#sprucing up chicago

[aloof-cold-hands]

Angelo "Hitman" Ramsey (short story- Gene)

A short story from Gene's childhood in which a trip with his father becomes more difficult than expected

Just behind the house, during the summer, Gene had decided to fell the ponderosa pine tree that had developed wood rot. It once held up the hammock, but after the bark where the rope was tied turned from red to black, Gene decided to chop it down. 

With each thunk of Gene’s axe the tree would sway and needles would speckle the ground. Cicadas buzzed and the chug of a kid’s scooter echoed from the front of the house. Gene was sick with a fever, and had been since he woke up two hours ago.

The back of Gene’s neck was glossy with sweat. There was a pinch behind his temples that would sting briefly, then mellow, the sting again. He could feel it pressing against the back of his eyes and against the top of his skull. 

He breathed deep and heavy through his nose, pulling his axe back behind his head then sinking it into the bark again. He kept the axe head in the wood and let go of the handle. He then swayed, then placed his calloused palm against the tree to steady himself with a hand on his hip. He spit on the ground, grunted, then ran a hand through his hair.

And as he stood there, sick, he pictured his father sinking a chainsaw into the body of a spruce tree.

Sometime in the morning, during the early fall- if Gene remembered correctly- his father brought him into the garage to prepare for tree felling. The garage was always hot and thick, and smelt like corn chips. On one wall, the wooden bones of the house were exposed with black construction paper stabled between the planks. On another wall hung small framed newspapers in black and white. They read; “Angelo Hitman Ramsey” or “The Big Bull in Chicago”.

Cardboard boxes stacked atop one another crowded a corner, and dumbbells laid abandoned beside a bench. Below a hanging lightbulb was Ramsey’s work table which was powdered with wood shavings. 

The steps beneath Ramsey creaked as he stepped down to the concrete garage flooring. He breathed very slowly and heavily through his nose, and he grunted to clear his throat. 

He motioned to the garage door.

“Open,” he said.

Gene hopped down the steps and jogged to the front of the garage. Robin’s paws clicked against the ground as she followed him. Gene squatted, took hold of the metal knob attached to the garage door, and began to lift. It chugged as it began to raise, running on a track in the ceiling.

Gene paused halfway through, adjusted the heel of his palms against the knob, then pushed to send the rest of the door up. The outside air was cool against his face and the tall pine trees outside were swaying from a calm wind. Their dirt driveway was scattered with needles and pine cones.

Across the road Aiden was outside with his mom and brother pulling weeds. Aiden looked up and waved with a gloved hand, and Gene waved back. 

Robin trotted out from the garage to Ramsey’s light blue truck, which had rusted at each corners. She stared at the door, then looked back at Gene with round black eyes. Her tail began to wag.

“Can Robin come?” Gene asked.

Ramsey walked past Gene, holding two brown paper bags. Ramsey moved Robin aside with his boot, then opened the truck door to toss the bags into the front seat. 

“Dad,” Gene said.

“Mmh?”

“Can Robin come?”

Ramsey scratched his stubbled jaw and walked past Gene back into the garage. He knelt down and reached under his workbench, and when he stood he was holding the orange handle of a chainsaw.

“No,” Ramsey said.

“Alright,” Gene said, and followed Ramsey to the car.

While Ramsey loaded the chainsaw into the back, Gene scooped an arm under Robin’s white belly and lifted her. Her legs flailed while he maneuvered her to hold her in a cradle then looked down at her face. He blew a small puff at her, and she bit the air. He blew again, she bit again, then she sneezed.

“M’alright, cmon.” Ramsey said, and Gene put Robin down

“Inside,” Gene said to her, pointing to the house.

She stared at him and wagged her tail.

“Inside,” he said again.

Robin hesitated, then trotted away to the back of the house where the dog door was.

It was a forty minute drive from home to get to land available for lumberjacking. The trees grew dense and tall, and even when Gene leaned forward to look out of the front window he could not see their tops. Beside him, Ramsey was smoking a big cigar which made the hairs of his thick mustache bristle.

Ramsey slowed the truck and pulled it off the road, and the car wheels began to crackle over gravel and twigs. The car stopped, the hum of the engine shut off, and Ramsey pressed the grayed end of his cigar into the ashtray on the dashboard. Gene watched him.

“M’alright,” he said, cranking back the emergency break.

He opened his door, and so did Gene.

As they walked Ramsey held his chain saw in one hand with his other sunk into his back jean pocket. And when Ramsey looked up at the trees, so did Gene. 

Ramsey placed his palm against the wood of a thin but tall pine tree. Gene could fully wrap his arms around it if he wanted.

“M’okay,” Ramsey said, placing the chainsaw down. He knelt then looked at Gene. “We’re gonna cut here,” he motioned a horizontal chop across the wood, then raised his hand and angled it. “Then here.” And he motioned another chop. He then began to stand and his left knee popped. 

“Okay,” Gene said, but he didn’t understand.

Ramsey picked up the chainsaw and pinched the pull cord between his thumb and pointer knuckle. The cord chugged when he yanked it back once, then twice, and on the third pull the engine inside the chainsaw kicked and began to rumble. Ramsey motioned Gene to step back.

Gloveless, and without ear muffs, Ramsey turned the saw blade and sunk it into the tree. The razors began to catch and rip into the wood, and birds in the trees above them took flight. Gene reached up and plugged his ears. 

Shavings spewed from the base of the saw and dusted the forest floor in white. And after coming nearly to the center of the tree, Ramsey pulled the blade back.

Ramsey made three cuts into the tree, a horizontal, an angled, and another horizontal on the opposite end of the tree. This left uncut wood in the very middle, and when he pressed his palm into the bark the center began to snap. The tree came free, tipped, then hit the ground with a cloud of dust. 

“Alright,” Ramsey said, and rolled his shoulders back.

With the engine still humming, he held out the handle of the chainsaw for Gene.

Gene looked at his father, and his father looked back down at him. Ramsey shook the chainsaw once, then Gene reached for the handle with both hands. When Ramsey let go Gene’s arms dropped from the weight.

Ramsey moved Gene to another tree with a clear line to fall, then stood back and crossed his arms. Gene raised the chainsaw with a grunt and turned it sideways. He stood with his legs generously far apart and his knees bent. After turning the saw to see where the switch was, he clamped his hand on it and the blades began to race. He immediately unclamped.

“Hold it firm or it’ll kick back on the bark” Ramsey said. 

“Okay,” Gene said.

He pictured the chainsaw hitting the bark, rebounding off, then ripping into his stomach. His arms felt light under the skin, and his palms made a layer of sweat between the handle and his hands. But, like his father, he rolled his shoulders back and clamped the switch again.

The chainsaw sunk into the wood, stopped, sunk again, then stopped.

Ramsey said nothing.

Gene shimmied the blade out of the crack, then raised it with shaky arms for the next cut.

He followed the steps his father took, slicing three jagged cuts into the tree. When he finished and pressed his hand against the bark, it did not fall. He looked at Ramsey, who motioned to the wedge Gene sawed.

“Too shallow,” he said.

Gene had only cut the wedge a quarter into the tree rather than half way. Ramsey crossed his arms and stepped back, and Gene ran the blades again.

It took Gene twenty minutes to fell his tree, and even when it began to snap and fall, the base broke off and kicked back at Gene. Ramsey took him by the collar of his shirt and yanked him back.

Ramsey then placed a hand on the back of Gene’s head. Gene looked up at him.

“Good,” Ramsey said.

Ramsey cut down the last tree while Gene stood on a big flat-topped rock and watched. Ramsey then showed Gene how to run the saw across the tree to slice the branches off, then how to turn the tree, then slice again. After that, they stopped to sit down on the back of the truck and eat lunch, and neither of them said a word to one another.

After lunch, Ramsey began to slice the trunks into sections. Gene would pick up the thick round chunks and walk them back to the truck, then stack them in the back.

And on the very last tree- which still had its branches- Ramsey had begun to slow. Gene watched his flannel come off, his white wife beater go transparent around the collar from sweat, and his breathing become labored. Despite this, Ramsey continued to press the blade against the branches of the tree.

Gene watched how Ramsey held the saw and how he planted his feet. His arms had veins running from his biceps to his wrists. His knuckles were rounded and defined, and his fingers were thick. Gene pictured his father with a brown leather hat and a lasso, riding atop a stallion. He then looked down at his own arms which hung loose.

The razors on the blade glided across the tree as Ramsey sliced the branches off. The saw hooked and ripped the wood, outlining the tree with white shavings.

And when the saw hit a thick knot at the base of a branch, it kicked back and tapped against Ramsey’s right thigh.

Gene stilled. The blades of the saw stopped and Ramsey raised the machine to look down at his thigh. There was an open split in the fabric of his jeans, and it began to blossom with dark red. A weight dropped in Gene’s chest, and he looked up at his father’s face.

Ramsey wiped his glossy forehead with the back of his wrist. Then, the chainsaw started again, and Ramsey continued cutting the trunk into sections. Gene stood very still and watched him. He felt a balloon expanding in his chest, pressing against his heart and ribs, and welling up into his throat. He felt like he should cry, but he didn’t.

As Ramsey continued, so did Gene. He picked up the next round chunk of wood, then he walked back to the truck.

When he returned, Ramsey had finished sectioning the trunk and the continuous hum of the chainsaw’s engine finally died. The forest was very quiet. Without limping, Ramsey walked to a nearby rock and sat down, then began to undo his belt.

Gene bent over and wrapped his arms around the next piece of wood. He stared down at the forest floor as he adjusted his arms. It was scattered with thin twigs and yellowed pine needles, which were speckled with red dots. He looked up at Ramsey.

Ramsey’s jeans now pooled at his ankles, revealing a baggy pair of plaid boxers. From where Gene watched -with his chest resting atop the wood- he couldn’t see the top of Ramsey’s thigh. But as Ramsey studied it, a line of red slid down the side of his calf down to his ankle. Gene looked away.

Gene finished loading the truck, and Ramsey tossed the saw into the back before walking away to the treeline.

Gene opened the car door and stepped up into the cream colored seat. He leaned over to watch his dad through the driver’s seat window. Ramsey had one hand placed against a tree and each foot planted apart. His shoulders raised and lowered with big breaths, and beads of sweat dripped from his chin. He was taking a leak while Gene was in the car waiting, and the balloon in Gene’s chest swelled again. The stream was black.

Gene laid his head against the chilled window and watched the towering trees glide past the car. The sky had gone from amber to black, and the weather turned frigid. Gene watched a fog spread against the window each time he exhaled through his nose, forming a rounded shape.

Then, just as Gene laid his head back against the headrest, something outside popped. The truck jerked, and then swayed as it balanced itself. Gene looked at the road, then at his father, who stared straight ahead and rolled the truck to a stop at the side of the dirt road.

“What was that?” Gene asked.

Ramsey pulled the gear into park and opened the door, leaving the key in the ignition. Gene turned around in his seat and watched him walk behind the truck, then squat out of eyesight. Gene then looked down at Ramsey’s seat cushion where red blood had followed the cracks in the white leather.

Gene wondered if Ramsey had cried when he was a kid. Gene recalled that just a month ago Aiden fell off his bike and busted his cheekbone into the curb which split the skin open. When Gene’s mom took him to get stitches, he cried the entire time. He wondered if his father had ever gotten stitches, and if he cried.

Ramsey’s boots neared the car, and his long arm reached in to take the key. The headlights that stretched into the woods shut off.

“Nail on the road,” he said. “Popped tire.”

“Alright,” Gene said.

Ramsey leaned in and opened the glove box in front of Gene, and he blindly felt for a flashlight. 

Gene’s brows furrowed as he opened his own door, and he wondered if they were going to walk the rest of the way home. He then wondered when the last time was that he saw another car come down the road. 

“Get your coat,” Ramsey said to him.

“Don’t have it,” Gene said, walking to meet his dad in front of the car. “I didn’t bring it.”

“Alright,” Ramsey said, and he turned on the flashlight.

It shot down the road into the darkness with no defined circle.

Without limping, Ramsey began to walk down the side of the road. Gene followed behind him, and their boots crackled against gravel and twigs. Warm fog wafted from their noses, and after ten minutes Gene’s jaw began to shiver. His walking slowed.

Gene looked up at the moon that was only a curved slit, then looked at the back of his father’s head. Ramsey was breathing heavy, and he too had slowed. He did not shiver, and he did not roll the sleeves of his flannel down. Gene pictured a rotund bull with forward pointed horns pressing against a boulder. He imagined the boulder moving bit by bit, and the bull’s hooves digging into the ground.

Gene clenched his jaw and pretended that he wasn’t cold either.

After twenty minutes of walking, Ramsey stopped and dropped the arm holding the flashlight up. He placed his hand on his hip and let his head tip back. Gene saw in his father’s black silhouette that he was shaking. He stood there, panting, and Gene watched him. Then, Ramsey’s body swayed, he tipped back, and he caught himself then straightened again.

“Dad?” Gene said.

Ramsey did not reply. He stood, panting, and for a very long time Gene watched him. And then, two yellow headlights came around a curve in the road.

Both boys stood and stared as the two dim lights came closer. The wheels crackled as they slowed to a stop, and the drive cranked down the window. A thin older man with a fishing hat and sun spots on his cheeks smiled at them. He had white whiskers around his jaw, and smile lines beside the corners of his eyes.

“It's a real cold night for a walk, aint it?” he asked. Ramsey said nothing, and the old man leaned forward to look at Gene. “You fellas get lost?”

“Popped tired,” Ramsey said.

“Ah, that's too bad,”

Gene eyed the red truck the old man drove. In the trunk had a wooden dining table and three chairs. They were strapped down with rope.

“I’m about four miles from my place, we’ll have you phone someone,” said the old man.

“Alright,” said Ramsey.

Ramsey reached back and placed his hand on the back of Gene’s head, and they went around the front of the truck to the passengers side. 

Ramsey sat in the middle, and Gene sat beside him. Then, the man began to drive again, and trees glided past them in the opposite direction they had been going before.

The cream colored bench they sat on had no cracks or tears like Ramsey’s truck, and the ashtray on the dashboard was empty.

“You fellas out chopping wood?” he asked.

“Mhm,” Ramsey said, gripping his thigh.

“Yea, me and my boys used to come out here too. I’m Donald,” Donald said.

“I’m Angelo,” Ramsey said.

Donald looked at Ramsey, then at the road. Then, he reached up for the ceiling light and pressed it on. It flickered a dim yellow, and he leaned forward to look at Ramsey’s face. Gene watched them.

“Well shoot. Shoot, you’re Angelo Ramsey, aren't you.”

Ramsey said nothing.

“Hitman Ramsey, I used to watch you with my kids. Haha, what are the chances- You really have six fingers on your left hand?”

Ramsey raised his left hand, palm up, and showed Donald.

“Wow, look at that,” Donald said. “When you took that man out in the ring, I mean wow. I was sitting with my wife and uh, I think she was holding our youngest. Well, I woke the boys to bring em down so they could see it, and I mean, it's all we talked about the rest of that day. Hah, what else can you talk about?”

Gene’s brows raised, and he looked at his father’s face. Ramsey’s eyes were closed, and he was breathing deep through his nose.

“One hit, and wham- gone. Completely gone, that's a hell of an arm you’ve gotta have. Not even a chance. The hell are you doing in Twin Falls?” Donald asked.

“Retiring,” Ramsey replied.

Donald chuckled, then, for a while, no one said anything.

Gene looked back out of the front window.

“You like dogs?” Donald asked, leaning forward to look at Gene.

Gene nodded.

Donald’s home was a part of a small neighborhood in an open, flat, green field. The porch lights were lit and the front door was propped open with a chunk of wood. On the first step laid a very fat chocolate lab who’s stiff tail began to wag when the car drove into the driveway.

When they first came into the home, Ramsey asked for antiseptic. He soon sat at the kitchen table and tipped the bottle carefully over the split on his thigh. Gene did not watch, and instead scratched under the chin of the lab named Big Bertha. And as he watched her face, he heard sizzling, and a low grunt.

While Ramsey phoned Abigail in the kitchen, Gene sat on the living room couch and stared at the television, but he didn’t watch.

Instead, he pictured his father in red boxer shorts and round gloves. Beads of sweat had formed on his forehead from the lights in the indoor stadium. He imagined an announcer’s voice crackling through speakers, booming over an audience. He saw a swing of his father’s left arm, then a man’s head turning from the hit. The man went completely still, tipped, and fell on the mat. His father stood tall- face sore- and he put a fist in the air.

Angelo hitman Ramsey. 

“How old were you when you started boxing?” Gene asked.

He and Ramsey drove back down the road in Ramsey’s blue rusted truck. Donald and Ramsey used a spare from Donalds garage to change the tire. Ramsey held the steering wheel tight with one hand, and gripped his thigh with the other. Gene sat curled up against the door with his forehead against the cold window.

“Huh?” Ramsey replied.

“When did you start boxing?”

“Don’t know,” Ramsey said. “Seventeen.”

Gene thought about that for a while, then he said;

“I wanna be a boxer.”

Ramsey said nothing. 

“Did you always win in one hit?” Gene asked.

“No,” Ramsey said.

“Oh. Did you knock that one man out with one hit?” he asked.

“I killed him,” Ramsey said.

Gene raised his head and stared at his father. Ramsey took a deep inhale of his cigar, and the glow of the butt lit his aged face with orange.

Gene pictured his father hitting the man, the man’s head turning, his body going still, then tipping and hitting the boxing cage floor. He pictured his father staring down at him.

He laid his head back against the window.

I put this story together a few months ago for my patron members! If you're interested in more writing, consider supporting me through patreon :)

[fkinavocado]

put a price on emotion

The Honourable Judge Styles has a dark secret. He prides himself on being notorious for his cutthroat sense of justice. But is he really any better than the ones he imprisons? Or is he a victim much like the ones he acquits?

Put a price on emotion - Masterlist, Author's Notes & Warnings / alternatively, read on wattpad

Prologue (word count: 1.1k)

“All rise. The court is now in session. Honourable Judge Styles presiding. Please be seated.”

The imposing man nodded to the bailiff and the other members of the courtroom as he took his seat at the bench. “Thank you, you may all be seated. Call the case.”

“Your honour, criminal case number 23234- People of Chicago, Illinois versus Grace Gwyneth Cohen for homicide.”

The judge did a quick scan of the courtroom as he opened up his notebook for his case notes, and landed his gaze on the defendant. She’d waived her right to a jury trial, which didn’t make any sense to him. It made much more sense for her to want a jury trial. Her chances of convincing that many more people of her innocence were exponentially higher than persuading the state’s notoriously cutthroat judge. 

The man usually presided over hung jury cases. It was his expertise, mostly because he was known for being just and, yes, cutthroat. In all the cases he’d presided over, not once did he have even a shadow of a doubt over who was in the wrong. He’d always served justice, he was sure of it, and as much as he’d have liked to have his innate judge of character take all the credit for it, he had to admit he’d not been this attuned before. 

It was hard to tell anymore, mainly because, well, it had been such a long time since… before. If anything, he could attest that he’d always had an affinity towards justice, doing the right thing, advocating for the right cause, but now, well, he could read right through the bullshit.

He could read people like open books. 

As could all vampires.

So, really, it was nothing special. What was special, though, was that not all vampires chose to put these sharpened abilities to good use. The fact that he’d chosen to do so was still something mind boggling to his… community. But Harry couldn’t fathom just doing nothing for all eternity, like they did. Sure, after a couple hundred years everyone kinda gets tired of trying to spruce things up. But he’d done it all- tried everything in the book- and at one point, you just need to try and give your existence meaning. And this, judging, was a way he could put his abilities to good use, in a meaningful way, giving him a sense of purpose.

And that was pretty valuable when you were immortal. 

And besides, he couldn’t lie; the added bonus of making humans squirm- particularly those that deserved to be crushed by the law- under his gavel, albeit metaphorically, was quite thrilling. 

But most of all, he enjoyed ensuring a bit of balance in this unfair world- the world that chose this existence for him. He’d not chosen this for himself, after all. He was a victim. He’d suffered a great injustice, maybe the biggest of them all- he’d been robbed of his right of living a normal life. He’d been forced into immortality, and there was nothing he could do about it. No one to turn to, no one to give him justice. There simply wasn’t any. And that had always bothered him deeply.

Sure, they had a system. The vampire that had turned him did suffer some consequences. But, really, there wasn’t much you could do to an immortal being to make them really repent. It wasn’t like they were going to be put away for “life”. You couldn’t exactly incarcerate someone for all eternity. The prospect of a death penalty was more of a treat than a threat to most vampires. And so, outside of being ostracised by their community, which ensured an even lonelier existence, there wasn’t much else a vampire could fear in this afterlife. Most of them stayed within lines and regulations just so they wouldn’t have to face the rest of eternity alone, be it as it may in a state of the art manor and not some dingy prison cell.

So what had made this young woman waive her jury trial? Had she not heard of his reputation? Looking at her, he recognized she was an outspoken person, a very headstrong personality, from the way she didn’t seem to pay any attention to her lawyer.

He recognized the defence attorney. He was someone the state had provided the young woman with, so he wasn’t her own choice. Their body language told him all he needed to know. She was not going to heed her council’s advice. He wondered if the man knew it too, but if he had to guess he’d say he was suspicious of it at the very least.

This was going to be tricky, Harry thought to himself as he narrowed his gaze and decided to proceed.

“Is the accused in court?”

“Yes, your honour,” the bailiff announced.

“Alright, arraign the accused.”

The young woman was brought to the defence panel, the bailiff addressing her “You are the accused in the trial number 23234 entitled People of Chicago, Illinois versus Grace Gwyneth Cohen, and the information charges you of the crime of homicide committed as follows: that on the night of 27 of July, current year, in Chicago, Illinois, the above named accused, with intent to kill, did then and there, wilfully, unlawfully and feloniously attack, assault and employ personal violence upon the person of one Silvian Montgomery, by then and there stabbing him with a sharp silver switchblade on the right portion of his torso, thereby inflicting upon him a serious and mortal wound which was the direct and immediate cause of his untimely death as per the autopsy report conducted by the state appointed pathologist. Contrary to law. What is your plea?”

“Not guilty.”

“You will address the bench in doing so.”

The young woman cleared her throat and turned to face the judge who was watching her intently. She took a quick breath, meeting his icy glaze. “Not guilty, your honour.”

“The accused enters the plea of not guilty, your honour.”

The young woman rolled her eyes ever so slightly, muttering something about how she’d literally just said that. And she’d been subtle about it, but Harry was extremely observant. And his preternatural hearing capabilities didn’t hurt, either.

But he was willing to let it slide, because, well, he had an affinity for innocent people.

It felt a bit like cheating, this whole ordeal, a feeling he wasn’t accustomed to. Because he was about to preside over a case knowing the outcome from head start. He knew what his verdict would be. He knew before he’d even been assigned the trial.

Not guilty.

Chapter 1

A/N: well, well well. the day has finally come. i've been planning on this fic for over a year now! i was going to post the epilogue for halloween, but life got in the way. in a way i'm glad i didn't because, well, this isn't just another vampire fic to me. it's so much more than that. it's smutty (of course), it's angsty (duh, it's me), but honestly... for a guy whose heart stopped beating a long time ago Harry sure doesn't act like it. and as for the original main character this time around, Grace... well, we'll just have to discover her alongside Harry, won't we ❤️

beta'd by the lovely @adorebeaa ❤️

special bday gift for @freedomfireflies ❤️ btw the name i chose for the mc is coincidental 😅

💕 like & reblog if you’re enjoying this, lovelies, and most importantly, please come share your thoughts on it here 💌

🧛follow me on wattpad to get notified whenever i post something new/update!🧑‍⚖️

[myhauntedsalem]

Christmas Tree Ghost Ship

From 1898 to 1912 Herman Schuenemann was the Captain of the wooden schooner Rouse Simmons.

Captain Schuenemann was considered as much a part of Chicago’s Christmas as Santa Claus because his ship was better known as the “Christmas Tree Ship.”

Every November he would set sail on Lake Michigan from Thompson with a full cargo of spruces, pines and balsams piled high.

As Schuenemann reached his destination– he would steer the Rouse Simmons down the Chicago River and up to the Clark Street Bridge were thousands of waving Chicagoans would wait in anticipation.

Once the ship had docked, people swarmed onboard to choose a Christmas tree. They cost 50 cents to a dollar.

“Chicago’s Yuletide season began when the Christmas Tree Ship arrived with evergreens lashed to her masts and rigging… Her skipper would welcome throngs of Chicagoans aboard as soon as the ship’s moorings were secure. Whole families would hurry to the dock to get the pick of the crop. Many wandered on deck to watch the Captain’s daughter, Elsie, weave pine branches into wreaths, which were also for sale.”

–Reminiscences of Phil Sanders when he was a boy.

Herman Scheuenemann and his brother August before him– from 1876-to 1898– always made sure no one left without a tree. Both brothers gave away hundreds of trees to needy families, churches and orphanages.

August was carrying a load of trees to Chicago when his ship went down in 1898 in one of Lake Michigan’s fierce November gales. His brother, Herman made another trip just two weeks later determined Chicago would have its Christmas trees that year.

Unfortunately, fourteen years later Herman would suffer the same fate.

Lake sailors as well as ocean sailors are a superstitious lot–they have to be. Generations of “old salts” pass down what a sailor needs to be aware of–this includes everything that happens on and around their ships.

Captain Schuenemann was a competent and cautious sailor but for some reason he ignored a significant number of ominous warnings in November of 1912.

He was planning to sail from Thompson, Michigan on a Friday with a large cargo of trees despite severe storm warnings. His crew was nervous for there was an obvious storm brewing and the captain wanted to start their journey on a Friday.

Sailors considered it extremely unlucky to begin a voyage on a Friday. In the 1800s the British Navy was so annoyed by this superstition they purposefully launched a new ship called HMS Friday on a Friday.

Needless to say this ship and its crew were never seen again.

Captain Charles Nelson, Herman’s partner who had been a lake captain for 50 years tried to persuade Herman to delay but he could not convince him. Herman didn’t want to take the risk of being iced into the harbor and having his ship dashed against the docks by gale-force winds.

Schuenemann then ignored several more bad omens. Just before the schooner left the harbor several sailors watched in horror as droves of rats fled the ship. This is believed to be a sign a ship is in imminent danger.

Three crew members afraid now left the Rouse Simmons forfeiting their pay. This left just 13 crewmembers on the ship. Sailing with thirteen crewmembers was considered to be as dangerous as starting a voyage on a Friday.

Ships at the time nailed a horseshoe to the side of their vessels for good luck. Just as on land it is considered bad luck if these horseshoes are hung upside down–all the luck will run out.

As the Rouse Simmons set sail, the horseshoe that was hung on its side was loosened by strong winds. It was now hanging upside down on a single nail.

Captain Schuenemann left the harbor on November 22nd and sailed right into the now infamous Big Storm of 1912.

The temperature immediately dropped from 40 degrees to below freezing. Rain turned to snow and ice, which coated the ships’ rigging, sails and spars–and the Christmas trees that were on deck.

The next day witnesses in Kewaunee, Wisconsin saw the Rouse Simmons pass by flying her distress signals. They wondered why the ship with its tattered sails did not just stop but instead sailed into a blinding snowstorm.

“The Two Rivers Life Saving Crew was informed of the ships’ distress signals and set out in search of the schooner but it was never found.”

–From an article in the Chronicle of Two Rivers

This mystery was not solved until 1971 when the wreck of the Rouse Simmons was found at the bottom of Lake Michigan.

Its wheel was missing so the experts concluded that the ships enormous cargo of Christmas trees had basically turned into ice blocks on deck, which then slid into the wheel leaving the captain unable to control the ships’ course.

One popular sailor superstition is that when a ship’s bells are heard ringing of their own accord, as in a storm, this foretells death.

In the days after the Rouse Simmons was lost several people near Two Rivers, Wisconsin reported hearing phantom bells and phantom cries in the wind.

A ghost ship has also been seen through the years. It is often spotted on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day gliding in the waters near Two Rivers. People have watched as it just vanishes into a mist.

[leos-writing-corner]

oc introduction: Sarai Benson

- 25 years old

- Works in a gift shop of a hospital in Chicago

- She does the floral arrangements, deliveries of flowers/gifts to patients

- (She’s gotten in trouble a few times cause she ends up staying and talking/bonding with the patients, especially the older or lonelier ones)

- she also works part time at Gideon’s place doing floral arrangement and working the front desk

- she’s creative and knows all about the flower language so leave it to her to make a nice arrangement with a message

- Born and raised in Carmel-By The-Sea, California. She moved out to Chicago when she’s 22 to look after her sickly grandmother.

- Sarai works a few odd jobs here and there before landing a permanent job at the hospital’s gift shop

- Sadly Sarai’s grandmother passes away when Sarai is 24. Her grandmother leaves her loft to Sarai.

- Sarai spruces it up with lots of pink and Sanrio merch

- Sarai is a Soft Girl™️

- Knows only sundresses, skirts, cardigans, thigh high socks, etc for fashion

- Trusting to a fault, sees the good in everyone and believes in them, a yapper if given the chance and she cries easily, especially if someone else is crying. Think when Truvy said “I have a strict policy that nobody cries alone in my presence”

- The kind of person who reminds others to eat or drink but forget about it for herself

- She’s v book smart, was a straight A student, but decided to skip the college scene, but she’ll brow a textbooks from the library just to see what’s happening academically these days

- Unknowingly brings about ‘good luck’ to others, cause she may or may not have a charm on her that was placed at birth- more on that later

- Cause of this charm though, she’s able to see things most humans don’t and that’s what leads her to meeting Lalo. It doesn’t go well their first time meeting!!

[dreamings-free]

review

Faith In The Future

On his sophomore effort, Faith in the Future, former One Direction member Louis Tomlinson finally seizes his moment, crafting a strong collection of earworms that honors his British musical influences and finds his vision and voice.

Steeped in cautious optimism, Faith in the Future is confident without being cocky, its self-assurance born from years of life experiences and personal growth. That energy results in a collection of towering singalongs that are unabashed in their pure emotions, finding strength in resolve and setting sights on the future. While still taking cues from the Britpop era, Tomlinson spruces things up by incorporating contemporary production touches and catchy dance beats, striking an ideal balance between his rock and pop sides that wasn't as apparent on his 2020 debut Walls.

This album's most stadium-sized moments tap into his inspirations from the '90s, channeling both the bombast ("The Greatest") and the balladry ("Chicago," "Saturdays") of Oasis and capturing the lighters-up, full-throated earnestness of Robbie Williams, with tracks like the tender acoustic "Common People," the soaring "Angels Fly," and "Bigger Than Me" seemingly ready for the Glastonbury stage.

Carrying the set into the 2020s, Tomlinson delivers mainstream-leaning fare with the pulsing bass-groove of "Written All Over Your Face" and the synth-laden "She Is Beauty We Are World Class." Equally as catchy, the shimmering "Lucky Again" and the driving "All This Time" are just two of a handful of highlights that echo the pop-rock breeziness of fellow countrymen Blossoms.

Faith in the Future also injects some edge, wrangling the urgency of 2000s emo-rock on "Face the Music" and "Silver Tongues" and bottling the pop-punk-revival ferocity of Yungblud on "Out of My System." Existential realizations, relationship drama, and self-reflection swirl throughout, but Tomlinson accepts the highs and lows of life with unassuming grace, employing these songs as personal reminders for both himself and listeners.

While other 1D members might grab more of the public spotlight, Tomlinson proves his strength as a songwriter and voice for fans with more complex, deeper emotions.

review by Neil Z. Yeung - AllMusic.com (2022)

HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY FAITH IN THE FUTURE!

[bornforastorm]

okay marley beat me to number 8 but let the record reflect i also wanted to read about number 8.

#16 because i love the idea of a ham/perry hookup

#19 ohohohohoho~ #39 ohohohohoho (nervous)

ooohhohoho okeeyyyy

first of all: a DIFFERENT part of mash 3, just for you my dear friend:

At the 4077th he’d said he planned to go into family medicine, like his dad. Repeat customers, scraped knees, the odd bad tonsil. No more being wrist deep in guts. He hadn’t thought about what it might mean to this community to have a good cutter practicing. Appendixes, broken bones, gallbladder infections. He could really do some good here as a surgeon. 

He thinks it over on his damp walk home, carrying his bag of liquor up in his arms.

The guys at the university hospital in Spruce Harbor are okay, as he recalls— except for Goofus, who runs things. But none of them are really specialists. None of them know how to replace a valve or patch a bowel. They send people to Boston. Boston is too far away, and too expensive, for most of the folks in Crabapple Cove. 

Maybe it would be good to get back to the kind of doctoring he knows how to do so well. The thing he really does.

Just not quite yet. 

Not while the sight of blood still makes him mildly queasy and numb. Before he was drafted, he had just started working at the university hospital in Spruce Harbor, and even then he’d found it depressingly backwater after med school in New York and residency in Chicago. What a waste of his talents, he’d thought then, to be stuck in small town Maine. So even though he’d bought a house and started his career, he’d always intended to get back to the big city, to the heat of it. But he hadn’t done a single surgery before he’d been forced to leave for Korea. 

He doesn’t know if surgery in Spruce Harbor would make him any less sick than it did in Korea. Worse, he doesn’t know if surgery in Spruce Harbor would bore him. 

It’s something to think about. 

Back home, he stops thinking about it. He eats lunch, takes a nap, and cracks open the bottle of scotch. It remains raining for the whole day and then some, soaking everything to the bone. Hawkeye sits in the armchair in the living room, warm and dry, and tries not to think about how wet and miserable he’d be with rain like this in Korea. They didn’t call it the Swamp for nothing. It flooded. 

It’s still raining when a knock at the front door rouses him from his reveries— and from the buzz of too much scotch. He wanders to the front of the house, taking his time. Anybody fool enough to be out in this downpour deserves to get wet, he thinks sourly. He’s in his robe and his socks and doesn’t think for a second of getting dressed before opening the door. 

Opening the door shuts his brain down. 

It’s Trapper out there, soaked through with his hair plastered to his forehead, breathing hard, spewing water with every huffed breath. He looks tired, sure, but that’s familiar enough. Seeing him now, in slacks and a blue shirt clinging to his chest, Hawkeye realizes he’s never really seen Trapper in civilian clothes. Not like this. This is miles away from hawaiian shirts in Tokyo. 

Hawkeye looks at him all over, noting familiar things. His watch, for example. The chain that shows under his shirt, like maybe he’s still wearing his tags. 

Hawkeye breathes, “John?” 

“Hawk.” The way Trapper wraps around that word is enough to wreck a man. 

Hawkeye’s brain starts back up with a grinding of gears. Trapper is here. Here on his doorstep. Wet from soaking rain, no umbrella. He ran through the rain to be here. 

“Isn’t this a little cliche?” 

16 pete n' ham: “Ham,” Perry moans, “christ.” 

He should have known that a little affection and Perry would cave. That all it would take would be a few kind words and a soft touch, and next thing you know he had Perry in his lap. It’s ungainly, it’s awkward, Perry still has one leg reaching down to brace on the floor. But his body is awfully close to Hamilton’s, and his hands are on his collarbone and in his hair. 

Slowly, Hamilton starts to undo Perry’s buttons. One at a time. Perry shudders. He curves inwards, which puts his face dangerously close. So Ham kisses him. Catches his mouth before Perry can move away. A noise like a gasp comes from Perry, and Ham rolls them, moving Perry so he’s flat on his back on the sofa. Perry’s hand against Hamilton’s collarbone tightens in his shirt and pulls him close again, kissing him hungrily. His mouth is warm, and wet, and sweet with bourbon, and Hamilton licks it up. 

He wants so much from Perry Mason, unfortunately. Certainly this will complicate their working relationship. But it seems so unimportant now, when Perry is panting under him and struggling with Ham’s suspenders while Hamilton nimbly unbuckles his belt. 

“What do you want, Mason?” Hamilton purrs.

“I, uh-- I want... “ He swallows hard as Ham puts a hand down his trousers and grabs. “Oh christ, I don’t know. I don’t know. I want… I want whatever you want.” 

His voice is shaking. He means it, if the hardness under Ham’s palm is anything to go by. But there’s something else too. Something that might be panic, or… simple insecurity.

Ham softens. “Do you know what the options are, Perry?” Perry shrugs and shakes his head and nods all at once. It’s funny. “I’ll go easy on you.” 

Perry nods and swallows again. 

“Kick off your shoes. We’ll do it right.” Perry does as he’s told. Hamilton carefully peels off the rest of his clothes, taking his time brushing sleeves down arms and pushing up his undershirt over his stomach. He peppers Perry with light, teasing kisses. One on that tattoo on his bicep. One on the scar on his chest. One carefully placed just below his belly button. That one causes Perry to shudder. How satisfying. 

Hamilton pauses to take off his own shirt and to wriggle out of his trousers with as much grace as he can muster. Perry’s hands linger over his shoulders, then tentatively find a hold on Hamilton’s upper thighs as Ham clambers over him again.

“Oh god,” Perry moans, his back arching. His hand on Ham’s shoulder tightens. Ham continues his ministrations, stroking firmly, mouthing at the corner of Perry’s jaw. He can feel Perry’s heartbeat in his throat. 

Then Perry says the wrong name as he comes. 

Christ, Hamilton thinks, has there ever been a sadder man than Perry Mason? Can’t even fuck a guy without it being a tragedy.

19. Blackmail (I think this is probably not what you hoped): Perry spots it right away as they sift through the pictures. Paul and Della are scanning through for themselves, for Hamilton, for anyone they know personally. They don’t pick out the picture of Pete. Perry does. 

Because it’s also a picture of him. This is blackmail fodder against him. This picture of Pete and him having dinner at some dive, Perry can barely remember which. They’re sitting shoulder to shoulder at the rail of the patio, half finished meals in front of them, a few too many empty glasses shining with lingering droplets of whiskey. Perry is smiling, which is more than could be said of him in the other pictures. He’s smiling and loose and Perry isn’t sure if he’s ever seen himself this way. He rarely feels like the man in the picture looks. The man in the picture is a stranger to him. A happy stranger. A comfortable stranger.

Pete meanwhile is leaning against the rail with his chin propped up on one hand. He’s looking at Perry with complete attention, and god… the look on his face. Soft and sweet as syrup. Even though he’s not the focus of the picture, and his face is a little hazy, Perry can see his expression and it strikes like lightning. 

Perry can’t for the life of him remember where they were when this was taken, or when. But he remembers what they were talking about. King Kong, that godforsaken movie. Perry had taken Teddy to disastrous results, and Pete had taken his oldest boy, and of course they’d loved it. Perry can almost figure exactly when this picture was taken. He’d been complaining about the violence, the animals fighting each other, the blood, and Perry not quite able to figure out how they’d done it.

“It’s animated,” Pete said to him with amusement, half a laugh behind his patient explanation. Dumb ol’ Perry, at it again. “They move the figures and film it and then speed it up.”

“I guess.” Perry frowned. He understood technically, but it didn’t soothe him at all. It’s not that it was all that realistic exactly— he’d seen apes and lizards in a zoo in London after the war— but it was horrible. It scared him, right in his guts. 

Pete clearly was not so affected. “It’s like playing with dolls.” 

Perry had shaken his head. “It’s not like dolls. Did you ever play that violently with dolls?” 

“Sure,” Pete shrugged. “When I wasn’t making them screw each other.” 

And Perry had laughed and smiled and looked away, and Pete had put his chin in his hand. 

And the photo was taken.

Perry has, of course, never seen the pair of them from an outside perspective. He doesn’t even think he has a picture of Pete anywhere in his life. It seems shocking now, to realize it. Pete exists in his life without evidence. No photographs, no letters. Nothing but this right now. This picture of Pete looking at him with such warmth, such gentleness, such allowance. 

Christ, Perry thinks. This is how he looks at me? Is that how I look at him? 

39 stare wares (remind me to just send you this whole google doc actually bc I will never publish this thing anywhere but I do think the bones of it aren't bad):

Weeks pass, and Finn stays unconscious, and Poe's headaches return with a vengeance. The first headache had been after a night of drinking with Snap and Jess, and so he hadn’t thought about it as anything more than a particularly bad hangover. But when it stays, when it gets worse, he curses it as whatever illness or whatever he had after Jakku. A returning something that won’t let him rest. Sometimes the headaches are hardly more than a throb and he can handle them with pain capsules and a lot of water, but sometimes they're nearly incapacitating. He can't fly when they're that bad. He can hardly get out of bed. He talks to the medics while he’s visiting Finn, and they do tests, but they aren't sure what's wrong. They give him pain tablets and tell him to drink lots of water, which he’s already doing. But eventually, nothing helps. When they’re as bad as they can be, he goes to bed. And when his headaches are bad, his nightmares are worse. Darkness, pain, the screeching howl of Tie fighters, the smell of smoke and ozone. And something dark and looming, a ghoul who is always present, digging digging digging into his head. It’s terrible, but then the nightmares pass and his headaches lessen, and he gets back to work. 

Maybe, he thinks, this is a side effect of First Order torture. Some injury from all the beatings and injections that have left his head in bad shape. His bruises aren’t healing as quickly as they used to, or as quickly as they should. These things are probably related, he tells himself. They must be.

“Poe!” A voice hollers from across the hangar. “Poe!” 

It takes him a moment to find the source, but then he does and it’s Finn. Finn! Out of medical and awake and most importantly, running toward him at full speed. This is so much more than he had ever expected. Up and walking already--

“Finn!” 

“Poe! Poe Dameron!” 

Finn crashes into him with a bruising hug. Poe thinks for a moment that he might explode for joy, it's so good to see Finn again. But then his head gives a miserable ache. The bruise at his temple from their first meeting hasn't even faded yet. He tries to brush the pain away, because Finn is here. He's here and he's alive and awake and on his feet, and they're both laughing. 

And then Finn is holding his elbows with his big warm hands, and looking at Poe like he's never seen anything better. 

"Finn--" He doesn't get any more words out because Finn is kissing him. It's sloppy and unpracticed, but passionate and true. Poe's heart skips nearly out of his chest.

“I’m so glad you’re alright!” Finn says, then kisses him again. “I’m so glad to see you!” His head stabs then and without thinking, he pushes Finn away. The look on Finn's face nearly breaks his heart.

"I'm sorry, Poe, I, uh--" Finn lowers his head.

"No, Finn, it's not that. I--" Poe forces a smile, running a hand through his hair. "That was great. It's just..." His head. His splitting headache... He can't think. He can't. "It's just that..." And Finn is so young. He doesn't know what he wants. He can't. Poe was just the first person he came across. It can't be real. He’s not good enough for Finn. "You don't know what you want. I don't..." And meanwhile Poe can't breathe. His head hurts too badly, and his stomach is doing flips that don't feel like the good flips he usually gets around Finn. "I don't want you to feel obligated."

He's dizzy. When he looks at Finn, he can see his furrowed brow. Hurt maybe, or confused, or worried... Usually Poe is good at reading expressions, but now he feels like he can hardly see, let alone do anything else. Everything seems far away. 

"Obligated?" 

"Like you have to... or... I mean there are lots of other people out there." Is he sweating? He feels hot, too hot. 

"Poe..."

But he can't hear whatever Finn says next because of his head. It's screaming at him. He can hear himself screaming. He's not sure what's happening. His mouth tastes like blood again. There's a hand on his arm, and he can only barely see it. The edges of his vision get dark.

"Finn." He wants to grab onto Finn and never let go. It feels like the only thing that will keep him from shattering into a million pieces. The screaming gets louder, and under the screaming Poe can hear something else. Something worse. What is it? "Finn, I--" His body rebels and he pitches over, his knees collapsing. Maybe the screams are coming out of him now. His head is cracking open. With the screaming outside of him, his insides are full of the worse sound. It's the rasping breath of Kylo Ren. Inside him. The breath and his growl of a voice. Asking him, prying from him, digging around inside him until he doesn't know himself any more. Until all he can do is scream.

It's that demon of the First Order. He never really escaped. There's still a hold on him, and now it's killing him. 

[persephassax]

ms. fraser’s school of etiquette

after ray totally blows a date (again? it feels like “again” with him) and he’s lamenting about it, fraser offers to bring back an old friend to help ray up his game and spruce up his moves.

cue the return of ms. fraser, classy, demure, and one hell of a knock out (literally and metaphorically), whom ray is to take out on the town so that she can provide feedback on his manners and technique with women.

this is a first for ray: going out with a lady with the intention to woo her but without the pressure to succeed, intimacy with a woman who isn’t a blood relation. also, an opportunity to be both the better man no one but Benny (and maybe Ma, when she’s feeling sentimental at the holidays) believe him to be, as well as a chance to be vulnerable with a friend in a way he rarely gets to be (we love toxic masculinity!).

meanwhile, fraser gets to let loose a little bit. he might still be wearing a mask, but ms. fraser can do and say and feel things that a Constable of the RCMP could never allow. and ms. fraser likes the detective, whom she can tease and correct in a way that doesn’t carry with it some of the implicit moral judgement that comes with the same comments from the Mountie. and benny maybe gets to see a bit of ray that is usually hidden away, hard to suss out on the mean streets of chicago.

THEN EVERYONE GETS WEIRD AND GAY ABOUT IT AND THEN THEY MAKE OUT AND MORE GAY SHIT HAPPENS. THE END.

[p.s. shout out to @portlandwithyou for ms. fraser in stockings rather than pantyhose i am literally losing sleep over the image thanks]

[outlet-syndicate]

Meh, why not spend my afternoon doing this...?

I was tired, and that was all I could think about. Or rather, everything else I tried to think about in my life just led back to my weariness. Most of my friends were gone with the draft, my career wasn't coming along as well as I'd hoped, and the "single life" wasn't nearly all it was cracked up to be. I needed a drink, and I needed it soon.

Luckily, in my last bout of forethought before settling into sad monotony, I decided to rent an apartment directly across the street from a family owned bar. I could vaguely see the flickering neon sign above the entrance from my window, "Closed", it said, flashing in irregular intervals. The sign often broke though, and it wouldn't take much time to verify what it said, so I made ready to leave. It was raining heavily, so I stuffed my umbrella in my belt, tossed on my rain jacket and cap, and made my way outside. I locked the apartment door and walked down to the street, hesitating a moment before plowing across it. There was no canopy outside the bar, and I burst the door open, rushing out of the rain.

The bar was thick with smoke, but I noticed a few indistinct figures stand up quickly inside the bar, and many more sitting down to chat. It was open after all, but... there was a fire? Immediately, I remembered that tonight was a Tuesday, I never came because this was when the "Whiskey and Cigar" folks met. My friends had tried to rope me in but I never wanted to attend. They always, well, they'd always seemed so much more put together than me. Maybe I'd just go sit at the bar and hope none of my friends were here… I was dressed the part after all, and they might mistake my attire to mean that I'd like to join. Being a member of the most prestigious taxi cab agency in all of Chicago was tough work, and I wore a sharp black suit during the day. Not that I was proud of it.

I wasn't prepared for such a new experience though, and had half a mind to walk out, when I suddenly felt the left side of my jacket tugged off. I turned around in surprise, slipping my right arm out of its sleeve in the process, to watch a sprucely dressed man hang it by the hood on a nearby coat rack. I took off my hat in an attempt to address him, but the man snapped it out of my hands before I could mutter a thing, hanging it up and skittering back into the smoky dark. Suddenly another man was at my side, ushering me across the bar by the arm. I tried to protest but he remained silent, and pulled me along with purpose. I didn't get a look at any of the people at the bar, but I was sure I knew most of them, they were here often, life me. He guided me to a large door at the back, which he opened, directing me inside. I took a step and it shut behind me, I'd always wondered what was in here. The walls were lined with bookcases, filled with almost as many handles of whiskey as books. The smoke was denser in here, and lamps magnified its eerie atmosphere. The air itself seemed to glow faintly. Lavish leather armchairs sat around a stout chestnut table and, as expected, a host of gentleman smoking cigars, wallowed in the cushioning.

"We've been expecting you, Monsieur." Said a man with a distinct French accent.

This statement seemed odd even to me, as I hadn't been planning on coming, but I disregarded it. I looked to my side, seeking some sort of explanation from the man who led me here, but he had remained outside. I was alone with these gentlemen, and the smoke. I’d heard good things about the club from those who went, and I remembered all the times my buddies tried to convince me to come. – “Everyone’s a little scared the first time, but only because of the new atmosphere, everyone there are regular people, just like you and me.”

They were all just regular people...

"Sit down." Said another one, gesturing at the seat beside him, the only empty one. He sounded British. What a colorful cast of characters... I wondered if this might be fun. For a moment, I found myself distracted, and truly excited, at the prospect of doing something more than my usual plodding routine. I walked around the table, and nearly did sit down, but hesitated.

"How much will it cost?" I asked.

"Fifty."

It was a bit hefty, but I had enough on me. My friends had always told me it was a steal. I looked around me, and realised that just how expensive looking this room was. And that whiskey looked top notch... maybe this would be worth it after all, especially if I drank enough liquor. I let myself fuse with the seat, trying hard to relax as deeply as my new acquaintances.

"We're surprised you came." said another of the men, this one was obviously Austrian.

They must have heard about my reluctance.

"I couldn't pass up an opportunity this enticing."

"But of course." The British man said. "You know how eager we are for this."

Evidently my friends had been hyping up my character just a little too much.

Now a Vietnamese man was speaking: "But lets come back to the price, is what we've set it at accommodating?"

"Of course." I responded.

He stared at me a moment and the others in the club exchanged glances. Clearly my friends had been passing me off as dirt-poor too. They weren't far off, but I could afford some small luxuries. The men all sort of goggled at me, and I felt a little taken aback.

The Vietnamese one noticed my dismay and clarified, "I apologize, we just thought there'd be a bit more negotiating."

"Oh really, it's nothing, I'm practically stealing from you."

This seemed to upset them.

"Is this some sort of game to you?" The Austrian man piped up, "Fifty million dollars is absurd, I thought you'd be taking this seriously, all our livelihoods are on the line."

I gave a polite chuckle at his attempt at a joke.

This did not help.

"This doesn't have to be diplomatic, our friends are sitting out in that bar, if something went awry, well... who knows what they'd do."

"You know, some of those folks happen to be my buddies as well."

They all went a bit pale.

Something was getting their nerves up, and I was getting a little tired of it. Luckily we were surrounded by the exact remedy. I stood up and opened a book case, grabbing the most ornate bottle I could see.

"Come on gentlemen, lets have something to drink."

Snifters were already set out, so I poured some in each and took one to my seat. No one stood up to grab one. I took a sip.

"How many do you have?" one asked.

"Hmm?" I said with liquid in my mouth.

"How many of them are your 'friends'?" His voice cracked a bit.

"Quite a few... they're not exactly hard to come by...?" I flashed my most charming smile, "a few minutes with me is all it takes."

"He's bluffing."

What on earth were they being told about me? Maybe another sip of whiskey would help..?

"Those are the best trained men on the face of the planet, there's nothing you could've done to them."

"Come ooon, grab some liquor, I don't know what your yapping about, but I'm here for the booze, and I'll be damned if I don't have some." I finished my glass.

"You mean you don't even care."

"Pal, I'm not even sure what you folks want me to care about, buuut, I know a drink will do you good."

"I much prefer glencairns to snifters."

"Snifter!" I shouted, raising my arms and giggling.

One of them noticed the umbrella I had tucked in my belt, and stood up, pulling a funny looking one out of his own belt.

I reached to grab my own in preparation for an umbrella duel - "I barely know her!"

There was a burst of light, and my failure of a life was gone.

You are incredibly tired and depressed so you go for a walk, you go to a bar across the street, in it are several world class spies and they think you are the underworld crime Boss, your casual behavior terrifies the sh!t out of them.

[objectivelyimpermanent]

Batman: Year One (1988) by Frank Miller and David Mazzucchelli

My Batman reading order begins. Mind that this is as much a test as anything. Also, I have already read The Long Halloween as a sneak peak, but I swear that otherwise I'm a DC comics virgin. Batman: Year One by Frank Miller contains Batman (1940-2011) #404-407, which were printed first in comic serial 1996-1997, and which started out the post-Crisis on Infinite Earths continuity on the New Earth. They contain the revamped origin story for Batman. I have acquired the 1988 TPB recoloured edition by Richmond Lewis. This is the volume most often recommended for a few reasons: 1) Richmond Lewis was the colourist also for the original serial, so the collected edition was an opportunity for the original colourist to spruce up the comic with a wider variety of colour than was possible in 4-colour newsprint comics. She is also married to David Mazzucchelli, who was responsible for the linework, so the artistic vision was really kept in-house. 2) This volume is much cheaper than other options that include the recoloured pages, such as the hardcover Absolute Batman: Year One. 3) This volume is also generally fairly cheap, especially if you're not overly attached to mint or brand new copies. My extremely well-preserved 1st edition cost less than £10 on Ebay.

Frank Miller often is credited (or accused) for the grittiness and cynicism of modern Batman and Batman comics--his approximately contemporaneous 1986 Elseworlds limited miniseries The Dark Knight Returns was a major influence on Snyder's grimdark DCEU movies, and he's known generally for sucking out all the ideological sincerity, compassion, and ironic absurdity from Batman. In the 1988 introduction to Batman: Year One, Frank Miller declares, "For me, Batman was never funny." However, that's not precisely borne out in the Batman: Year One comic. In Batman: Year One, Batman might be objectively terrifying to most of his fellow Gothamites, but to his audience he's meta-narratively hilarious. For example, the comedy of errors that is Bruce Wayne's first vigilante-preparation outing. Batman (1940-2011) #404: 25-year-old Bruce Wayne ventures out into the East End of Gotham on 11 March, shortly after his return from abroad. He doesn't yet have the Bat costume, or the specific idea of Batman. Instead, he pastes on some make-up for a recon mission in preparation for his debut as an as-yet-unnamed vigilante. In the process, the following sequence of events occurs:

He vows not to use violence on this recon-only mission

He immediately picks a fight with a street pimp

He gets stabbed and then beaten up by a few sex workers

He gets attacked by a pre-Catwoman Selina Kyle

He punches Selina Kyle in the face

He gets shot by a cop

He gets arrested

He beats up the two cops who arrested him and totals the police car

He gets back into his Bruce Wayne Porsche whilst in his undercover makeup and leaking blood from several holes, a car so recognisable that Jim Gordon, a new transfer cop from Chicago, recognises it on sight

He nearly drives Jim Gordon off the road in such a way that Gordon has no choice but to conclude that he's on cocaine

He gets home and collapses on the floor and then has to call Alfred to come and stitch him up.

Of course, this is great. It's violent, but it's very funny. It's a shitshow. Batman has absolutely no fucking idea what he's doing. It's hilarious alongside its objective textual violence, this sequence alone including: implied underage sex work, a stabbing, police corruption and violence, a bullet wound, several battery assaults, and an explosive car accident. The irony of this happening on what Bruce Wayne vowed to be a non-violent recon mission is arresting, and that's besides Wayne here acting as a slapstick comic as everyone gets their licks in on the man who has sworn to clean up the streets of the whole city.

On top of this, the Batman investigation team headed by Lt. Jim Gordon and Det./Sgt. Essen has two first suspects for the Bat vigilante: Harvey Dent (on account of motive and physical profile) and Bruce Wayne (on account of extremely public motive and massive amounts of money). Bruce Wayne is really not very good at this whole vigilante thing.

Possibly the funniest thing to come out this plotline comes from the scene where Lt. Jim Gordon goes to question Harvey Dent in his office regarding his alibis for the dozens of assaults committed recently by Batman. Harvey Dent calmly refutes Gordon's accusations and sends him off. And then we get this panel:

where it is shown that Harvey Dent had been hiding Batman under his desk during the whole questioning. [Batman (1940-2011) #405 | B:YO p. 41] That isn't to say that Batman isn't scary at all. There are some generally creepy-seeming scenes, such as when he breaks in to the Commissioner's house whilst he's having a dinner party with the mob, cuts the power, and then gives an ominous speech in Batman (1940-2011) #405. And later, Batman does become more competent. To escape a SWAT killbox in Batman (1940-2011) #406, Batman uses an experimental infrasonic broadcast device to summon a horde of bats. They bite the SWAT on the arse. I'm sure it was very scary, but also it's very funny. The hilarity isn't kept entirely meta-textual. Although Batman is textually scary, he is also textually mocked. As Batman grimly does mostly-naked, one-armed push-ups on the floor of his sitting room whilst reviewing a stake-out recording and muttering about Carmine Falcone, Alfred provides commentary from an armchair whilst reading the newspaper: "Master Bruce--I've just come across a fascinating piece in the Times. Concerns the effects of lack of sleep among the marginally sane...'marked increase in paranoia'...hmm...'tendency towards aberrant, even violent behavior'...Off again, sir? Shall I fetch your tights?" [Batman (1940-2011) #407 | B:YO pp. 87-88]

There's also the hilarious implication that Lt. Jim Gordon was basically John McClane in his youth. In Batman (1940-2011) #404, Lt. James Gordon transfers in from Chicago to Gotham City, which has a Reputation for crime; during his intake interview, he feels the need to apologise to Commissioner Loeb for the "mistakes" he's made that have turned up on his record—mistakes that the corrupt Commissioner waves off and about which he seems quite pleased. Gordon also spends the entire miniseries doing things like punching a schizophrenic man who has three hostages and a gun to his head. beating up a corrupt coworker and hogtying him naked in the snow, maliciously complying with non-interference orders, ratting out corrupt cops in a district comprised only of corrupt cops, punching people, shooting people, and stealing a motorcycle to rescue his newborn son who has been kidnapped by a mobster. From this, I can only conclude that Jim Gordon was a maverick cowboy cop in Chicago that (voluntarily or not) was put out to pasture after too many marks on his record and/or his wife getting pregnant.

In conclusion, whilst I'm sure that Frank Miller likely did contribute to the edgification of Batman, his claim that "Batman was never funny" isn't an author's mandate against the humour inherent in the character and the franchise—at least as can be seen in Batman: Year One. I would suggest that Batman only started to become such a serious downer when the influence of the Elseworlds miniseries The Dark Knight Returns began to seep into the canon, but I would have to check back on that.

Additional notes:

Carmine Falcone and his nephew Johnny Vito attempt to fend off Catwoman from a break-in whilst dressed only in towels. This is quite funny. [Batman (1940-2011) #407 | B:YO p. 87]

Whilst trapped in the SWAT killbox, Batman saves a cat from the SWAT team and then beats up the SWAT officer who attempted to shoot the cat. This implies that indeed Bruce Wayne's adoption addiction is heritable; Damian Wayne has only contracted the initial stages, as depicted here. [Batman (1940-2011) #406]

It is implied that Jim Gordon may know who Batman is by the end of the comic; Bruce Wayne saves Jim Gordon's newborn son James after he is thrown from a bridge by Johnny Vito, and he does so without wearing a mask, and then he looks Jim Gordon straight in the face. At the time, Gordon says: "You know, I'm practically blind without my glasses. Sirens coming. You'd better go." It's unclear how true this is. [Batman (1940-2011) #407 | B:YO p. 95]

[sageandcooper]

The Ultimate Guide to the Black Friday Sale at Sage & Cooper: What to Expect

The Black Friday Sale is arguably the most anticipated shopping event of the year. For savvy shoppers, it represents an opportunity to snag incredible deals on everything from electronics to fashion, and even home goods. If you’re looking for premium offerings at discounted prices, Sage & Cooper is a brand you definitely need to keep on your radar this holiday season.

In this guide, we’ll break down everything you need to know about the Black Friday Sale at Sage & Cooper and how you can make the most of this year’s event.

What to Expect From Sage & Cooper’s Black Friday Sale

Sage & Cooper has earned a stellar reputation for offering high-quality products, and their Black Friday Sale is no exception. Whether you're eyeing a new pair of stylish boots or looking for a home décor item to spruce up your living room, the brand is known for slashing prices on popular products.

Wide Range of Discounts: Expect significant markdowns on both seasonal favorites and all-time bestsellers. Sage & Cooper typically offers discounts up to 50% off on selected items.

Exclusive Bundles: For those who love extra value, Sage & Cooper often releases special Black Friday bundles, giving you more for less.

New Arrivals at Reduced Prices: Many shoppers may not know this, but Sage & Cooper introduces new items just in time for the holiday sales. Look for discounts on these fresh products before they hit full-price shelves.

Free Shipping Deals: Another major perk is the free shipping Sage & Cooper frequently offers during the sale. This can save you a considerable amount on large items or multiple purchases.

Why Choose Sage & Cooper for Your Black Friday Shopping?

When it comes to choosing where to spend your Black Friday dollars, Sage & Cooper stands out for several reasons. Not only are their products known for quality and durability, but their customer service is also consistently top-notch.

Here's what shoppers have to say about their experience:

"I’ve been shopping at Sage & Cooper for a few years now, and their Black Friday Sale is always a highlight. The deals are genuine, and I never feel like I’m being tricked into buying something I don’t need." – Jennifer R., Shopper from Boston

"Sage & Cooper is my go-to for home decor. During their Black Friday Sale, I scored amazing deals on new furniture. It was like the Christmas decorations came early!" – Michael L., Shopper from Chicago

When Does the Black Friday Sale Start?

One of the best aspects of the Black Friday Sale at Sage & Cooper is that it doesn’t just start on the Friday after Thanksgiving. The sale typically kicks off earlier in the week, and some of the best deals can be found in the days leading up to Black Friday itself. This year, the sale is expected to begin:

Date

Event

November 24, 2025

Pre-Sale Starts

November 26, 2025

Main Black Friday Event

November 27, 2025

Cyber Monday Preview

How to Get the Best Deals During the Black Friday Sale at Sage & Cooper

To make sure you get the best of the best, it's crucial to plan ahead. Here are some quick tips:

Make a Wish List: Before the sale starts, make a list of items you’ve been eyeing. This way, you can jump on any limited-time offers immediately.

Sign Up for Alerts: Sage & Cooper often sends out early-bird offers to their email subscribers. Ensure you're signed up for notifications to get the first look at discounts.

Check Out Early: Popular items tend to sell out quickly, especially when they are at reduced prices. Once you find a great deal, don’t hesitate to check out right away.

Use Social Media: Follow Sage & Cooper on social media for flash sales, sneak peeks, and surprise discounts throughout the Black Friday Sale period.

What Products Are Popular During the Black Friday Sale at Sage & Cooper?

Sage & Cooper offers a diverse selection of products that appeal to a wide range of customers. Here are some of the most popular items from past Black Friday Sales:

Category

Popular Items

Discount Range

Fashion

Leather jackets, boots, scarves

30% - 50% off

Home Décor

Throw pillows, rugs, artwork

20% - 40% off

Electronics

Bluetooth speakers, headphones

15% - 30% off

Outdoor Gear

Hiking backpacks, thermoses, insulated jackets

25% - 50% off

Kitchenware

Cookware sets, cutting boards, coffee makers

20% - 35% off

Conclusion: Is Sage & Cooper’s Black Friday Sale Worth It?

The Black Friday Sale at Sage & Cooper is undoubtedly one of the most exciting shopping events of the year. From huge savings on high-quality fashion pieces to impressive deals on home decor, it’s clear that this sale offers something for everyone. Planning ahead and staying on top of the sale can help you score the best items before they sell out.

Whether you’re a loyal customer or new to the brand, the Black Friday Sale at Sage & Cooper is definitely worth checking out. Happy shopping!

[mybudgetappliance]

White French Door Refrigerators: Brighten Your Kitchen

From Budget Appliance & Mattress, you may get a white French door refrigerator to spruce up your kitchen. Budget Appliance & Mattress is the best appliance shop in West Chicago when it comes to finding unmatched discounts. Save a tonne of money when you sell today!

white french door refrigerator

[saltnsugarbear]

you're the only one who makes me- every time we- (18+)

summary: just some foundational building for this au (headcanons)

title from: "Wildflower" by 5 Seconds of Summer

word count: 1.4k

content warnings: MDNI!!! talks of cam work, allusions to a break-in, casual affection between friends, allusions to sexual fantasies

side note: everyone go kiss aw-live for giving me more filthy ideas on this au <3

- I think we've decided Lip hosts his cam streams in the top floor of the Alibi Room (we being me and Olive)

- it's simply the place where he would have the most privacy and Veronica would probably be chill about it and be like get your bag (she ran cam shows??? so she's like fuck yeah okay king)

- I've just remembered she did cam shows, hell yeah actually she's like get your bag king here are some tips and shit.

- V probably helps set him up with a nice camera, gives him a set of keys to get into the bar and upstairs, helps him spruce the place up, make it look nice for the streams

- this takes place during when he works at Patsy's, and is 100% diverging from canon

- I don't think he's entirely obnoxious about how attractive he is but he has some sort of inkling? like he's the smallest bit cocky about his appearance around his partners just because they're kind of like,,,, they short circuit sometimes

- so he has the idea that he's attractive enough so he's like fuck it why not try?

- and I mean he's got a mouth on him so he can definitely say some shit that'll get people hot and bothered

- so he figures doing cam shows is worth a shot and will help bring in some money on the side

- you work at Patsy's Pies as a waiter, dressed in the white tank top and shorts that have become your uniforms

- you're one of Fiona's most trusted and therefore are very close with her

- one day Fi asks you to go out but day of she asks if you can swing by her place, asking you to bring an item of clothing with you because she has the perfect outfit planned

- so you take the L to the nearest station to her and make it to her house in no time

- you're a little surprised the Gallaghers have an unlocked door policy given they live in Southside Chicago but oh well, Fiona assures you they're prepped for anything (she even shows you The Bat)

"It's unlocked!!" You hear from behind the door. The voice sounds much farther than just a door between the both of you. True to the statement, the door gives way when you turn the doorknob.

The mudroom your greeted with is cramped, boots and shoes littering the floor and coats crammed onto different hooks.

"Kitchen!" You can hear Fiona's voice clearer now. You duck out of the mudroom, taking in the cluttered living room that leads to the dining room.

Fiona pops her head out from the doorframe and gives you a bright smile. "You made it!"

"I said I would, didn't I?" You adjust the strap of your bag on your shoulder. Fiona shrugs as you walk into the kitchen. Her hair is up, and she's got a steaming mug in her hands.

"You brought it, right?" Her eyes are bright as she looks at you. You nod, opening the bag to pull out the corseted top she asked you to bring. It was something you had been gifted and never planned on wearing yourself, so you offered it to Fiona happily.

Her eyes light up when she sees it. Fiona sets her mug down before she walks over to you, taking the top out of your hands. You watch as she fingers the material, taking it in.

"Thank you," Fiona is quick to wrap her arms around your shoulders, bringing you into a fierce hug.

"'S no problem." You tell her, squeezing her tight before she let's go.

"Gonna go change, and then we can get ready together!" Fiona gives you a soft kiss to your cheek as she departs. You've become used to Fiona's casual affections, watching how she gave the same affection to her siblings in the restaurant. "Help yourself to some coffee."

You watch as Fiona goes up the stairs, disappearing behind the wall. You listen to her walking upstairs before you set your bag on the counter and search for a mug.

The sound of footsteps on the stairs comes sooner than you anticipated Fiona would be.

"Hey Fi," You call over your shoulder. "Where uh- where do you keep the clean mugs?"

The footsteps stop short, and you turn around to look at Fiona. "Left cabinet."

It is not Fiona who speaks, and you think you might break your neck with how quickly you finish your turn. Lip stands on the third step.

Shirtless.

The sight makes your brain pause. Your eyes widen slightly, taking in every detail you can process. What jumps out at you the most is the outline of a triangle on his left pec.

"I- Um-" You're struggling to find any words.

"Sorry, didn't think anyone else would be here other than Fiona." Lip takes the last few steps down and walks to the laundry basket on top of the washing machine. Your eyes follow him as he crosses the room and grabs the first shirt he can get his hands on.

You watch silently as his muscles move when he lifts the shirt over his head. You quickly avert your gaze when he tugs it over his chest.

"Which, uh- which cabinet did you say?" The image of the ink triangle has thoroughly derailed any thoughts you might have had.

"Far left." Lip's voice is curt.

You make your way to the counter, leaning against it to open the far left cabinet door. True to his word, there sit mix-matched coffee mugs.

"Pass me one?" Lip's voice is closer and you can feel his shoulder against yours as you grab the first mug. You softly place the first mug on the counter, exchanging it to your other hand to pass it to Lip. His fingers are warm where they graze over yours when he takes the cup. You're quick to grab your own, turning to push yourself against the counter behind you.

After he's filled the first mug, he passes it to you on the counter and holds his hand out for the empty when you've got grasped between both your hands. You're almost too quick to pass him the mug, nearly pushing it into his hands.

You take the first one, bringing it close to your chest. Being this close to Lip makes your brain go blank like an etch-a-sketch.

"Cream, sugar?" Lip asks as he places the pot back against the machine.

"Uh, both." You say, setting your cup on the counter.

Lip nods as he opens the fridge, grabbing the gallon of milk from the fridge.

"Sugar's behind you.." Lip mutters coming up beside you and reaching around you. You can't help but freeze, holding your breath until Lip is out of your space.

He grabs two spoons from the drying rack on one side of the sink, offering you one of them.

You take it from his hand, your fingertips brushing against his knuckles

You can feel his eyes on you as you start taking spoonfuls out of the container. The huff he lets out through his nose makes you glance at him, watching as he rubs softly at the knick on his cheek.

"Make your coffee.." You mutter, bumping your shoulder into his.

Lip huffs, turning back to his cup. He takes the sugar from your hand, trading you the milk for it.

As you mix the milk and sugar into your coffee, you can't help but zone out.

The inked triangle you saw on Lip's chest makes an appearance in you fantasies that night. And the few nights after that, when you try to get yourself off.

Of course, such a simple thing was to haunt your mind.

It was Lip Gallagher, after all.

- Lip is not the soft and sweet camboy no no

- he is the mean, condescending camboy

- the camboy who talks you through it, degrades you while fucking himself into his own fleshlight in his hand

- the camboy who teases you and coaxes you and says if you cum before he tells you to he won't let you cum again for a week

- safe to say he builds quite the desperate fan base. men, women, and people alike clock in to watch his streams, showering him in tips easily, giving him enough money in one stream to pay rent

- sometimes he's an extra tease on stream, using his third one for the week to just talk you through it, not even thinking about his own pleasure as he coaxes you through your own release

- that's all for now

- gotta wait for the big show for more thoughts!!!

[gab-iguess]

Every morning is a punch in the gut

Not only do I have to wake up without you. But I have to wake up to see a notification from you on my phone but talking in a group is certainly not meant for me to answer.

The problem isn't even waking up alone, but waking up without you. Which essentially is the same thing but I know it would be so much more manageable if my brand new ticket for Guarulhos on October 3rd were to wait for you to arrive at the airport, help you with the boxes, and fly with you back down to Caxias. It does feel like I can't wait to be back close to you but I also know that this pure feeling of aching to be close might never be tamed again. I want to believe that somehow, in some way, some weird setting like in our beginning, one in which everyone looked funny but we knew it was right, it would happen again. Maybe. Hopefully. I'll update you on that on the next post, which you'll probably see before this.

Sempre que eu não vejo "Lissy 🧡" nas notificações, o que tem sido agoniantemente comum, eu vou direto pra ver onde tu tá e que horas são. Sempre 204 E Spruce St, Missoula, MT. O que eu não imagino que seja realmente o endereço, pq GPS é meio tricky, mas é sempre esse que eu leio e sei que tu está em "casa". Geralmente meia-noite, uma da manhã. "Se eu mandar mensagem agora, talvez ela responda antes de dormir". I never do. Eu corro pro aplicativo do tempo pra ver quantos graus, se chove, se venta, se a qualidade do ar tá okay, e imagino se tu dorme como dormia comigo. Se se encolhe porque esfriou um pouco, ou se acorda com mais calor do que dormiu. Era comum esse também. São 1h11 em Missoula agora, 11 graus. Kinda chilly. Será que tu tá com frio? Ou será que o hostel é quente e tu tirou as meias e colocou elas pacificamente descansadas do lado do travesseiro? Eu queria que eu pudesse saber só esticando minha perna e tocando teu pé.

Then I run to the PC to see Tumblr and catch the second gut punch. Reading your thoughts and finally being able to catch a glimpse of how you are doing. Knowing you, I know there are worse feelings and thoughts that you are not letting come to the surface and avoiding writing it down here.

I want to say and do more than just say that I'm sorry, but even though I try to keep you updated on how I am doing, what I'm searching, researching, where I go etc. I really just wish I could hug you and say that everything will go away and things will get better.

Eu me importo muito contigo. Eu tenho até rezado muito que tu se sinta melhor e que essas feridas possam fechar e se curar. A semana passada toda em Zaragoza e nas montanhas tinha muito vento, tipo Chicago, e eu pedia pro vento e pra Iansã pra levar embora esse sentimento ruim que tu tá, e essa toxina de dentro de mim também. Espero que ela ajude.

Eu sei que eu te machuquei feio. Mas espero que esse machucado cure. E que mesmo que deixe uma cicatriz ali, que isso não seja a coisa mais importante. Mesmo que não seja comigo que tu vá tentar de novo.

But God I hope it is.

[chocolatechipelephant]

Good morning! It's finally summer.

My partner and I are going to move out of the NYC area next year, so I am trying to sell all my plants that spent any time outdoors. Partly because it'd be hard to move them (some are a bit big now!) and partly because of the gd spotted lanternflies. I don't want to spread them wherever we go.

I'm selling:

two Alberta spruces that I dress up like small xmas trees each year

a Chicago Hardy fig that is mature enough to produce fruit but is too big for its current pot

two long containers and two small round pots of Sweet Charlie strawberries (2 years old and very fruitful!)

a 5gal pot of lemongrass (Cymbopogon citratus)

spearmint

aloe

common chives

some kind of palm plant I grabbed while stooping

a dying english ivy for cheap if anyone wants to try to save it (it is in a nice pot otherwise itd be free)

and the healthy roots of my previously grafted desert rose

So! Dm me if you are interested in how I grew any of these, or if you think you 'd like to buy them and you're in the area!

I suppose I'll have to make a masterpost of the plant photos at some point.

[haakhai]

Immigrant mom out thousands amid credit card dispute with Green Card assistance company

CHICAGO (CBS) -- A Naperville mother came to the United States in search of a better life. Her job is going great. Her son is doing well. She likes her community. But she's worried after a recent attempt to improve her immigration status left her feeling threatened.

She immigrated to the U.S. and asked we only use her last name – Sinha.

Most days, she's typing away at the computer, on the clock as an IT specialist, off the clock researching ways to get a Green Card so she and her son can stay here for good.

"I was thinking in those terms as a mother. What should I do to make my family's life easier?" she said.

Sinha left India on a temporary work visa. She applied for a permanent work visa called an EB2 in 2017 and is still waiting for that to process.

"People say that it might take a lifetime to get the Green Card," she said.

So the Naperville mom is switching gears, trying for a different type of Green Card that seems to be processed faster, nicknamed the Einstein Visa. Officially, the EB1A visa is meant for people with extraordinary ability.

"I feel that being 16 years in this IT field, I have a lot of things in my bag," Sinha said.

To spruce up her application, Sinha contacted the people behind The Next League Program. It's essentially a visa coaching service.

The company's LinkedIn page also features videos boasting about success with so-called Einstein Visas.

"There were reviews on his brochure, but there was no [independent] review online," Sinha said.

Sinha decided not to proceed with coaching but had already paid a $2,000 deposit that the company said was non-refundable.

So she initiated a credit card dispute through Capital One and received a temporary credit for $2,000.

Then things took a big turn. Ranjeet Mudholkar, the creator of the Next League Program, sent her an email informing Sinha the company would "initiate legal proceedings" because of the chargeback.

He warned they're filing "police complaints" and possible "civil and criminal" suits.

"I was shocked. I was not expecting that kind of an email from someone who is so educated," Sinha said.

The email went on to say her actions – a seemingly simple credit card dispute – could have "severe implications on your immigration status."

"I was having a fast heartbeat, and all those things. That's how my body reacts to stress," Sinha said.

She was so stressed that she panicked and paid Mudholkar $2,500 over Zelle to make the problem go away. She said he promised to pay that back to her if the Capital One chargeback was reversed.

"I was scared for myself and my family," she said.

Immigration attorney Suzanne Seltzer said, "I can't imagine the police are very much interested in this."

Seltzer also doesn't think a credit card dispute is something U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services care about either.

She considered that email an empty threat on a vulnerable person.

"I have 30 years' experience doing EB1A," she said. "This is something that's very dear to my heart, and when I hear someone being exploited, it's disturbing."

Mudholkar did not see it that way. He exchanged multiple emails with CBS 2, standing by his choice to warn the woman about legal implications of disputing a charge that's non-refundable.

He proposed a "solution": her money is "rightfully due to her" and the company will "promptly issue her refund" if she signs an affidavit saying she "inadvertently withdrew from The Next League Program."

"I did not sign it. You see, 'inadvertently,' it's not true," she said.

Sinha said she's now "working on my efforts" to try to get a Green Card.

She's down a bunch of money but not out of motivation.

After CBS 2 reached out to Capital One, it flip-flopped, and Sinha won her credit card dispute. The bank refused to explain why it took a TV station to return her money.

However, she is still out the $2,500 she sent to Mudholkar via Zelle.

[thefakegeekg1rl]

Gather ‘round our stage or your screen! ‘Tis time for the annual holiday extravaganza of goof and glamor, TEASE THE SEASON: A BURLESQUE HOLIDAY PAGEANT!!!

Open Barre Burlesque’s inaugural show continues the tradition that producer Minnie Barre began as the co-founder of Crescent Moon Nerdlesque, an evening of vintage-inspired burlesque, variety, and drag to celebrate all the joys of wintertime! Our cast is sprucing up their most festive, radiant, and 💎 icy 💎 acts and getting ready to SLEIGH.

Featuring performances from:

BEEF ERICKSON as Buddy the Elf,

BOOBS RADLEY in What You Want for Christmas,

HARLIE HELLFIRE as The Snow Queen,

KEVLAR B LIGHTNING in Rock-n-Roll Peppermint,

LADY VE’LUSH as Martha Mae Whovier,

MANNY SCHEVITZ in Eight Candles,

RISQUÉ NOIR in Santa Baby,

RUBY RABBIT in Pasko,

STEVIE KINKS in You Spin Me Round,

and SUNSHINE LOMBRÉ in Sugar Rum Cherry!

Your host, MINNIE BARRE, will gift you with witticisms, revelry, and other holiday wonders between acts, while stage kitten LUCI DAYE sashays our costumes, props, and maybe even some presents. It may be cold outside, but you’ll get hot from your head to your mistletoes at TEASE THE SEASON! Join us to light the lights and get lit!

Tease the Season: A Burlesque Holiday Pageant is a hybrid live AND virtual show, so you can enjoy the holiday treats from your home, or grace us with your presents 😉 LIVE AND IN PERSON!

Virtual viewers will receive a stream of the theatre of the live elements and full-screen videos of the virtual elements. The live show will take place at The Newport Theater in Chicago’s Wrigleyville neighborhood.

COVID PRECAUTIONS: The Newport Theater encourages audience members to wear masks unless actively drinking. Open Barre Burlesque and the Newport Theater provide additional masks, hand sanitizer, and other types of PPE.

VIP tickets are for in-person attendees only. VIP Tickets Include:

guaranteed table seating;

a post-show photo with the cast (shared on our social media channels as patrons desire);

and a stocking stuffed with, well, stocking stuffers!

VIP+ tickets include all of the above PLUS:

reserved front row seating;

and a complimentary drink ticket redeemable at The Newport Theater bar.

Tease the Season is a burlesque show and contains adult content. This show is 21+. Follow us on social media for show info, sneak peeks, performer spotlights, and other sparkly surprises we share with our fans, and visit our website to sign up for our newsletter and never miss a show!

IG: @openbarreburlesque www.minniebarre.com/open-barre-burlesque