartened at the result of a consequential referendum. But 54 percent of voters rejected the addition of more transit, including heavy rail, in the northeast metro Atlanta county. While some voters claimed in news stories to be in favor of increasing public transportation options, the “no” votes ranged in reasoning from tax increase aversion to lack of comfort over total cost versus benefit. Whatever the case, the result is that a new MARTA station that would have been located just north of Doraville’s near Jimmy Carter Boulevard will not come to pass, at least in the immediate future. Is that a good or bad thing? Depends perhaps on your daily commute, but either way, it’s democracy, folks!

South Downtown announcements

CIM Group

The tentative, overarching vision for Gulch redevelopment Centennial Yards.

Once Atlantans collectively sobered up and realized Amazon wasn’t interested in our offer to move HQ2 to town (and perhaps that wasn’t such a bad thing), the lower downtown area began to show true signs of widespread investment. It’s possible that so much hype around the possibility of Bezos and co. bringing the online retailer to Atlanta made folks realize they’d better come up with something. And now, with Underground Atlanta, the Gulch, and South Downtown ostensibly getting ready to undergo big changes, it appears that if Amazon’s decision did nothing else, it broke the inertia and analysis-paralysis that continued to keep Atlanta in the bottom tier of American cities whose downtown districts were living up to potential. Should even half the plans come to fruition, a wave of restaurants, retail, residential, and office spaces will result, lending an entire new experience in terms of walkability in the long-overlooked area. When it comes to big ideas, Atlanta excels, , Atlanand this is the epicenter of them right now.

A (very brief) pop-up bike lane

If you weren’t on your bicycle on 10th Street near Piedmont Park from October 21 to the 26th, you may have missed the chance to ride in a temporary, one-way, pop-up bike lane heading toward Peachtree Street. Not that no one noticed the bulky white and red plastic dividers usually signalling construction, or the increase in traffic resulting from making the lane inaccessible to automobiles, but in traditional Atlanta fashion, it certainly seemed to be over and done pretty quickly. There hasn’t been much said about the results of the test since it ended, although one might assume that some choice words were expressed by those whose passenger vehicle commute involved the already jammed corridor for those six days. At least we can assume it made e-scooter fans feel safer, while showing that the city is thinking about solutions to Atlanta’s infamous traffic problems and non-motorist protections. Maybe it’s more of a “see you later” than a goodbye to the idea, but either way, perhaps it’s another case of a good thing gone too soon.

Paris on Ponce fire

Those out of town during the Thanksgiving holiday had to learn from a distance that one of Atlanta’s most irreplaceable places, the exactly 100-year-old building that houses vintage furniture and decor shop Paris on Ponce, was badly burned in a two-alarm fire.

GoFundMe

While the damage was major—the roof and interior were most significantly affected, destroying a number of shops inside the warehouse space—the owners hope to rebuild and are asking for support from the community via a GoFundMe campaign. And with Atlanta’s history of being figuratively and literally lit, the good news is that no one was hurt and that there’s likely a future for the funky Ponce de Leon antique store.

Brian Littrell couldn’t have it that way (lol)

Freemanville Estate/FB

Scene of the alleged shenanigans.

It may not have shocked many people to learn that Backstreet Boy Brian Littrell (a.k.a. the nice one that parents probably would’ve trusted with their daughters the most) was living in a town like Milton. But it certainly shocked local authorities to learn that the Kentucky-born crooner was actually renting out the property—although it’s not even clear he owns it—to others looking to throw shindigs and soirees, which the huge mansion is not allowed to host due to Milton zoning laws. The drama has calmed down a bit since the initial crescendo of voices from the city, who denied Littrell’s request to receive a permit to host such events going forward, and then realized that when he wants something a certain way, he’s gonna go for it, or at least demand to be told why not.

A West End house asks $650K

If there was ever an example of how far the Beltline has strayed from any plan to be inclusive of all Atlantans, regardless of net worth or income, it’s been the arrival of housing prices in the historic area crossing the half-million-dollar mark. (Or in at least one case this past summer, WAY over that mark.) And these houses, while renovated to look very nice and located in close proximity to the Westside Trail, weren’t exactly so pricey until a couple years ago, when asks began creeping into $400,000 territory—and selling even higher—as more Atlantans began to realize that West End was a thing.

Curbed Atlanta

The Beltline’s Westside Trail.

Obviously opinions vary on what the true value should be for such a beautiful and convenient part of town, but what’s absolutely clear, at least to anyone who’s lived in the (currently) predominantly African-American community the past several decades, is that it certainly means change is coming. But with many of the homes staying on the market for several months, maybe things are on course for a correction? Only time, and public real estate listings, will tell.

Atlanta (the city) wins Super Bowl LIII

Curbed Atlanta

Centennial Olympic Park’s climbable, oversized Vince Lombardi Trophy and platform, where Welcome to Atlanta basically played on loop for a week.

Well, unlike a certain local sports team that won’t be named (again) in this story, Atlanta delivered a big victory in the Super Bowl. Looking back, it was a tremendous lift, and everything seemed to go exceptionally (if uncharacteristically) well, considering this is a city where less than two inches of snow can break civilization. VIPs were entertained, traffic did not melt down, MARTA operated as well as could be expected (pretty efficiently, actually), and security from downtown to the Vine City area kept everyone safe and in reasonably good spirits, depending on how your team performed.

There was, however, a pretty big story involving a West End building whose strangely timed demolition occurred on the Friday of Super Bowl Weekend, and it was not lost on Atlanta’s community of street artists that this building happened to feature a mural of Colin Kaepernick. In response, a team of creatives, led by the first mural’s creator, Fabian “Occasional Superstar” Williams, painted eight new ones in time for the “big game,” which made national news. All in all, it was a great showing of what Atlanta can do with big hosting responsibilities, and it bodes well as we look to the Final Four, World Cup, and other major sporting events to come.

source https://atlanta.curbed.com/2019/12/18/21026781/atlanta-2019-year-review-things-that-happened

[evenstevensranked]

#38: Season 1, Episode 17 - “Get A Job”

In order to afford a Sludgie (a.k.a slushie) machine for his room, Louis opens his own Doggy Daycare. But like most things Louis attempts, it quickly becomes difficult for him to handle. Meanwhile, Steve and Donnie bond over destroying a birdhouse. 

This one opens with Louis trying to butter Steve up in preparation to drop the “Buy me a Sludgie machine” bomb. Which is definitely supposed to be a “Slushie” or “Slush Puppie” machine, but I’m assuming those words are copyrighted. Louis decorates the entire house for Father’s Day… even though it ain’t father’s day. “But, every day is father’s day, Dad… when you have the perfect dad, Dad!” Louis cannot genuinely think that this could work. After prefacing the Sludgie question with a dramatic story about how the machine is going to be thrown out of a store that’s closing unless Louis rescues the inanimate object from the potential clutches of an evil child — Steve drops a bomb of his own: “Get a job.” Oh, boy. Why are those words so… terrifying? Even today as a 24-year-old adult, those 3 words send a shiver down my spine. They scream “you’re getting older, get over it” to me. I don’t know. Louis and old-fashioned work isn’t exactly a match made in heaven, though. So you already know he’s gonna spin the job angle into something ridiculous.

Louis is wearing an “I ♥ DAD” shirt to really sell it!

Steve suggests that Louis should ask Ren for help, since she just so happens to be running a youth career planning center from her room. Of course she is. Something I really like about the scene where Louis asks her for a job, is the names of the other kids already there waiting. Ren refers to them by their last names, and they’re all names of writers/crew members!! “Dearborn” - The show’s creator, Matt Dearborn. “Cunningham” - One of the writers for this episode, Sarah Jane Cunningham. And “Kaiser” another writer for a different episode, Brooke Kaiser. This is so cute to me. It’s not the only time the writers have done something like this either. This only further supports my idea that one of the writers must’ve lived down the street from Del’s Pizzeria. These kids have zero lines though, and it’s kinda funny and obvious that Disney didn’t wanna pay people more than they had to. Ren talks to the kids and they just... smile... as a response, lol. It’s awkward. She gives the Cunningham girl a job at a movie theater concession stand and tells her “Here’s a tip... Extra salt on the popcorn = they’ll buy more drinks.” This has always stuck with me. How slimy. 

So, Louis busts in asking for a “teen job thingy” (perfect!) and I freaking love when Ren questions Louis about his career goals. He’s so sarcastic in the most deadpan way. He says he wants to ride a motorcycle in the globe of doom in Vegas, is “hoping to move to Donnie’s room” in five years time, and refers to some guy at a donut shop with a claw hand as the public figure he most respects. I love Louis. Then we get a montage of Louis failing at every job Ren gives him. This is actually something that’s a little off about this episode, and I never noticed it until my series re-watch for this project. There’s, like.. 5 montages in this episode. I have to admit that’s a little overkill. To an extent, this almost doesn’t even feel like an episode. That many montages means there’s hardly any actual dialogue. It’s weird.

Anyway, one of the jobs Louis fails at is “Mass Mail Marketing” a.k.a licking envelops. They decided to use this annoying CGI tongue for the scene, which I hate and always have hated. It’s not the only time they use the CGI tongue either, tragically. Like I’ve said before, stuff like that just comes across as something thrown in for a cheap laugh. I’ve literally never thought it was funny. In fact, I usually cringe a bit when they pull stuff like this. Sigh. 

Um, this actually looks a little... off-color. Ew. 

Louis returns to Ren asking for another job as long as it doesn’t involve licking. She finds one for him, but quickly takes it back saying “...but that involves some light licking...” WHAT THE HELL kind of jobs does she have in this database of hers?! Louis goes on to fail at being a paper boy and a restaurant mascot. That’s three strikes, so he’s dead to Ren now. Louis goes to a local park, all depressed and emo over being a failure — when suddenly a stray dog sits with him. He has a heart-to-heart with the dog saying “I’m just not one of those job people you hear so much about.” I relate to this on an emotionally deep level. Within a minute, he gets the idea to start "Louis' Doggy Daycare" to hang out with dogs all day and make quick money. There’s a short montage of Louis hanging up fliers and I feel like Shia thought it was hilarious. I mean… Look at the photo on the flier, lol. 

His shirt says “I ♥ DOGS” Amazing. Not to mention, that dog is actually… smiling. The fact that Shia even posed for that photo is iconic, lol. He seems to be genuinely laughing about it here, which is great. 

Louis’ first client, Mrs. Walters, shows up with her little pooch named “Poopsy.” I love this so much. My mom and I quote this lady all the time when we talk to our own little dog. She speaks in such a strangely deep baby voice with all these dips and inflections. We always say “My little pOOOoPSEHHHH!” in her voice, lol. I can’t even explain it. She drops Poopsy off and says “Bye-bye, my preciousss!” but Louis cuts her off by saying “Please. Call me Louis.” I LOVE HIM!!!!!!!!

Ren is impressed that Louis seems to’ve thought this through and is babysitting a dog. Until she sees that he’s babysitting, like.. 25 dogs.

Ren: Louis, are you crazy?! 

Louis: Crazy for canines. 

There’s a slightly annoyingly obvious pop culture reference to the famous “Dogs Playing Poker” paintings here. It’s whatever. Fine, I guess. But, it just feels like an easy idea to go with.

Now the dogs get antsy and Louis has to take them for a walk. I swear to GOD!!!! This is one of the funniest moments in the whole series. It’s so simple and stupid but I somehow die laughing every time. The dogs are too much for Louis to handle, so he eventually falls and gets dragged by the dogs. Except Louis becomes an OBVIOUS dummy, which is the point, and it’s hilarious to me.

Look at this. Just LOOK!!! The longer it loops, the funnier it gets. The fact that tiny dogs are dragging him so strongly makes it even better.

When they get back from their walk, Louis puts on The Adventures of Milo and Otis for the dogs to watch.. which is another real life reference. But tell me why all I could think of is the Jonas Brothers episode of Hannah Montana where Miley and Lily disguise themselves as... Milo and Otis... 

Around here is where we really dive into Steve and Donnie’s subplot. Which I actually think has some really strong moments. Both of these characters, especially Donnie, are so underrated. The two find the shambles of an old birdhouse dubbed “Feather-Feather Land” that they started building when Donnie was little, but never finished. They decide to start working on it again and end up completely butting heads about everything all day. Donnie thinks he’s reading the instructions for the birdhouse, but he’s actually reading the instructions for the garage door opener.. which is great. (“Didn’t you find it odd that a birdhouse would have a remote control?!”) They continue to pettily argue over every little thing. One of my favorite moments is when Donnie yells at Steve “You’re making me nervous hovering over me like that!!” To which Steve responds “I’m not hovering… I’m overseeing. At a close distance.” I use this all the time, omg. My other favorite bit is when the mood starts to become less tense and more lighthearted between them. Steve put a “vacancy” sign on the house and Donnie says “What’s with the vacancy sign, Dad? …BIRDS CAN’T READ!” It cracks me up every time. Basically, one thing leads to another and they decide to completely destroy the birdhouse for fun. It’s pretty great.

The sound of destruction coming from the basement causes the dogs to run absolutely wild. This is another montage. It ends with Poopsy completely covered in toilet paper in Ren’s room which I think is super adorable and too cute not to include here.

Louis eventually gets all of the dogs under control conveniently right before all of their owners arrive. This scene is too much. The owners show up one by one to pick up their dogs, and they’re all one-dimensional looking stereotypes??? It’s so ridiculous, lol.

One’s a punk, one’s a hippie, and that last guy is a construction worker you guys! Just in case you couldn’t tell by the fact he’s WEARING HIS HARD HAT LIKE A FASHION STATEMENT.

Louis is all proud of himself once every dog is gone and he’s raked in all the moolah. Except, all the dogs aren’t gone. Mrs. Walters shows up looking for Poopsy. Turns out lil Poopsy is missing in the house somewhere. Louis dramatically puts on a crying act and asks Ren for help with tracking the dog down. Sad violin plays and he starts talking about how Ren was always right… He is a failure. “I’m gonna be in circuses known as The Boy Who Can’t Do Anything. Step right up!! …just don't expect much.” - I love this line sooo much and the way Shia delivers it all fake-sad. Oh my god. This leads us to yet another montage of Louis distracting Mrs. Walters while Ren runs around looking for Poopsy. Obviously, they find him (yes, Poopsy is a boy) and everything’s fine. Yay!

Louis ends up spending his money on a churro machine instead, lol. I never knew what churros were before this show, and Ren’s description of “deep fried dough dipped in sugar” always makes me craaaaave churros. To this day, I still haven’t had one. I never understood how the machine works though. It doesn’t look like the kind of thing that MAKES the churros… rather, just holds them and keeps them hot. So, does Louis make them and then store them in the case??? Who knows.

Another “I ♥ ____” tshirt! That might be one too many, lol. Although, it’s probably meant to highlight Louis’ fickleness. One minute, he loves his dad. The next, he loves dogs. Now? Forget the dogs and the man who gave him life -- churros own his heart. 

So yeah! That’s the episode. This one honestly goes by lightning fast, and I think that’s because of the montages. I’ve always really enjoyed this one, though. From the Poopsy lady, to the Louis dummy, to birds not being able to read vacancy signs... I like it a lot. 

Thanks for reading! :) This review was actually really fun to write, haha. Chime in via Disqus belowww.

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