#someone put benson and randy in here

[grumblrpod]

new blog looking for friends!

hiiii i am looking for friends on tumblr to talk to and giggle with (PLEASEEEE)! my interests are music (any genre really but im back in my emo phase rn), kpop (nct n svt are my fav groups), kyle gallner (i don’t reblog him much bc i don’t see enough of him please hand over the gif collection and feed me content), 2014 aesthetic/nostalgia (please take me back to when i was 12 and life was easy), and anything that’s funny or silly. pls be my friend. tysm love u. oh also i have a podcast (which is this blog) but u don't have to listen! okay thank u <3

[downtilts]

kyle and johnny during their ig live talking about “oh here’s an interesting question, does randy miss benson?” “oh that’s tricky, that’s such a tricky question” well i think randy is 24 and graduating with his associates degree from a local community college and he sees someone wearing yellow out of the corner of his eye and for a second he thinks its benson here to congratulate him to touch his neck and say good job kid and then randy catches himself because benson’s been dead for three years now, but it’s the third time this week he could’ve sworn he saw him. and i think randy is 27 and he’s out on a first date with a guy getting brunch and his date orders the western omelette and randy says excuse me and goes to the bathroom and cries and cries and texts his date saying im sorry but im not feeling well i have to go home. and i think randy is 31 and looking through some old things he left at his mom’s house and he finds benson’s Jacket in a box and he pretends to be surprised like oh i forgot this was here but he knew it was there, he put it way in the back on purpose, out of sight out of mind, but he still thinks about it every day, still wants to put it on every day, is so sad it doesn’t smell like cigarettes anymore

[oleworm]

Did anyone else get the impression that Lisa might have thought Randy was on drugs? He shows up at her workplace several years after they broke up, looking unkempt and wearing clothes that are too big for him and not his style. And there’s a weird older guy hanging around him that he looks more than a little scared of.

Her body language shows that she’s uncomfortable, but I don’t think it means that she’s mad at Randy or that she resents him for something that happened back when they were kids. When she asks him what’s going on and he starts talking about their breakup she looks surprised, like, seriously? Is that what it’s all about? She might have been upset at the time, but she’s moved on in a way that foreshadows the situation with Mrs Beard. Randy might have caused others pain, but their lives didn’t stop because of it. They were able to move on in a way that he didn’t permit himself to.

It’s clear to me that Lisa does care for Randy, or she wouldn’t act the way she does. She humours him and answers his questions, even though she doesn’t owe him anything. And really, imagine your ex from five years ago showing up at work. Would you be so nice? And later, after they’ve discussed their relationship, she’s serious when she expresses her concern. He doesn’t look like himself, and she doesn’t understand him—Benson, a constant and threatening presence in this scene, who intervenes as soon as he sees Randy and Lisa laughing.

Randy needs help. Though perhaps it isn’t the safest moment to mention it—she can tell that she’s in the middle of an awful thing, though not exactly what.

Lisa works with children. She would be sensitive to how people feel without them having to put it into words. She notices that he’s walking on eggshells around Benson. I imagine that she would assume that Randy was in an abusive situation, or that he was doing drugs with this guy. It happens often that a person who is abusing substances isolates themselves, and then for whatever reason starts hitting up people from their past. To reminisce, to ask about what went wrong, especially if they knew each other before things went bad. And here comes Randy out of nowhere, with a haunted look in his eyes. It’s funny that in an earlier scene Benson gives Randy the abusive boyfriend speech, “I don’t want to hurt you, but you forced me to”—I paraphrase—when, in the short time that we see them, he also isolates Randy, but in a manner that does not really fit the conventions of the hostage thriller but more of a realist relationship drama. He separates him from someone who could have been a friend, who after such a long time seems to be looking out for him. He tells Randy how bad Lisa is, and that he is too good for her. He wants to capture Randy’s attention—after all, it is his last day on earth, if consequences follow his actions—and he has dedicated it to “fixing” Randy. It’s interesting how his personal hangups get in the way of his stated intentions—wouldn’t Randy do better in life, if he knew there were people on his side? But Benson projects his past self onto Randy, and number one, it doesn’t seem that he ever got much support from anyone, and number two, as much as believes he wants to help—and I believe he fully does—it fills him with jealousy and rage to see that Randy has what he has not. Love, care, a chance to be.

[youredreamingofroo]

Having finished this rewatch, there's something I wanna point out that I've noticed. (to my mutuals who dgaf about The Passenger, ignore this 🥰🥰 LMFAO)

(I actually noticed on earlier watches but didnt take note of this til now) At the end, when Randy finally leaves the bathroom after deciding to call 911 (which wasnt pushed onto him by Benson or in reply to Benson), he flexes his hand instead of clenches them like he normally would, which kind of signifies relief, and I think that's such a good detail to add, cuz although this decision was incredibly stressful to make and although it looked like and sounded like he didnt want to necessarily get Benson in trouble (avoiding saying He's dangerous ["he might... he- he’s not necessarily gonna hurt anyone,"] and that he could hurt someone), Randy felt relieved, relieved to make a decision, relieved to prevent anyone else from getting hurt or killed, but mostly, relieved to stop Benson (albeit possibly unaware of how far "Stop" can and will go), and He didn't have to look at Benson for an answer, he didnt have to look at Benson to make the call on whether he should dial 911 or not (even then, Benson probably would've just shrugged and made it obvious that it's not his call, it's Randy's choice), he spoke up to Benson about needing to use the bathroom so that he could call the police, he decided to do this, when he could've just stayed silent and continued on as Benson's hostage, he stood up for himself and others, which is what Benson has been insinuating and telling him this entire time, perhaps it's not exactly the decision Benson was hoping he'd make, but he did it- call back to when they're in Benson's house, he decided to get the phone for Ma, but was punished for it, and Benson says "...there’s certain decisions that are bad decisions...-...and they put me in a difficult position. They put me in a bind. Because it forces me to hurt you, when what I really want to do is help you." Now fast forward, where Randy takes Ms. Beard's phone, he uses it to call 911, and (keep with me here) Benson is put into a bind not for the same reason, but because he doesnt believe that Randy could've done it, he is binded into this idea that anyone but Randy could've done it (despite the fact that Randy was in the bathroom and gone long enough to make that call), being stuck like this, he gets angry, he gets stuck in a blind rage, where he accuses Ms. Beard, and in that blind rage, he completely voids Randy out, his blindness forces him to ignore Randy's step infront of Ms. Beard and ignore Randy's attempt to confess, he shoots him, he's """forced""" to hurt randy, and he panics, all he's wanted to do is help Randy, and his own rage and blindness forced him into hurting Randy. Does that make sense?? I kinda of started to ramble >:T I'm just so hyperfixated on this one detail cuz there's so much about it in the few frames it occurs.

[helloitsbees]

hey im going. clinically insane so here's a chunk of Two Young Savage Things, Barely Worth Remembering. think of it like one of those trailers thats straight up just a scene from the movie. enjoy.

When he wakes up in the hospital, they tell him it’s infected, but treatable. They give him antibiotics, tell him to change the dressing regularly. He’s still on his mom’s insurance plan, so he doesn’t need to pay anything out of pocket. 

“How did it happen?” the doctor asks.

He swallows. He’s been out for long enough that anything could’ve happened. Benson could be dead by now– could’ve been shot by the cops, could’ve shot himself. His mom could be waiting for him, ready to take him home. He doesn’t know what he doesn’t know.

“Hunting– hunting accident,” he says, and the doctor nods with a small sigh.

“Sounds about right. You be careful next time, alright?” she says. “Wear a reflective vest. Your buddy was pretty shaken up.”

“My…”

“He’s in the waiting room.” She hands him some papers, care instructions. “You’re free to go.”

He’d laugh at that, if he felt like laughing.

Sure enough, Benson is in the ER waiting room, head tilted back, legs apart, fast asleep. He’s wearing a set of scrubs; someone must’ve given them to him after seeing how ripped and bloodstained his clothes were. His face is peaceful in sleep. He looks younger, nearly Randy’s age.

There’s a cop sitting next to him reading a James Patterson novel, and Randy lets out a breath. It’s over, then. They caught him. He’s oddly touched that the cops let him stay, that they’d let him see that Randy was okay. 

And then the cop’s name is called, and he gets up, nursing a limp, not even giving the man beside him a second glance. 

The elation that rises in Randy without his permission should give him pause, but for once, he lets himself feel something without shutting it behind the walls. He’s happy they didn’t catch him. He’s happy Benson stayed.

Benson stirs, and sees Randy. The look on his face is one of absolute heartbreaking relief. He’s looking at Randy like he’s Jesus emerging from the tomb, like Randy’s the whole reason he was put on this earth. 

“Oh, thank god,” he breathes, and that’s when Randy makes up his mind. 

“Where are we going next?” he says. 

Benson blinks. Creases his brow. Blinks again. “Huh?”

“Do you– y’know what, we should probably go back to the motel first. I’m exhausted.”

“Randy, what are you talking about? You don’t want–”

Wordlessly, Randy heads for the exit; after a beat, Benson follows him. It’s a weird reversal of the day’s events, and Randy revels in it. 

His brain is moving faster than it has in years. He starts talking. 

“I don’t– I don’t know what I want,” Randy says. ”I don’t think I ever have. Part of me got stuck back there when I was seven, and– and I’ve been kind of…I don’t know. Letting the rest of my life happen to me. I think I’ve always been sleepwalking. And what you did– it woke me up.” Boundaries, some part of him whispers, and he adds, “I mean, what you did to Chris and Jess and Hardy and Martha was wrong, Benson, and– and it was horrible and unforgivable, and if you kill or hurt anyone else, I’ll leave. I’ll call the cops again, and I won’t help you run, and it’ll be over. But other than that…I wanna be awake. I wanna come with you.”

They’re at the car now, and Benson is staring at him.

“Randy,” he says again, like it’s all he can say.

“Benson,” Randy says, just to be contrary.

Benson works his hand over his own face, fingers shaking as they smooth his mustache down. “I– if you get in that car, it’s– we’ll have to keep running,” he says hoarsely. “They’re gonna keep looking for me.”

“For us.” Randy nods, his heart in his throat. He doesn’t think he’s ever felt the wind so keenly against his skin, doesn’t think the wet pavement has ever smelled so sweet, doesn’t think Benson’s eyes have ever been so green. Everything feels electric, like the air before a thunderstorm. “I know. I don’t care. I don’t want to stay here.”

“You mean it?”

“Yeah.” He’s never meant anything before, he thinks. He means this.

Benson starts to smile, then, wild and sharp. “Alright. Get in the car, then.”

[ace-of-hearts-and-spades]

EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP MEG POSTED A NEW FIC FOR THE PASSENGER I REPEAT WE HAVE A NEW RANSON FIC 🗣️🗣️📢📢

I'm VIBRATING IN MY SEAT I'm EXPLODING I am LAUNCHING MYSELF INTO SPACE YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. This is so fuckin soft and sweet and aughaughaah they deserve it after all the fuckass shit they've survived and been through (because they definitely did survive, one-hundy percent, no denial to see here folks 🫡)

Anyways the rest of my stupid play-by-play rambling is under the cut. But suffice to say I loved this and I'm obsessed with it and I'm going to be rereading it several times okay.

Love that Benson wakes up with backpain lmao. Me the fuck too man. Me 🤝 Benson fr.

Not a chance with this marshmallow bed and the sun popping its stupid Raisin Bran fucking face through the blinds. Benson sleeps dark and cold and silent with his back to the wall. Arms locked in front of his chest like armor. Like a corpse on a slab.  Or he used to, anyway.

God this part is just so fuckin Benson. The fucking scathingness of marshmallow and Raisin Bran fucking face is perfect and also very funny to me. But of course he sleeps like a corpse on the slab, like he's protecting himself or like he's just a living dead boy shell of a human facade......... I feel ill.

He inhales slow and deep and he smells warm and bright and a little grimey. Like summer. Like sweat and mud and the most beautiful blue sky you’ve ever seen.

RANDY SMELLS LIKE SUMMER............ JOTTING THIS DOWN THIS IS SO REAL THIS IS SO FITTING of course he smells like summer to Benson ouhgoghufgfghh 😭😭😭

And the nightmares they both have that wake them both up and how they try to support each other in different ways?? ow ow OW my fucking HEART. BENSON'S HAD SO MANY NIGHTMARES ABOUT SUFFOCATING THAT HE CAN'T DO THAT ANYMORE!!!!!!!!!!!! WHAT IF I KILLED SOMEBODY ABOUT THIS!!!!!!!!!!!

Sometimes he wants to fuck them up. Track mud across the carpet, break a dish. Say the wrong thing. Bite down too hard.

Ahhhh classic push-them-away-so-they-can't-hurt-me-first typa deal. I can totally envision Benson doing this. Keeping everyone at arm's length, and when anyone gets too close, he purposefully sabotages any potential capacity for a relationship. He's come to expect being a fuckup. But then Randy just pierces through his defenses and despite everything, despite how they came together..... he just can't. And more than that, he simply doesn't want to.

There’s been a violence in Benson for as long as he can remember. Bone-deep. And it’s a magnet, pulls other violence right to him like wasps to fresh meat.

Obsessed with this imagery oughhhhh

And Benson likes being Randy's guard dog...... fuck of course he does. He loves getting to pretend that he isn't a wobbly-legged calf too, standing by the edge of the road and watching the cars pass by and waiting for the day one comes too close and splatters him across the pavement or the day someone decides it's finally time to put this old cow out of its misery. Wow okay that got dark. Sorry. My brain went somewhere.

The version of himself who’s confident and decisive and knows who Trent Reznor is.

Stoppppp that's so fucking cute 🥺

“If you fall out I’m leaving your ass behind.”  “No you wouldn’t.”  “You’re right, I wouldn’t.” 

Literally my reaction lmao "shut the fuck up benson u liar we know u wouldn't."

Also I fucking love the details of Randy having crust in his eyes and leaving a pink mark on his cheek and Benson's chest from where he was pressed up against him. It's so realistic and almost...... I want to say deromanticized? But it's still so soft and sweet. It feels more genuine, almost.

And Randy talking about the dream where they're at the beach and Benson punches a shark so hard it dies had me giggling out loud. That's so fucking amazing oh my God. But then Benson says he's never been to the beach........... "Like loss except you never had the thing in the first place. Like realizing maybe you’re supposed to be mourning something but you don’t really know what that something is or why it’s so important." Brb launching myself out of a window ahhhhhhh 😭😭😭

Okay but then Randy starts trying to "convince" Benson to go to the beach with him 👀 👀 👀 Okay. Okay.................... 👀

OKAY I'M DONE NOW LOL THAT WAS A LOT. Fucking incredible work as always my friend. Your fics are always such a treat gahhhhh mwah mwah mwah a thousand kisses for Meg 💕💕💕

folger's, eat your heart out

oh my god this got away from me so bad it's wanted in twelve states. but it's done (is anything ever done) and i'm.......i'm quite happy with it. i really hope you like it.

4.3k words. canon divergence, boys on the run. established relationship. character study, lots of introspection. implied sexual content, nothing too explicit. so much kissing. hand job. light s/m. night terrors and vague mention of canon-typical trauma. mostly soft, so soft. benson is so in love and doesn't know it yet <3

read on ao3 here if that's more your speed.

It’s a Tuesday. Benson knows this because his eyes snap open automatically at five in the morning even though he hasn’t set an alarm in weeks. He opens on Tuesdays, been on that schedule for so long he doesn’t even need the alarm anymore anyways. 

Well, he used to open on Tuesdays. 

He wakes up slow. Gets a savage satisfaction out of being somewhere unfamiliar, revels in it. With bleary eyes he traces the outline of the water damage on the ceiling and it’s different than the one back home. Room smells different too, stale sweat and dust and complimentary green tea bar soap. The mattress is too fucking soft, folds around him like dough. His spine is electric with pain. 

Fuck, he’s getting old. Twenty-nine going on fifty. 

He drags a hand over his face and wishes he could fall back asleep. Not going to happen. Not a chance with this marshmallow bed and the sun popping its stupid Raisin Bran fucking face through the blinds. Benson sleeps dark and cold and silent with his back to the wall. Arms locked in front of his chest like armor. Like a corpse on a slab. 

Or he used to, anyway. 

He can’t feel his left arm. He pushes his chin into his throat at an odd angle to look down at Randy, still asleep, curled up on Benson’s chest like a sandy-colored cat. His hands are tucked together, long, knobby fingers folded over each other, resting in the center of Benson’s ribs. The sun takes each strand of his hair and wraps it in gold, even his eyelashes, laying long and pretty on his cheeks. 

Fuck Folger’s. Nothing comes close to this. 

It’s surreal, still. Being here, being anywhere, together. Like, together. Unbelievable the way he fits so neatly under Benson’s arm. He rests his lips against the crown of Randy’s head. He does it because he wants to, because he can. He inhales slow and deep and he smells warm and bright and a little grimey. Like summer. Like sweat and mud and the most beautiful blue sky you’ve ever seen. Fucking perfect, he’s perfect. 

He's peaceful now, which is saying something. Randy’s a terrible sleeper. Sharing a bed with him is punishing. He thrashes in his sleep, digs elbows into Benson’s ribs and jolts him awake in a panic ready to fight, and then Benson has to stare into the abyss and count to a thousand before he can calm the fuck down and drift off again. 

He never talks about his nightmares. Benson knows he has them, but he knows better than to ask about shit like that. On occasion he’ll wake up to Randy tugging on his arm, pulling it around him like a security blanket. He doesn’t mind that in the least, rolls over half asleep and wraps himself around Randy’s sweat-soaked body. He pins his arms to his sides for both their sakes, buries his face against the back of his neck, and that’s that. Problem solved. 

Benson, on the other hand, sleeps like the dead–save for the nights he wakes up screaming and doesn’t realize he’s doing it. Doesn't even know he's awake until he sees Randy’s face floating above him in the dark, wide-eyed like some twig-limbed owl. Until he feels his hands on his face, wiping salt from his cheeks. 

Shit sucks, because then he has to turn all the lights on and pace the room, chewing on a cigarette and cracking his neck ‘til it's sore, trying to walk it off. Randy sits on the bed hugging his knees to his chest and watches him like a hawk. But he doesn't speak, doesn't try to push it, waits patiently until Benson crawls back into bed and lets him decide where he wants to be. 

He can't stand to be touched during and after those episodes, always hated when his ma would try to smother him when he was still young enough to smother, but funny enough, Randy’s okay. Doesn't seem to count. Maybe it's because he lets him set the pace and doesn't get his feelings hurt when Benson curls up on the edge of the mattress with pillows stacked between them. Either way, most times Benson falls back asleep with his head tucked into the hollow of Randy's neck and those skinny arms slung around his shoulders. And the light on.

The night terrors aren’t new, but it’s been a while since they’ve been this bad. It’s like they’ve worked their way to the surface of his brain. Like a splinter finding its way out of the skin. He doesn’t like Randy seeing him that way, but he can’t really help it. He used to sleep on his stomach with his face in the pillow so he wouldn’t wake Ma and have to deal with her on top of everything else, but he had so many nightmares about suffocating he can't do it anymore. 

But Randy never lets Benson apologize in the morning, insists he doesn't mind being woken up. He's told him that again and again, so often that Benson’s starting to believe him. They’re both fucked in the head just enough that it makes it okay. No hard feelings. 

Last night was quiet for both of them, for once. Benson wishes he was still asleep to take advantage of it, but this is nice too. He can feel Randy’s breath on his collarbone and it’s driving him crazy, a little bit. He’s not used to nice things. He’s always scared he’s gonna fuck them up somehow. Sometimes he wants to fuck them up. Track mud across the carpet, break a dish. Say the wrong thing. Bite down too hard. 

He’s learning how to be gentle. He’s trying, like, really trying. Randy doesn’t make it easy, that’s for damn sure. The way he whimpers when Benson’s hands are on him isn’t fucking fair. The way he bares his throat and gasps and begs. And then he shows Benson the marks afterwards like he’s proud of them, like Benson wasn’t there when he got them. 

“You did a number on me,” he said last night with this sheepish grin, almost giddy, leaning over the sink to look at himself in the mirror. Prodding at the bite mark on his shoulder, the hickies on his neck. Never mind all the shit he couldn’t see from that angle, but Benson saw it. The shape of his body all over Randy’s in bruises. 

Made him feel kinda good and kinda bad, sort of guilty, but then Randy looked over at him with those eyes, hair all mussed, bottom lip cherry red and swollen, and said with unmistakable adoration, “You’re an animal, Bence.” 

Un-fucking-fair. 

But he’s trying, he is. Trying to ease up on the reins. Trying to be soft, because Randy needs soft no matter what he asks Benson for in the dark. He can’t fuck this up. Can’t fuck him up; at least, not any more than he already has. On the list of things he’s ever wanted to fuck up in the world, Randy is at the bottom. 

And it’s good too, the lovey-dovey bullshit. It’s good. It’s great. The way Randy falls asleep on his shoulder halfway through the movie, any movie, no matter how good it is or how loud it’s turned up or how much Benson promised him he was gonna like it. The way he bumps his knuckles against Benson’s when they’re standing shoulder-to-shoulder, just because. Just to touch him. He’ll catch him smiling at him for no reason, all the time, just glance over and there he is looking like they’re on their way to Disney World. No one's ever smiled at him like that. He’s not even doing anything to earn it, he’s just living his fucking life. The fact of his existence is apparently an ongoing novelty to Randy. 

Crazy fucking kid. 

Benson feels like he’s body-swapped with someone on better terms with luck and the skin doesn’t fit quite right but fuck, he’s figuring out how to make it work. He doesn’t get handed things like this. Good things with no strings attached. He’s always kind of on edge, always waiting for someone to break down the door and haul him away. For someone to pause the laugh track and punch through the set. For Randy to suffer a moment of clarity and tell him to go fuck himself. 

He’s never had this kind of good, never expected it. Never really thought he deserved it. And Randy sure doesn't deserve this kind of bizarre sideways bullshit that makes up the best that Benson can offer. He deserves better from him. From everyone. From life. Benson keeps trying to tell him that. 

Too bad he can't quite convince him. Too bad Benson’s selfish and couldn't let go of him if he tried. Wouldn't even try. Wouldn't turn out well. 

He runs his thumb across the angle of Randy's cheekbone, feather-light. He wants to let him sleep and he wants him to wake up and he doesn’t know which he wants more. He draws lines across his cheek, from the corner of his mouth, along the edge of his jaw, carefully, carefully, so gentle his hand shakes. He’s probably never been hit in the face. Probably never had a black eye, broken nose. Shy, scared, beautiful thing. 

There’s been a violence in Benson for as long as he can remember. Bone-deep. And it’s a magnet, pulls other violence right to him like wasps to fresh meat. Sometimes he loves it, sometimes he hates it. He always falls back on it, no matter how hard he tries to leave it behind or wrap it up so tight it can’t get out. He fails again and again. But it doesn’t scare Randy anymore. In fact, it’s like Randy gives it justification. Permission. Validates it. Like maybe it’s hung around this whole time just so Benson could learn how to use it, for his sake. To protect him. At least until he figures out how to protect himself. 

And Randy’s learning, he is. Stands up taller, takes up space. Orders his own food at restaurants. But Benson kind of likes playing guard dog. Likes being needed in that way, and others. Likes being needed by Randy in particular. 

Benson’s already killed for him, so it’s like he’s always trying to find a way to top that. That should be hard, right, but Randy makes it easy. Gets excited over nothing, little shit like finding both their names on some dumb souvenir keychains. Or when he brings him a bag of plain fucking potato chips, his favorite. Or when Benson covers his eyes before the money shot in some gore flick because he’s a pussy and also it dredges up some shit for him that neither of them wants to think about. The way he lights up about that stuff, stupid little stuff, makes Benson feel worthwhile in a way he can’t describe. 

For all he goes on about helping Randy become the best version of himself, the version of himself who’s confident and decisive and knows who Trent Reznor is, sometimes Benson gets the feeling like maybe, Randy’s the one making him better. Not changing him, not really, just…making him kind of okay. Making it all kind of okay. There are so many things Benson’s taken for granted, never thought twice about. About himself, about his life, about where both of those things would end up and how they’d get there. Randy makes him reconsider. Makes it worth reconsidering. 

It feels wrong to stop him. Might as well let him try. What’s it gonna hurt?

Sometimes he wants to laugh in disbelief at it all. Who the fuck is he these days? Going soft right and left and glad for it. He feels like he’s on another planet. Hundreds of miles from home, no phone, no way back. Shooting towards the sun with everything he needs inside his shitty little rocket ship of a car. 

Randy’s a spaceman for sure, no question. Ever since they turned west and hit the desert, he hangs out the window when they drive at night through all that nothing, head craned back to look at the sky. 

“The fuck you think you’re doing?” Benson asked him the first time, when he rolled down the window and started climbing out like a fucking lunatic. 

“Looking at the stars,” Randy said. “There’s so many, Benson…you should look.” 

“No thanks, I'm driving.” 

“I mean…you could stop first.”

“I’ve seen stars, Randy.” 

Randy was halfway out the window so his reply was almost lost to the wind. “Not like this.” 

Benson reached over and grabbed him by the pocket of his jeans. “If you fall out I’m leaving your ass behind.” 

He let Benson pull him back inside then, and stared right at him in this new way of his. This new, brave Randy who had finally shaken some of that paralyzing fear of confrontation and figured out how to be direct. “No you wouldn’t.” 

Benson had looked at him for as long as he could without drifting into the other lane, and then looked at him a little bit longer and had to course correct. “You’re right, I wouldn’t.” 

He’s right. He wouldn’t. 

Benson lets the memory slide away and finds Randy gazing up at him here and now, eyes crusted with sleep. He feels a twinge in his chest like a guitar string being plucked. The whole room is golden now. 

“Morning, sunshine,” he says, and even he can hear the velvet in his voice. Feels self-conscious about it for a second until he gets distracted by Randy wrinkling his nose to stave off a yawn. 

“Morning,” he murmurs, peels his cheek off Benson's chest and leaves a pink circle behind that matches the one on his face. He rubs at his eyes and gives him that dumb Disney World smile. “Sleep well?”  

“Slept great.” Benson swipes away a stray eye booger from the inside corner of Randy’s left eye. “Nice to have one single solitary night where I don't have to fight you to the death.”

Randy bites the inside of his cheek, looks bashful. Benson fucking loves it. “Well, I mean…you wore me out pretty good last night.”

Benson smirks, takes hold of the back of Randy’s neck and pulls him back into his shoulder. “Yeah I did. I oughta do that more often.”

Randy worms his arm beneath the covers and around Benson’s waist and it gives him honest-to-god butterflies. He runs his fingers through Randy’s hair. It's getting fucking long, almost falls past his ears. He keeps asking him to cut it and Benson keeps refusing. It's got this little flip at the ends that he thinks is cute. He bets it’ll grow out into gorgeous fucking waves when it hits his shoulders. 

He takes a fistful and squeezes, does that a couple times before he tugs his head up so they’re nose-to-nose. Randy’s eyelids slide half-closed and his lips part on reflex. 

“What you wanna do today?” Benson murmurs. He can feel Randy’s breath on his chin, licks his lips. 

“...just this,” Randy says, almost a whisper. 

“That’s it?”  

“Yeah.”  

“You’re not bored of this?”  

“No.”  

Benson almost smiles. “Me neither.”

He pushes Randy's head back down into the curve of his neck, rides the swell of satisfaction he gets from his frustrated groan. “Don’t worry, babe, we got all day. How about you, how’d you sleep?”  

“Good.”  His thumb moves back and forth along Benson’s hip and it’s electric, feels like he’s got lightning bolts shooting around under his skin, makes his muscles twitch. He’s still not used to that. Gentle shit like that. “Had a dream about you.”

“No shit?”  He’s not sure anyone’s ever dreamt about him before. He’s kinda flattered. “Was it hot?”  

Randy snorts. “No, it wasn’t…like that. We, uh…we were at the beach.”  

Benson screws up his eyebrows, looks down at Randy. He can’t see his face from this angle. “The beach?”  

“Yeah. We were just, like…there. Just messing around. I mean, there were other people there, but they didn’t…matter.”  

Benson doesn’t know what to make of this. “Huh. That’s it?  Just…beach day?”  

“Yeah. Well, I mean, until the end. A shark showed up and you…punched it so hard that it died.”  

Benson does a genuine double-take. “I punched a shark. And it died?”  

Now Randy twists, looks up at him, smiling. “Yeah. It was awesome.”  

It sounds kind of awesome. Benson pokes him in the ribs. “You’re a fucking dork.”  

“I’m just telling you what happened!”  

“Look, Randy, I’ve never been to the beach, but I’ve seen Jaws about one thousand times and I know for a fact a shark would swallow my ass whole. And it would eat you and not even know that it happened. I’m not saying I’m scared, I’m just saying, don’t count on me to save you from a fucking sea monster.”  

Randy doesn’t laugh and Benson looks at him and he’s making that face, that little frown and the line on his forehead that means that Benson just said something puzzling. Here we go. He tenses up without meaning to, braces for it. Grits his teeth, pops his knuckles. 

“You’ve…really never been to the beach?”  

Fuck, he hates this feeling. Like loss except you never had the thing in the first place. Like realizing maybe you’re supposed to be mourning something but you don’t really know what that something is or why it’s so important. He knows his upbringing wasn’t shit compared to Randy’s, compared to most kids’. He just wishes he could grow out of giving a shit about it. 

So he gets defensive. He always gets defensive. “No, I’ve never been to the fucking beach. What’s so super-duper special about a bunch of sand?  And water that’s mostly fish piss?”  

Randy props himself up on his elbow, leans lightly on Benson’s chest, completely unfazed by his attitude. “Well…let’s go. You can decide for yourself.”  

“To the beach?” Benson says incredulously. “Randy, we’re in fucking New Mexico.”  

“Not–not today.”  Randy waves his hand dismissively. “We can leave tomorrow. Make a beeline for California.”  

And that’s that. The magical realism of the newly reformed Randy Fucking Bradley. No pity. No shame. Just the simplest solution in the whole damn universe. 

“California.”  Benson pictures the Beach Boys and hippies on rollerskates, rolls his eyes. “Sounds dreamy.”  

“It’ll be worth it, Benson, I promise.”  Randy looks at him with those puppy-dog eyes, chews his lip, slides his arm around Benson’s waist. He knows what the fuck he’s doing, the little shit; he’s too smart for his own good. “We don’t have to stay. We can leave as soon as we get there. I just…I think you would like it.” He leans a little heavier against Benson’s ribs, nudges his foot with his toes. “Please?”  

Benson huffs. He’s not a fucking pushover, swear to God he’s not, but it’s like he can’t help but fold these days. He’s gonna spoil the guy rotten if he’s not careful. He has to at least pretend to put up a fight, just to say he tried. “What if I say no?”  

His brow furrows. The puppy-dog eyes flick down to his mouth and back. “Well...maybe I could convince you.”  

One of Benson’s eyebrows pops up. He likes the sound of that. “I’m listening.”  

Randy sits up unsteadily on the marshmallow mattress and straddles Benson’s hips, tucking his hands beneath the pillow on either side of his head. Benson looks up at him, the angles of his face kissed by the sun, and feels a pleasant sort of ache in his chest. It's almost the same feeling as when he finally gave in and pulled over and let Randy sit on the hood, leaned back next to him and looked up at the stars and felt big and small at the same time. 

“It’s amazing, Bence…you can't even imagine.”  His thighs press against Benson's waist, wrists press against his shoulders. 

“Yeah?” Benson licks his lips. His eyes can’t move fast enough, trying to take in every piece of his face, of his body, his name written all over all of it in red and purple. “Tell me about it.”  

Randy's hair is hanging over his face like a messy kind of halo. He peers through it with this earnest intensity, this lion cub ferocity that might be the hottest thing Benson's ever seen. He shifts his weight to one hand and strokes the sensitive spot behind Benson’s ear with his thumb, sends chills spidering across his skin. 

“The smell of the water and–and the sound. You never forget it. And it makes you feel…it’s massive. It’s amazing.” 

“You know what else is massive?”  

Randy stifles a chuckle, looks away, color rising in his cheeks. Benson grins. “Listen to me, Benson.”

“I'm listening!”

“It makes you feel…it makes you feel small, I guess. But not in a bad way. We could just walk around or maybe…swim a little bit?”

Benson pictures Randy with wet hair, dark and wavy, water rolling down his neck. Salt water, salty skin. “Could be nice.”

“We can do whatever you want.”  He curls his toes against Benson’s thighs. “We could get ice cream and sit in the sun.”

The image of melted sticky sugar dripping over Randy’s hand, down his arm, hits Benson like a truck. Knocks the wind right out of him. He thinks about licking it off, watching him suck it off his own fingers. He wraps his hands behind Randy's knees and grips harder than he means to. 

“That sounds, uh…that sounds good. I’m into that,” Benson says and he sounds like a moron in his own ears but it makes Randy smile so it's fine. He can feel the blood rushing away from his brain as fast as it can and he’s about ready to give in and end the discussion. Move on to other things. 

Randy gets that earnest, uncertain look in his eyes all the sudden and touches Benson's face, brushes his thumb across the lines at the corner of his eyes in this foreign kind of way that Benson’s brain registers passively as tenderness, and all the sudden he can't breathe right. His throat’s fucked up like he’s getting sick. He swallows hard. 

“I want to–I want to kiss you in the ocean,” Randy says quietly. “I think…I'd really like that.” 

So now this is the only thing Benson cares about. His number-one goal. A shining and glorious reason to be alive. He’s going to kiss Randy in the ocean if it’s the last thing he fucking does. 

“How about you kiss me right here, huh?”  He cups the back of Randy’s neck and pulls him in, hard, yanks him really, because he can’t fucking help it. Because he wants him right now, right fucking now. 

Randy resists, just a little, on reflex, and then gets overeager and his lips crash into Benson’s, but that’s okay. Randy kisses like he’s starved for it, always, no matter how long they’ve been at it. Even now, first thing in the fucking morning, he opens his mouth expectantly and moans when Benson slips his tongue past his teeth, one hand twisting the sheets, the other gripping his shoulder. He’s greedy, wants more, always more, is done depriving himself after fourteen years of solitude. 

They’re a perfect match because Benson wants to give it to him. Anything he wants, everything, always, no matter where they are or how much skin is showing. He wants to share his space, his spit, his air, his anger, every inch of the car, every inch of the sky. All the bad nights. All the good ones, too. All the golden mornings that come after. 

Benson laps at Randy’s bottom lip, catches it in his teeth and pulls. He digs his fingers into the half-healed shadow of his own hand on Randy’s waist from all the times before, opens his mouth to catch the gasp that wrenches free from his chest and swallows it whole. 

“Benson,” Randy says, breathes his name like an exclamation of wonder. He presses the length of his body against Benson’s, weaves his fingers through the curls at the back of his neck and squeezes tight. He moves his hips in short, subconscious little thrusts, makes a desperate, hungry noise in the back of his throat. Benson can feel him hard against his stomach and fuck, he better pop a handful of painkillers for his back because they’re not leaving this shitty bed anytime soon. 

Randy leans to the side so there’s a little breathing room between them. He runs his hand over Benson's chest, down his stomach, wraps his fingers around his dick and the sound Benson makes is strangled, animal. 

“We can go, right?” Randy says. He strokes him like he can barely contain himself. “We can leave tomorrow?”

Benson arches his aching spine against the bullshit fucking mattress, digs his nails into Randy's back, feels lucky. Feels like a spaceman. 

“Fuck yes. Fuck–yes–you got it, baby.”

Randy lights up and it's like staring into the sun. Transcendent. Fucking beautiful. 

He twists out of Benson's grasp and ducks beneath the sheets and Benson can't fucking stand it. Can’t believe it’s real. He feels weightless, so light he just might end up way out there with all the stars. Nothing comes close to this, never has, never will. It’s not fair. He probably doesn’t deserve it. But no one ever said life was fair, now, did they?  Sooner or later the odds had to end up in your favor.

He closes his eyes and grips the sheets and lets it be, lets it all be for once. Because for once, it's good. He's good. He's great. And they’re leaving tomorrow. For California.

Sounds dreamy. 

tagging a couple friends who have gassed me up and been so patient sdlkfjlsk i just adore you guys <3

@crumb @ace-of-hearts-and-spades @cherubgore

[ashintheairlikesnow]

Misread Details: Robert

CW: Dehumanizing language, BBU blanket warning, serial killer/death talk, descriptions of death/abduction/murder, blood, whumper death, some real vague implied noncon references, creepy whumper, sadistic whumper

Part One: Nanda | Part Two: Brute | Part Three: Robert

The Dark Discovery in Robert Weber’s Basement: Box Boy Killer, Part 3

r/LetsTalkTrueCrime

•Posted by u/oshaycanyousee

3 days ago

After Part One, where we learned about the mysterious, but possibly entirely natural, death of Nathaniel “Nanda” Benson, and Part Two, where we saw Henry “Brute” Hanlon’s double life lead to his untimely gruesome murder, you see the single thread that connects these two men who otherwise never met, interacted, or even shared a single person in common… a nameless Box Boy, present at the death of Nanda even if he isn’t responsible for it, and the proven killer of Brute.

It’s my theory that this Box Boy may have accidentally killed his legal owner, Nanda, and then picked up a taste for the act and moved on to taking shelter with those he turns into his victims.

With Brute, he simply didn’t know the man had a wife and children and entire other life, and may have assumed no one would come looking for him or recognize his death. With our third individual, Robert Weber, it seems like our Box Boy Serial Killer got in over his head.

I give you… the Accidental Vigilante death of Robert Weber.

You decide if our unknown killer is simply the unluckiest guy in the world or a killer who even now may be somewhere living with - and earning the trust of - his next victim.

-

One bright and sunny day in the quaint, old-fashioned California town of Rancher’s Rest, Robert Weber was late for work.

Weber worked in a vehicle repair business owned by lifelong “RR” resident Randy Niles, who had known Weber since his childhood and had been his boss since Weber was eighteen years old and fresh out of high school.

Niles, who is now nearly seventy-five and still spends his days in the shop with an Australian Shepherd named Cody and a blind pit bull named Sue keeping him company everywhere he goes, stated that Weber had no living family he knew of beyond his sister in Vermont, and he was just about the closest thing Weber had to a relative just from having known him so long.

“He didn’t have too much to do with his sister,” Randy said in an interview with Unsolved Mysteries. (You can see the interview on the new Netflix reboot of the show! It’s a really good episode, definitely recommend. It’s how I got into this case in the first place.) “Or nobody, really. Just us at work, the guys at the bar, that kinda thing. He was quiet, kept to himself really. You’d never just strike up a chat around town or anything. But he got on just fine with the boys here in the shop. He was a bit of an egghead, too, always going on about this thing or that he’d seen on the news. Little… odd. Little bit off, you might say. But really, who isn’t? In any case, you know, I’d known him since he was a little boy, so he was just Bobby Weber to me.”

Then, of course, one day Robert Weber didn’t show up to work. Randy Niles immediately felt that something was very wrong.

“When nine, nine-thirty came and went and he wasn’t there,” Niles said, “I knew someone needed to go check on him. Bobby showed up for work right on time or ten minutes early, rain or shine, for twenty years. My first thought was maybe he’d had an accident at home, or some kind of, you know, health thing. Almost never called in sick, took one vacation a year, that kinda thing. So I drove right on over there. This would’ve been, oh, probably ten or ten-fifteen when I got to the house. Had my dogs with me, and they never did like Bobby much, but as soon as I opened my door and got out of my truck they just lost their damn minds. Barking, growling, Cody’s hackles were up like you wouldn’t believe. I know it sounds damn crazy, but I’m sure those dogs could smell that evil had been done in that house.”

On camera, Niles goes quiet, here, his gaze slipping away from the interviewer as he scratches at the side of his nose. When he looks back, the hint of good humor that seems to be an eternal part of his expression is gone.

“I didn’t know what Bobby had been up to all this time. None of us knew. I’ve known Bobby Weber his whole life, and I… I had no idea.”

Randy Niles was unable to convince his two dogs to exit the truck, and eventually rolled down the windows to give them some air and a way out if they chose (he is insistent on this point in the Unsolved Mysteries episode - “don’t you dare say I left my dogs locked up in a truck on a sunny day, I sure didn’t - Cody even knows how to pull a door handle if it’s the right kind”) and got out to knock on Robert Weber’s front door.

No one answered.

Niles knocked again. Still no response.

The front door was locked, but Niles was able to locate an unlocked back door into the garage, where he found Weber’s car neatly parked and nothing out of place. However, once he used an interior door in the garage to enter Weber’s home, what he found was so shocking he still struggles to describe it today.

“The, uh. The first thing I saw,” Niles says in the Unsolved Mysteries episode, wiping at his mouth with a handkerchief, “was a cage. Big old cage in the living room. Like a kennel for a big dog, Great Dane or something, except… except, you know, kennels’re usually mostly wire, not that heavy. You can fold ‘em up, put ‘em away. This was… geez. This was pure metal. Bunch of blankets all piled at the bottom, too. Here’s the-... you know, my mind just didn’t want to even make the thought, but I just, I looked at it and-”

In the episode, Niles has to take another moment, here. His eyes grow wet, and his voice is hoarse when he speaks again. “People cage. Bobby had a damn man-sized cage in his living room. That’s when my stomach just fell out. Even then, though, I couldn’t-... I just thought, oh, well, what people get up to in their own homes is their business. But still, I just. I just decided, find Bobby, figure the rest out later. So I kept walking around looking for him.”

Randy Niles continued to call out, hoping to hear Weber’s response, but received none… at first. The radio in the kitchen was playing a local public radio station (“Bobby always hated the country western and classic rock we played at work, he was a big news man, big into classical, jazz, you know.”)

Niles noticed, he says, that the cage next to the couch had a wooden top, as though it were meant to act as a side table, and on that table was a small woven basket. Inside the basket appeared to be several State IDs and Driver’s licenses. Niles took note of this but his first assumption was maybe that Robert Weber had stolen some IDs or something.

Which was technically true, just… not quite the way he thought.

The kitchen, hallway, and all three bedrooms were equally empty of life. Every room was clean, everything neatly in place. Empty bottles of Jameson whiskey, Weber’s favorite brand, were lined up like décor along the mantel, and one half-full bottle was next to two clean, empty glasses on the kitchen table.

Even the beds were perfectly made.

The only thing missing was any sign of Robert Weber himself.

The question of Weber’s whereabouts was answered when Randy Niles heard a sound coming from the open door to Weber’s unfinished dirt basement.

“Like a ghost,” Niles said in his interview. “Just this low moaning sound. Hardly even thought of it as human, you know. But I just-... I called out, ‘Bobby? That you?’ and the moaning got a little louder, like whoever it was was tryin’ to answer. I could still hear my girls in the truck just going nuts, probably worried about me knowing what they maybe could smell even out there. I figured… I figured I’d best call the cops and get them out here. Seemed like a plan. So I picked up my phone and dialed, and then I headed down those basement steps.”

What Randy Niles discovered in Robert Weber’s basement was a dying man, battered and stabbed eight times, lying in a half-dug grave.

Robert Weber had been beaten with the very shovel that had done the digging. The shovel lay off to the side, caked in dirt and blood. Police would find some of Robert Weber’s hair on it, too. Then, the individual who had beaten him had gone back upstairs - blood smears were found on the railing to the stairs - and taken a kitchen knife out of the knife block on the countertop. A bloody fingerprint was found on the side of the knife block. They had then returned to the basement where Weber was stabbed, almost entirely through the stomach and chest, twenty-six times, until the cheap knife simply broke from the force.

Randy Niles admitted in his interview that he became very ill at this time. “From the shock,” He elaborated. “I haven’t been able to smell much since I was in a car wreck when I was young, so I didn’t smell what-... what my girls prob’ly smelled from outside, and what the cops smelled. To me, it was just… just a little off, is all. It was the sight of it that got to me, not the smell. The sight of the-... the hand.”

Behind Robert Weber’s body, the hand of another person was sticking up out of the loose dirt, as though someone was trying to dig their way out.

“I remember… I remember her nail polish was pink. That’s when I got sick, actually, was when I saw that hand with the painted nails. That’s when it just hit me all at once what Bobby had done.”

Randy Niles went back up the stairs and waited for the cops to arrive. Rancher’s Rest is a small town where everybody knows just about everybody else, and Niles was on a first-name basis with every single police officer he spoke to that day and in the days after. He would learn alongside the investigation that Robert Weber was not simply the quiet, intellectual car mechanic he had always seemed.

Instead, Robert Weber was a serial killer whose potential final victim had managed a miraculous, deadly escape.

Robert Weber never answered a single question about his own murder - he never fully regained consciousness and died in the ambulance on the way to the hospital. His injuries were simply too severe. His autopsy showed that the cause of death was a stab wound that went deep into his chest and that he was first stabbed only after the beating with the shovel had taken place. Like Brute, most of his stab wounds were applied post-mortem in a rage rather than as part of the killing itself.

Medical examiners also found scratches on Weber’s face and arms, indicating that he had attempted to defend himself - or someone else had attempted to defend themself from him.

So why was Robert Weber killed, and why was there already a body in his basement? Investigators would piece together the story over the following days and weeks from a crime scene that only seemed to become darker and more baffling as time went on.

Excavating the basement was originally thought to be something that would be brief, but after the first body was removed, another one was found beneath it. Then another off to the side of that. And another, although this was simply bones.

Every time the forensics team thought they’d found the last human bone, they dug a little deeper or in a new spot and found more.

Eventually, the remains of twenty-two individuals would be removed from the basement of Robert Weber’s home, not including Weber himself. The oldest located victim was identified as Melinda Traxson, an Iowa woman reported missing by her family after she ran away in March of 1996… more than two decades before Robert Weber didn’t come to work one day.

Investigators are still working to match up every body with a missing persons’ case. For nearly all of them, the cause of death could not be easily ascertained due to the deterioration of the remains, but some showed signs of skull fractures. Identified individuals so far include:

Melinda Traxson, 19, from Iowa, ran away from home in 1996.

Billie Mortimer, 21, disappeared from a day out with friends at Lake Tahoe one year later in the summer of 1997. Her friends went to get lunch from the car after a swim and when they returned, she was gone.

Matthew Ranger, 22, went missing during a road trip to Yellowstone National Park in 1997 (only five months after Billie). His car was found abandoned by the side of the road with a flat tire.

Karl Janssen, 24, a tourist from the Netherlands who was also visiting Yellowstone, disappeared a month after Matthew. Last seen by an employee of the park who witnessed him speaking with another young man and getting into the man’s car. The employee said that the two seemed to be friendly with one another and did not seem like strangers.

Hannah Pointer, 26. She was reported missing in 1999 by her mother after failing to return home from work in Reno, Nevada. This disappearance occurred more than a year after Karl Janssen’s. Investigators would later discover that during this time period, Robert Weber dated a young woman from his hometown and he may not have wanted to risk her finding out what he was doing.

Isaac Jackson, 26, a Rancher’s Rest resident who disappeared after going out to a local bar to see his friend’s band play in 2000. His car was found submerged in a small pond two years later. This is the first time Weber apparently killed anyone close to home. He was actually briefly suspected in Jackson’s death, as he was the last person noted to see Jackson alive, but was cleared of suspicion at the time.

Dustin Swill, 21, who was driving from Colorado to California to visit his sister who had moved to Berras to work for WRU in 2001. He was last seen in a gas station near Yellowstone, where employees noted he spoke to a man who was smoking outside, who gave him a cigarette. When Swill left, employees saw the man put out his cigarette and leave shortly after. They did not find this unusual or noteworthy at the time.

Maria Vargas, 25, a Rancher’s Rest resident who was reported missing in 2002. Her family is intensely private and have shared few details about her, but it is known that her boyfriend at the time suspected Weber, who had attempted to convince her to leave the boyfriend for him and had apparently threatened her. He remained a suspect but there was never enough evidence to charge him.

Jennifer Striker, 28, from who never arrived for an appointment with a realtor in 2011. The long pause between Maria Vargas’s murder and Jennifer’s appeared to be due to Weber keeping a man named Finn Schneider within his home for more than a year after abducting him, as well as Weber serving five years in prison for a violent assault on a man he believed had sold him a defective vehicle. (Schneider was no longer in the home before the assault and prison time.)

Riley Nievelt, 25, was staying at the Big Meadow Campground with six friends during a weeklong vacation in 2012. She vanished while on a trip to purchase supplies. Her cell phone was found on the ground in the parking lot of the Food Lion in Rancher’s Rest, a short and easy drive away. At this time, with multiple individuals vanishing after being seen in Rancher’s Rest or being residents of the town, police begin to suspect and start hunting for a possible serial killer.

Alexander Peterson, 29, was a long-haul driver who vanished while working. He was last seen at a rest stop in 2014 on the California/Nevada state line, and would likely have passed right through Rancher’s Rest on his journey. He was reported missing by his ex-wife in South Dakota when he did not return as scheduled for a custodial visit.

The most recent victim, and owner of the hand that Randy Niles saw sticking up out of the dirt, was Yolanda Pierce, 26. She was a Rancher’s Rest resident with a troubled relationship with her husband, who had stormed out after an argument and was never seen again. She is believed to have died the same day as Robert Weber.

More remains exist but have not yet been identified. If you or anyone you know has a friend or family member who went missing during this time period in or near Rancher’s Rest, Yellowstone National Park, or Death Valley, it may be worth looking into, as those appear to be Robert Weber’s “hunting grounds”.

Disappearances in Yellowstone and Death Valley almost always matched up with Robert taking one of his rare weeklong vacations from work.

When investigators located three large diaries hidden inside a locked box in Weber’s closet, the first two fully filled up and the third nearly two-thirds finished, they found an exhaustively detailed record of Robert Weber’s crimes.

In these records, they discovered Weber’s first three victims were killed within 24 hours of abduction, with the rest being kept alive for longer and longer time periods. It is believed all of them met their end in Robert Weber’s basement.

Diary entries included records of two victims who were not a part of the bodies buried in Weber’s basement, both of whom may still be alive:

Finn Schneider, 19, a German tourist who disappeared in 2003 during a visit to Death Valley. Until Weber’s journals were found, it was believed he had perished in the park and had simply never been found. Robert Weber also visited Death Valley during this time. No one linked the two together. Evidence found in Weber’s home after his death, including the aforementioned diary entries and photographs, shows that Schneider was alive in Weber’s home for nearly sixteen months. It is believed Weber purchased the “human cage” that Randy Niles noticed around this time. The last diary entry that mentions Schneider states that he was “traded” on June 16th, 2005, to an individual only referred to as “Mouse.” What Weber received in exchange is unclear, but he was seen driving a new, custom-painted truck around this time, which he said he bought “from a personal ad” when asked by Niles about it. Schneider has never been found. However, his mother did receive a phone call in 2013 from an individual she believes to be her son, telling her that “Finn” was okay and to stop looking for him.

Our Box Boy, 334235, purchased by Nathaniel Benson years prior, whose whereabouts had been unknown since he murdered Brute Hanlon. Weber believed the Box Boy to be in his early twenties, according to his diary entries, and mentioned that he had picked the Boxie up hitchhiking and had intended to kill him before seeing the barcode on the inside of his left wrist and changing his mind. His diary suggests the Box Boy remained in his possession for roughly a fourteen months prior to Weber’s murder. Police have not released the details of what the Boxie was subjected to during this time, stating only that it is not the public’s interest for this information to be known, and they would like to locate the missing Boxie and interview him about certain details.

Four murders occurred during the time the Boxie was kept by Robert Weber. Weber noted that “the dog helped” with either murder or burial, suggesting that he may have worked as Weber’s accomplice in his terrible crimes.

Is it possible that they bonded over a shared urge to kill? Did the Boxie start a captive and become a companion?

Weber’s diary contained other disturbing facts, as well:

Weber also noted three failed abduction attempts in detail, in 1998, 2004, and 2017. In each he described with incredible precision of memory the appearances and descriptions of each person he failed to capture. He also appeared to do intensive research using their license plates and other information to find out where they lived and who they were. The names of these individuals have been kept quiet for privacy reasons.

Other failed abductions were noted, about one per year, without much detail. Or at least not enough for police officers to know who they were. Nearly all these failures were in one of three locations: Yellowstone National Park, Stanislaus National Forest and nearby campgrounds, and in or near Death Valley.

The last entry in Robert Weber’s diary was penned the day of his death.

NOTE: Weber referred to the Boxie as “the dog” in nearly all his journal entries. His last entry went:

May 6th, 20XX: The dog is pissed about something again. He’s always pissed about something. I think the thing in the basement probably kept him up all night with her caterwauling. He never gets used to the noises they make. God knows I can’t sleep either, at least not well. I’ll handle her tonight, have a drink with the dog after, see if that shuts up his nonsense for a while. Note: missed NPR interview with Senator Carlotta Grant on new leg. about the bb prohibition act. Find that on website later.

Found in Weber’s home, in boxes under his bed, were a series of restraints made of leather, high-quality items that appear to be custom-ordered to specific measurements. These included “gloves” intended to keep someone from being able to claw or scratch in their own defense, five sets of cuffs, a body harness, a leather half-face-mask that police referred to as a “muzzle”, several gags, some of which were deemed to be “designed to cause injury to the inside of the mouth”, and “other assorted items for use in torture and torment”.

You can find some leaked police docs online that go into more detail, but suffice to say they pretty much match the kinds of “toys” found in Nathaniel Benson and Brute Hanlon’s homes, too. And apparently, if you really know where to look, you can find some blurry low-quality photos Weber took, too.

While the items are a bit salacious, they aren’t entirely uncommon in consensual relationships, too, so it’s really not clear if they’re evidence of the Boxie being held against his will or not.

The investigation of the crime scene suggests that at some point after writing his final diary entry, Robert Weber made himself a pizza, which he ate half of and put the rest away in the fridge. His shaving cream and razor were found out on his sink, and Weber’s body was clean-shaven, suggesting he shaved shortly before his death.

He then watched three episodes of Law & Order: SVU. We know this because he texted during this time with his only living relative, the sister in Vermont. Little is known about Weber’s family and childhood, beyond his sister’s recounting of a quiet, strained home life with an overbearing mother and her mention that Robert endured several head injuries as a child and adolescent, including one that hospitalized him for days.

After he finished watching TV, Weber entered the basement and murdered Yolanda Pierce. It is believed he took the Box Boy downstairs with him, either as accomplice or witness. At some point while he was disposing of Yolanda Pierce’s remains, the Boxie became enraged for one reason or another, beat him with a shovel, got the kitchen knife from upstairs and stabbed him to death, and then left the house.

A neighbor remembers hearing odd noises around 3:30 AM and looking out their window to see a shadowy figure walking quickly down the road, but they weren’t able to see well enough to say whether or not the individual matches the description and WRU-provided photos of the Boxie. It does seem reasonable, though, to assume that the neighbor witnessed the Boxie fleeing the scene of the crime.

The Box Boy has never been seen again.

Police are pretty mum about the active investigation into the Box Boy’s whereabouts. I was able to get ahold of one source closely related to a member of the investigative team who said that there’s just not a lot of urgency. “Weber killed nearly two dozen people, just that we know of,” The source said. “The cops are a little bit ‘good riddance to bad rubbish’ about the situation. Unless the Boxie comes back to RR, they’re just inclined to let sleeping dogs lie.”

The sense of “let it be someone else’s problem” would be understandable… if this Box Boy weren’t responsible for one other direct murder, possibly two.

Police believe the Boxie has not left California, and is likely to be continuing to survive by engaging in prostitution or perhaps panhandling or some other hidden way of making money. Unconfirmed sightings have been located in three cities in central California, but all of these are unverified and should be taken with a grain of salt.

It’s also possible he hooked up with a pet liberation movement group, in which case he may be hiding out in a safehouse, protected from the consequences of his actions by the pet lib movement’s understandable insistence on total secrecy and anonymity for the Boxies they take in.

If he’s an innocent victim of circumstance, that’s fair.

If he’s a burgeoning serial killer with three victims under his belt and a taste for inflicting terrible violence on those who take him in… well… anyone who gives him shelter may be next.

Is our Boxie a purposeful killer or just supremely, almost incomprehensibly unlucky? Will he kill again? Was he Robert Weber’s accomplice or his victim?

Will he strike again?

Should there be an audit of WRU’s psychological testing on potential sign-ups to see if, perhaps, a Box Boy-wannabe with an urge to kill slipped through the cracks?

What do you think?

-

@astrobly @finder-of-rings @burtlederp @whump-tr0pes @raigash @eatyourdamnpears @orchidscript @doveotions @pretty-face-breaker @boxboysandotherwhump @outofangband @whumptywhumpdump @whumpfigure @thehopelessopus @downriver914 @justabitofwhump @butwhatifyouwrite @newandfiguringitout @yet-another-heathen @nonsensical-whump @oops-its-whump @endless-whump @cubeswhump @gonna-feel-that-tomorrow @whumpiary

[unadulteratedrebelrunaway]

A SCENE AT AN A.A. MEETING

[8/23/18]

  Alexander W. Benson II

             My name is Rex.  I run a local A.A.  I'm the one who conducts the meetings.  I make sure the trains run on time.  I might be in my sixties, but don't let the grey hair fool you.  You get smart with me; I'll kick your ass.  I am responsible.  I am the go to guy when anyone needs anything.  If anybody has a problem with anyone else, come to me. I'll take care of them.

             People think I'm an *******, but I help people.  I just use tough love.  For instance, this one guy came up to ask me a question.  I cut him off because I knew exactly what he was going to say.  I happened to see the broken chair behind him.

             "Shut up.  Listen, and learn.  You shouldn't have broken that chair.  You're going to have to own up to what you did."

 ***

             The other guy tells me his side.  "I was sitting on a chair, and it broke.  I wanted to bring it to Rex's attention since Rex is always bragging about how he runs the show.  I tried explaining it to him.  I figured I would own up to it since I was sitting on it.  The bastard talked over me, accused me of trying to break the chair. When I countered, he walked away and barked an insult as he raced away from me."

 ***

             Then I am talking to Rex again.  "Oh yeah, this young, real dumb kid walked up and tried passing the buck.  I knew he broke that chair.  I called him out for it, and since I'm a real busy man, I had to meet someone else.  The bastard probably thought I had all the time in the world for his shenanigans."

 ***

             Unfortunately, I am talking to the human enema bag again.  "I like to give tough love sometimes.  Some ten year old boy walked up to me after one meeting and I saw he was crying.  I told him to knock it off.  Then the boy told me his parents died in a house fire while he watched."

             "Why didn't you save them?" says Rex.

             "I tried to but the firefighters held me back," says the boy.

             "I told him that was no excuse," says Rex.  "If that was me watching my parents, I would have thrown those firefighters across the street and my parents would have still been here today, so don't you give me any of that helpless victim crap."

             "I told him to buck up and stop it right this minute," says Rex.  "Crying won't bring them back.  The kid started bawling, so I called him a pansy because I figured if I pissed him off enough, he would get mad and stop crying.  Kids must be wimps these days because then he cried even worse.  Running out of patience, I slapped him across the face.   I called him a coward for not facing life.  Would you believe a bunch of people ran up to me and started yelling at me?  I'm a busy man, and since I had important things to do I turned around and tended to those other tasks.   The kid's uncle ran up to me and started ranting so fast I couldn't understand him. I called the other guys over and told them to remove this man from the premises because I will not tolerate name-calling.  If you can't act appropriately, you have to leave.  Same rules for everybody.  I enforce the law without discrimination.  That is one thing you can definitely say about me.  I don't discriminate."

             "I have every right to be a hard-ass because I go around helping people. I'm not an *******.  I just act like one all the time.  If they don't want it, I'll make them accept my help. If they want help, I'm going to motivate them by yelling at them.  My way works all the time.  Except for all of those cases where people want to fight me.  They have an attitude problem if you ask me."

             "Then there are all those times it doesn't work.  Nine times out of ten, the losers who come to me fail.  It isn't me because I know what I'm doing.  They're the problem.  I'm always right, and they're wrong.  They were weak so they failed.  If they listen to my advice, which is perfect, then they will succeed every time.  Just ask me. I'll tell you my way works because Rex Candy says it will."

             "I'm the law and order around this place, and I'm as tough as they come. And yes, my **** doesn't stink!  I can vouch for that, personally!"

 ***

             It is Friday night, and the meeting starts.  A former Marine is going to be the speaker.  Rex is up there, ready to puke his self-proclaimed wisdom on the masses. It is time to lay down the law with all these miscreants.  According to Rex, they are miscreants because they wouldn't be here if they were good people.

             At the beginning of the meeting, Rex stands up in front of everybody.  He sees somebody grabbing a coffee.  "Hey you, put that down.  What's wrong with you?  Sit down."

             "Everybody," says Rex, "when the meeting is going on, everybody sit down and shut up.  It isn't nice to me, I mean the speaker, and it isn't nice to anyone else.  If I catch anyone sneaking out of this room, I will deal with them swiftly.  I will swoop down on them like an Eagle.  And you don't want me to come after you because I'm your worst nightmare."

 ***

             Sometime later, Rex is seated behind the Marine.  He spots two hecklers in the crowd.  Those two look crazy.  Better not mess with them.  I know, I'll just pretend they're not there.

             A man with leg braces gets behind the podium and says, "My name is Will, and I'm an alcoholic.  I guess you haven't figured it out yet, but I'm going to be the speaker this evening. I was born into an Irish Catholic family.  I was the oldest of a litter of eleven.  Since I could remember my parents used to get into fights.  My dad was a salesman and he was always on the road.  We always seemed to have money but mother never cared about that.  He would come home drunk in the middle of the night and they would always end up in a fight. Back then the police didn't get involved.  Anyway, my mother always got on my dad for never being home, and when he was he was always drunk.  The violence didn't really bother me because I was always resentful toward the two of them for ignoring me.  The only times they didn't ignore me was when I got bad grades, or when I did something bad. As I grew up it seemed almost every year I had a new brother or sister to play with.  I loved them but I was always jealous of them because my parents seemed to hate me while they never stopped lavishing attention on them.  I seemed to be the lonely type.  At least that was the only thing I ever noticed."

             A man who looks like Mork who is sitting in the audience gets up at this point and walks in front of the podium.  He keeps bowing up and down and waving his right arm up and down like he was doing some bizarre ritual from a religion I cannot recognize.

             A kid sitting behind him yells, "Amen."

             Will does his best to ignore both of them despite looking a little annoyed. Rex doesn't do anything because he is intimidated by both of the troublemakers.

             "As soon as I was able, I started hanging out with the kids who smoked," says Will.  "I was only ten.  We started skipping class and getting into fights.  I thought it was awesome.  I also felt like I belonged with these guys so in short I stopped going home.  When I did get home my mother always gave me a beating for not being around to help out.  I hated this because I resented my mother not loving me but always wanting me to do the heavy work because my dad was never around.  Usually, I would be back on the street with my friends before dad got home.  On the few occasions we intersected he would give me the beating of my life."

             "Hallelujah," says Mork.

             "Shut up, man!" says the kid who said Amen.

             Will pauses and looks over at Rex.  "Aren't you going to help me?"

             Rex looks at him.  "With what?  Why do you need my help?"

             Will points at the two shadowboxers who were only a few drinks short of entering the shadowlands.

             "What are you pointing at?" says Rex.  "I don't see anything."  Rex says this despite the fact that everybody has been watching the two clowns for the whole meeting instead of listening to Will.  I had trouble hearing Will talk.

             "With them," says Will as he pokes his finger toward Mork and his buddy.

             "You're imaging things," says Will.  "Just shut up and keep talking."  Then he looks over at the clock to make sure things are on schedule.

             "My dad would beat me," says Will.  "When I was little I didn't do anything because I was too scared, but now that I was a little older, and although I would still curl up into a ball and take it, now I was laughing through it.  My dad would call me a no good, a no account, and some other choice nicknames.  I would finally tell him I found people who loved me.  Yeah, I said people who loved me.  At least I thought so at the time.  I got drunk for the first time that year.  Then I got laid.  I still remember her name, Jennifer.  I was in love, but she wasn't.  The next day I got in my first fight with one of my friends when I caught him screwing Jennifer.  Jennifer would later get pregnant out of wedlock, deal drugs to support herself and the kid because the boyfriend left her when she got pregnant.  As time went on all of my friends grew up and got a life, went to jail, died, or joined the military."

             Rex is still ignoring the noisemakers: however, he jumps up when he sees someone quietly exit the room.  "People, if I see one more person leave this room during this meeting I am going to be very upset," says Rex.  Then Randy turns to Will.  "Don't just stand there.  Keep talking."

             Now Will looks more annoyed by Rex than he did by the first two noisemakers. "You know, you're disturbing my speech too."

             "A poor musician blames his instrument," says Rex.  "Quit wasting time and try to wrap this stupid thing up."

             Will does a double take on Rex and looks like he's going to hit Rex. "If I go back into the Marines, remind me not to enlist at the same time as you.  I don't want to be in the same company with you, especially if we were to come face to face with the enemy."

             "I don't like you either, but I'm getting tired of telling you to finish your speech," says Rex.

             "There was a draft back then, and I didn't want to join the Army so I joined the Marines instead," says Will.  He looks at Rex and adds, "Too many backstabbers in the Army. At this point I still didn't know I was an alcoholic but I figured if I left everything behind I would start a new life.  A sober one that is.  It turns out that only worked for a few weeks, and then I got back into the drunken saddle of hooch, except now I was better at it--in a bad way."

             Will looks over at the two guys who are before him.  Mork is still doing his weird blessing ritual while the kid is dancing around him shadowboxing.  It is almost like each guy is completely unaware of the other one.  Will shakes his head at them and says, "It takes all kinds."

             "I'll fast forward to save time," says Will.  "Now I'm a Marine.  I was in Viet Nam doing the same thing my dad did in his day--fighting for my country.  I remember I took some shrapnel one time.  Ironically, it wasn't from battle.  I was cleaning latrines and some idiot was playing with a hand grenade. It blew him to Kingdom Come but I ended up with buckshot in my right hip and thigh.  I managed to limp over to the medic's tent.  I told the nurse what happened but she didn't seem to believe me. She wrote down in the report that I injured myself through horseplay.  If I wasn't in such pain from the shrapnel I would have been upset because in the Marines I could have been court marshaled for that.  They might let people get away with shooting themselves in the foot to get out of service in the Army, but never in the Marines.  I was escorted to a cot.  The doctor comes over with a needle, and it wasn't one of them small painless ones like they have today.  No, these things stung, and I didn't want the shot.  The doctor told me it was Morphine so it would kill the pain. Then he could look at it.  He wasn't taking no for an answer.  He pulled rank on me and ordered me to take the needle or else I was in trouble for insubordination.  I would find out later why he wanted to give me that needle so bad."

             Mork and his friend start pushing into each other.  They are both in the aisle in front of the podium that Will is speaking from.  Everyone was looking over at these two and then Rex, wondering when he was going to be a hero.  Somebody leans forward and taps Rex on the shoulder.  "Hey, when are you going to do something?"

             Randy hisses, "Don't touch me, you maggot."  He points his arm toward Will and prominently sticks his chest out with pride.  "That man served this country.  Show a little respect."

             One drunk in the back of the room whispers to another drunk.  "I'll bet you five bucks those two windbags tee off for real in," he pauses and looks at the clock and adds, "less than five minutes."

             The second drunk waffles a moment.  "I also have a gambling problem so I shouldn't, but you're on." They shake hands.

             "No welching when I win this bet, though," says the first drunk.

             The second drunk smiles.  "Did I also tell you I belong to a group of Compulsive Liars.  We're called Liars Anonymous."

             "I've never heard of them," says the first drunk.

             The second drunk says, "That's because I just founded the organization. Like right now."

             Rex stands up and looks past Mork and company.  He shushes the two drunks in the back.  "Quiet back there."  He does so loudly so the drunks could hear him over the hecklers.

             "It turns out the doctor was a faggot," says Will.  "He raped me while I slept.  He forgot to remove the shrapnel."

             Some members of the audience try to act surprised, but this is the twentieth century, and the shock value isn't what it used to be.

             "Well, anyway, I told myself I would find that bastard and get even with him," says Will.  "I would do my time, which was up in six months, and then I would find him.  It seemed like I was always trying to get even with somebody.  Actually, at the time if I had to get even with only one person at a time, business was slow."

             Will looks at the clock and sees he has five minutes.  Job walks up to him and says, "Sorry about the distractions but could you please wrap it up.  We need to conclude this meeting."

             Will has to think fast.  Then the idea strikes him.  "Sorry people, but I've just been informed that I need to wrap this monkey business up.  The long and short of it is I was always thinking of me, and I was always feeling resentful.  That is what made me an alcoholic.  As long as I live my life in the moment, and for other people, like my family I have now, and I keep going to these meetings, I will stay sober.  If any of you feel like you are filled with resentment, I advise you to just let it go.  Even if you don't forgive your enemies.  Just let it go, people, because resentment will literally kill you.  That is all."

             The two whack-jobs are still going at it.  The meeting adjourns and the first drunk sees five minutes ticked off with a fight.  He tells the second drunk, "Looks like you won.  Here's your five bucks."

             "Can you give me that in ones, please?" says the second drunk.

             "Sure, but I don't see what the big deal is," says the first one.

             "You'll see in a minute," says the second one.

             The first drunk hands the second one five singles, and the two of them shake hands. "It has been a pleasure doing business with you."

             The first drunk furrows his brows at this and watches the second drunk walk over to the two clowns who couldn't behave like civilized adults.  "One for you, and one for you.  Gentleman, it has been a pleasure doing business with both of you."

             The second drunk walks out the door.  The first drunk races to the door and looks out to see the second drunk climbing into a black four door sedan.  "Looks like a brand new car."  They wave to each other as the second guy passes by.

             Remember that lesson though.  LET GO OF RESENTMENT.  Resentment might seem like a good motivator in the short run, but it will eat you alive from the inside out.   Just ask an alcoholic.

 THE END

[investmart007]

The Latest: Team exec Bobby Beathard enters Hall of Fame

New Post has been published on https://is.gd/ec5oRy

The Latest: Team exec Bobby Beathard enters Hall of Fame

The latest on Pro Football Hall of Fame inductions Saturday in Canton, Ohio, and Terrell Owens’ separate celebration in Chattanooga, Tennessee (all times local): 7:40 p.m.

Bobby Beathard, who won four Super Bowls as a team executive and drafted four Pro Football Hall of Famers, has entered the hall himself.

A contributor’s committee nominee, Beathard worked for the Chiefs, Falcons, Dolphins, Redskins and Chargers. He won NFL titles each with Miami, including the perfect 1972 season, and Washington — where he hired fellow Hall of Famer Joe Gibbs as coach. He also helped Kansas City and San Diego make Super Bowls.

As a scout and general manager, Beathard spent much of his time on the road seeking talent for his teams. He has said he saw in person every player he selected, and particularly bragged about getting Texas A&M-Kingsville cornerback Darrell Green with the 28th overall pick in 1983. Green played 20 seasons in Washington, winning two championships.

Beathard’s speech was delivered via video, although he was on stage with Gibbs, who presented him for induction.

“I’m really grateful for this honor,” said Beathard, who retired after the 1999 season, ending a decade with the Chargers. He was with the Redskins the previous 11 seasons. ___ 7:30 p.m.

Dr. Doom has entered the Pro Football Hall of Fame. Robert Brazile, who earned that nickname by playing in all 147 games for the Houston Oilers in his 10-year NFL career, has been inducted into the Canton shrine.

Forcefully, Brazile, who kissed his bust when it was unveiled, spoke of his upbringing in a “house filled with love” and how he and Walter Payton made history by being selected in the first-round of the same draft from a historically black college.

A senior committee nominee, Brazile was drafted sixth overall out of Jackson State, two picks behind his teammate. He made such an immediate pro impact he was the 1975 NFL Defensive Rookie of the Year, and went on to five All-Pro seasons as one of the game’s most versatile linebackers. He was in on a stunning 185 tackles in 1978. Presented by his father, also named Robert, Brazile made the 1970s NFL All-Decade Team. He retired in 1984 and became a special education teacher.

“When they knocked on my door,” he said of finding out in February he had finally made the hall, “all of my dreams came true. And after all these years, I’m at home.” ___ 4:55 p.m.

Terrell Owens spent 39 minutes explaining why he was in Chattanooga alone and not in Canton with the seven other members of the Pro Football Hall of Fame who are being inducted at night.

“In closing, I will leave you with this,” Owens said. “There was a guy by the name of William James and he said the great lease of life is to spend it on something that outlasts it. My legacy starts today. “Thank you so much, Chattanooga.”

Owens had his gold jacket and wore it at his personal celebration. Owens didn’t attend the dinner in Canton on Friday night, where the other seven members of the class of 2018 got their jackets. But he had someone pick it up and bring it to Tennessee for his ceremony.

He originally wore a dark suit decorated with the hall logo when he entered McKenzie Arena at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, where he attended college.

— Teresa M. Walker reporting from Chattanooga. ___ 4:20 p.m.

Terrell Owens says he wants to address the elephant in the room on his reasons for celebrating his induction to the Pro Football Hall of Fame 600 miles away from Canton, Ohio.

Owens says his character has been heavily challenged and questioned for years, but he wants to put truth to power or power to truth. He says he chose avoid Canton not because of how many times it took for him to be voted into the Hall of Fame.

He says it’s the fact that sports writers are not aligned with the mission and core values of the Hall of Fame. Owens says the writers disregarded the system, criteria and bylaws and ultimately the true meaning of the hall. He says he wants to take a stand so the next guy coming after him won’t have to wait three years or 45 years to get what was rightfully earned.

Owens came out wearing a dark suit smattered with the logo of the Pro Football Hall of Fame. When his time to speak came, a woman came out with a gold jacket. Owens slipped on the gold jacket before a standing ovation from at least 2,500 fans at McKenzie Arena at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga.

He wiped tears from his eyes as fans cheered him and chanted “T.O., T.O.”

The NFL Network showed a replay of the Chicago-Baltimore preseason game during Owens’ celebration. ___ 3:20 p.m.

Terrell Owens will look out and see lots of his No. 81 jerseys in the stands at McKenzie Arena when he makes his personal induction speech for the Pro Football Hall of Fame at his alma mater.

His No. 81 shirts from Philadelphia, San Francisco, Dallas are scattered around the arena where Owens played basketball while at the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga. He played on two NCAA Tournament teams along with playing football and running track.

Johnny Taylor, the 17th pick overall by Orlando in the 1997 NBA Draft, is among the former teammates on hand for Owens’ moment.

Taylor says he was a little surprised Owens decided not go to Canton. But Taylor says that’s what he loves about T.O.: The man always does things his way. Taylor is excited that Owens is doing this in the city and at the university where he played. Taylor says that speaks volumes to the person Owens is even if other people think differently.

Three of Owens’ college coaches are due to speak at the ceremony: former Chattanooga receivers coach Frankie DeBusk, former basketball coach Mack McCarthy, and former football coach Buddy Green. From the NFL, Owens has two former position coaches here in Larry Kirksey and Ray Sherman.

— Teresa M. Walker reporting from Chattanooga. ___ 2:20 p.m.

Renee Davis of Philadelphia is exactly where she wants to be for the Pro Football Hall of Fame ceremonies. She’s in Chattanooga for Terrell Owens and not in Canton where she had tickets for this year’s inductions.

Davis says she bought those tickets to see Owens. When the mercurial Owens announced he would be at his alma mater Saturday and not Canton, Davis sold those tickets and planned her trip to Tennessee. She is wearing Owens’ No. 80 jersey from playing for Chattanooga that she has had since he was a rookie with San Francisco.

She was through the doors a minute after they opened at McKenzie Arena. Davis says she’s hoping for an autograph and selfie with the man she sees as the best NFL wide receiver ever.

Joe Stukes of Nashville arrived two hours before the doors opened. A Dallas fan, Stukes is wearing Owens’ No. 81 Cowboys jersey and says the decision to speak in Tennessee gives him the chance to see Owens’ Hall of Fame speech in person.

— AP Pro Football Writer Teresa M. Walker reporting from Chattanooga, Tennessee. ___ 11 a.m. Seven members of the Pro Football Hall of Fame’s class of 2018 will be on hand Saturday night in Canton for the induction festivities, along with more than 20,000 fans.

About 600 miles away in Chattanooga, the eighth new Hall of Famer, Terrell Owens, will be doing his own thing. Again.

Ray Lewis, Randy Moss, Brian Dawkins, Brian Urlacher, Jerry Kramer, Robert Brazile and Bobby Beathard will be at Tom Benson Stadium for the festivities. Expect some rousing speeches, plenty of hugging and lots of tears — Dawkins, for one, has guaranteed the crying. He and Brazile had wet eyes Friday night when they got their gold jackets at a dinner.

Owens has made the unprecedented move of deciding not to attend the inductions at the Canton shrine. He’ll have an event at the college he attended.

Dawkins, who played two seasons with Owens in Philadelphia, says: “That’s T.O.” He says he’s “disappointed” the wide receiver won’t be on hand, saying, “I would love for him to be here.”

By Associated Press

[yahoo-shutdown-corner-blog]

Was the Bears' Trubisky debacle the worst NFL draft flub ever?

The Bears selected Mitchell Trubisky second overall in the NFL draft. (AP)

Welcome to the Wednesday War Room, where your favorite Yahoo Sports NFL writers weigh in on the most serious and critical NFL topics of the day. Read on for how you can join in. Today, we’re talking the Chicago Bears’ draft woes and the likelihood of surviving a series at quarterback for the 49ers. Onward!

Question 1: The Chicago Bears selected Mitchell Trubisky with the second pick of the NFL draft, a move that looks terrible from every angle. What could possibly be a worse draft-night meltdown than that?

Kevin Kaduk: The entire football world might be unable to look away from the Chicago car wreck, but the truth is that laughing at the Bears’ first-round foibles has turned into a rite of spring for those of us in the Windy City.

This is nothing new.

Yes, there was Brian Urlacher in 2000, Tommie Harris in 2004 and Kyle Long in 2013. Greg Olsen (2007) turned into an All-Pro (albeit for another team, thanks Mike Martz!) and the jury is still out on Leonard Floyd (2016). The rest of the list is cover-your-eyes worthy, though. It’s headlined by punch-line quarterbacks in Cade McNown (1999) and Rex Grossman (2003), anchored by a trio of running backs that never lived up to their college fame (Rashaan Salaam, Curtis Enis, Cedric Benson) and accented by three wide receivers (Curtis Conway in 1993, David Terrell in 2001, Kevin White in 2015) who never proved they were worth a top 10 pick.

The rest of the list is made up of players long since forgotten by anyone not holding a Chicago area code: John Thierry? Michael Haynes? Kyle Fuller? Chris Williams? Gabe Carimi? What’s truly astounding is that this has truly been a group effort with five different front offices contributing to being consistently disappointing.

So while Mitchell Trubisky might be a bit taken aback from the reception he’s received so far, he can take solace in the fact that it’s really not him, it’s the Bears’ front office.

Shalise Manza-Young: Ricky Williams to the Saints. New Orleans was 6-10 in each of its first two seasons under Mike Ditka, and he clearly wanted to make a splash. But teams that haven’t been to the playoffs in six years, like the Saints going into the 1999 draft, generally need more than one player to change the course of the franchise. Not to Ditka. He traded his entire ’99 draft – and first- and third-round picks in 2000 – to Washington in exchange for the No. 5 pick, which he used to get Texas running back Ricky Williams. And after all of that, what did Ditka and the Saints get? A 3-13 season in 1999, a firing for Ditka, and only 38 games from Williams. New Orleans traded Williams to Miami in 2002. Throw in that just ridiculous bride-and-groom photo Ditka and Williams posed for on the ESPN the Magazine cover, and the whole thing was just a disaster.

Frank Schwab: Everyone is freaking out about what the Bears gave up to move up one spot for Trubisky. They gave up a pair of third-round picks and a fourth. Here’s what the San Diego Chargers gave up in 1998 to move up from No. 3 to No. 2, the exact move the Bears made: A 1998 second-round pick, a 1999 first-round pick, returner/receiver Eric Metcalf and linebacker Patrick Sapp. Metcalf was a two-time All-Pro returner (though he was ineffective for Arizona in 1998, at 30 years old). Sapp was a 1996 second-round pick who didn’t work out. Still, that makes the Bears’ price to move up look like pocket change. The MMQB pointed out this week that on one of the draft value charts, the Bears gave up 580 points, and the 1998 Chargers gave up … 1,980 points!

And yes, the Chargers drafted Ryan Leaf with that pick, after the Indianapolis Colts took Peyton Manning first. No matter how bad Trubisky is, he won’t be worse than Leaf.

[ STACK: New Raider Lynch shows he hasn’t lost a step ]

“I think the consensus of opinion is that two guys like (Manning and Leaf) don’t come along very often,” Charger general manager Bobby Beathard said on the day of the trade, according to the Associated Press. “If we’re going to be successful in getting that type of quarterback, we’re going to have to give up something, and we really did.”

They really did give up something, no question there.

Jay Busbee: We won’t know for a few years just how bad this Chicago deal is, but you’re rolling into a season with one quarterback hated by the entire fanbase and another (Mike Glennon) feeling like he just got chumped in front of the entire country. Not a great recipe for immediate success. But in terms of draft-day debacles, you can’t beat what happened to the Vikings two years in a row in the early 2000s. The clock ran out on Minnesota while it was trying to swing a 2003 trade with Baltimore (to be fair, the Ravens didn’t submit their half of the deal to the league in time) and the Jaguars and Panthers leaped up to hand in their cards before Minnesota could get its act together. The year before was even more humiliating: a Kansas City staffer literally blocked the Vikings staffer from reaching the podium so that Kansas City could complete a trade with Dallas. That’s why you need to send a line-busting fullback to rush that card to the podium, not some analytics geek.

Eric Edholm: Technically, the Rams-Redskins trade that brought Washington RG3 wasn’t a Draft Day debacle since the trade happened a few weeks prior to the first round. But the Redskins pulled the trigger on Robert Griffin III, and if my memory serves at the time, there wasn’t a whole lot of conjecture about the price the Redskins paid to move up. Griffin was considered that good, and most people debated whether he — not Andrew Luck — was the real prize of that class. We know how that one went. And to me, it’s not about the picks the Rams made in exchange; it’s about what they could have done with them. In theory, the Rams realistically could have drafted Luke Kuechly, Janoris Jenkins (whom they actually took), Lane Johnson and DeAndre Hopkins. Oh, and the Rams had chances to draft Russell Wilson and Kirk Cousins at the tops of Rounds 3 and 4, respectively. Yeah, this whole thing was a debacle all the way around.

Question 2: What would it take to get you to play a full series of downs at quarterback for the San Francisco 49ers? No kneeling down, no handing off; you have to throw at least one pass.

Frank Schwab: I’ve always wondered things like: If you got a full season of at bats in Major League Baseball, could you get one hit? (I’ve figured yes, seeing some of these pitchers swing, and none of them go hitless over a career.) Or, how many games would you have to play in the NBA – with a green light to shoot – before you made a basket? But those questions don’t involve 300-pound linemen about to crush your spine and your soul, so the answer is that it would take a lot. Maybe not Mike Glennon money, but enough to cover inevitable medical expenses.

Eric Adelson: In addition to a hefty check, I’ll need a premium Netflix subscription because I’ll be laid up for a while. (Amazon Prime too. And Alexa.) Medical coverage that has no deductible. A Firehouse subs gift card. A self-driving Tesla. And someone to cut my cable cord because I do not want to see those highlights.

Shalise Manza-Young: Can we clone Joe Thomas to play offensive line in front of me? Will I have in-his-prime Randy Moss on the receiving end? If we can do that, I’d consider. And since I’d be in the area, a postgame private meal cooked by Bay Area super-chef Hubert Keller would sweeten the deal.

Jay Busbee: You ever seen an NFL play up close? No? Put it this way: even executing a simple handoff is going to rip your arm out of the socket, my friend. So none of that for me. No, I’d request my paycheck for the game go straight to charity, and then I’m going to line up in the shotgun formation, take the snap, and fire three straight passes at Kyle Shanahan, all the while screaming YOU COULD HAVE DONE THIS AGAINST THE PATRIOTS, KYLE! And then I’d get ground into powder by Luke Kuechly (or, more likely, my own O-line), but it’d be worth it. And I would claim my own personal rehab as the charity to which I’d be donating.

Eric Edholm: Heck yes, I’d play a series for the 49ers. Call three seven-step drops for all I care. Well worth the 39.6 passer rating that comes with three straight intentional groundings. My price: A measly roster spot all season. The NFL’s rookie minimum salary for 2017 is $465,000, and for that I would give Aaron Donald three good shots at me. Oh, and since John Lynch granted Peter King a spot in the 49ers’ draft war room this past weekend, I would assume that my signing bonus would come in the form of the tell-all book rights for the 2017 season. Sign me up. Talent-wise, I am basically like 31 percent as good as C.J. Beathard.

Kevin Kaduk: It depends. How much have I had to drink? What kind of horse tranquilizers can I access afterward? Honestly, I’d probably do it for 10 grand provided you give me some scout team work during the week. I’m tall enough to see over the line and I think I might even be able to complete one pass with the right play drawn up. That’d be enough to get a decent backup job somewhere else for the next few seasons, right?

There you have it. Weigh in with your own thoughts below. Got ideas for future questions? Email us and you might just find your name in lights. Now, get practicing; the 49ers could be calling any day.

____ Jay Busbee is a writer for Yahoo Sports and the author of EARNHARDT NATION, on sale now at Amazon or wherever books are sold. Contact him at jay.busbee@yahoo.com or find him on Twitter or on Facebook.

More from Yahoo Sports: • Report: Ex-NBA star shot shielding kids from gunfire • A-Rod, Jeter give deeply awkward interview • Chris Mannix: The growing legend of tiny Isaiah Thomas • Tim Brown: Why baseball should be thanking Adam Jones • Troubled ex-NFL star: I’m not a ‘psychopath’

[oleworm]

Just to emphasize, it's not about anything horny being bad (it's morally neutral), but the context and the story. For example, remember in one of the Park Chan Wook films there is a character of Uncle Kouzuki? Things that would be neutral outside of the context or even kinda funky and interesting - like having an enormous collection of spicy classical books and antique art - grow violent when combined with his other traits. Like, it's the WHOLE set that makes him despicable.

It's not fishnets or being all over your girlfriend or watching some spicy stuff, it's all of these things in the context. Like with Kouzuki, his enormous collection is a part of what forms him as a monster and represents him as an abuser -but it's because he is not JUST a collector of antique spicy literature and art. He is a predator who FORCES it upon someone non-consenting, someone in his power, as a form of exploitation and control. He is also a torturer, a murderer, a man who sold his country to the colonizer, a selfish capitalist, a borderline slave owner, a creep, etc, etc. His character is over-the-top in embodying aggressive, non-consensual and exploitative sexuality of a violent upper class man in the society that tolerates it (his guests, the rich and powerful looking men in the identical British suits, literally sponsor his violence). But it makes sense in the context of the story presented through the eyes of his victims.

I saw that film ages ago, but I do remember that character! Though I haven’t watched that many of Park Chan-wook’s films I do like how he always creates these multi-dimensional characters, and each of these elements adds to the individuality of the design. Like you said, it’s about how all the pieces mesh. You could see each of these elements individually and think that it’s not too bad, or that it’s not bad at all. It’s the same with the environment at Burgers, it’s saturated and hostile, it puts you on edge, even if you don’t consciously describe it get this feeling of dread that goes beyond not wanting to work at a fast food chain. If not for how their coworkers were behaving I don’t think it would be too bad, you don’t get many customers so there’s no rush but you still get paid at the end of the day. But that’s just me, and how I would imagine it as a real place. Back to the film.

The film shows that it’s an empty, run down place. The gas pumps next to the building no longer operate. The first customer appears, so it seems, more than an hour after it opens. You begin to wonder how they break even. Who even lives in this town? There’s a collapsed house next to the parking lot. Who would live or work here? It’s a place where you can stay for some time, you can use it to survive, but you don’t want to be here forever. It’s not just the sexual impropriety. Just one or two of these elements would be fine, but together they create this impression of a forgotten place, of a ghost town where the only ones who stay are those that for whatever reason aren’t capable of leaving, or making the decision to leave. People that have something wrong with them. And I think that’s why Benson is so adamant on “fixing” Randy. He doesn’t see Randy as the type of person who is supposed to be there, and Benson’s obsession with seeing Randy out of it, his contempt for their job and their town, are the way that he expresses that he wished he could have turned things around and left. He wasn’t able to, so Randy, who reminds him of himself, will have to.