#the 40 lines stare should suffice

[m00neroni]

"I don't understand where wolfstar comes from" my sibling in christ how does it feel to be free from the torment and addiction those two men inflict on us I wonder

[scuttle-buttle]

Chapter 2

Summary: Professor Laszlo Kreizler is a pretentious ass - that's the only way you could possibly explain the man. That being said, you needed a job to help pay for grad school, and the position of being his TA was the only thing available. You'll suck it up and deal with it, but the last thing you'll do is let this man get inside your head in the process.

WC: 1131

Rated: M

Chapter Tags: laszlo is very to the point with his expectations.

🧠

Monday morning came too quickly. There was no need to dress super professionally as a TA, but you still found that you wanted to at least look presentable on your first day with the devil himself. One less thing for him to judge you on, right?

The hall in the Psychology wing was quiet, only a few students could be seen shuffling to their early morning classes. A tall guy walked past you, offering up a pity-smile in your direction as he saw where you stood. If what you had seen on the professor over the weekend was any real indication, you felt bad for the psych majors. Even so, you would do your best to withhold judgement until you met the man.

You stood outside his office. The dark mahogany door was shut, a gold “Dr. L Kreizler” placard adorned the wood. Pulling out your phone you check the schedule for the tenth time this morning.

Schedule:

MWF 8am-12pm

TTH 3pm-7pm

You lick your lips and look at the clock on the wall - 7:59. The second the hands switch to 8 you knock on the heavy wood. There is a muffled “come in” from the other side.

You don’t know what you anticipated as you entered the office. Taking a minute, you examine the decor he has set up. It felt like walking through a time capsule; as though you were transported to the gilded age. Rich, dark colors of wood and tapestry filled the space. Large bookshelves had tomes that looked to be at least a hundred years old, well worn and rubbed off of their titles. Small artifacts, pictures, and old scientific instruments line the shelves. The room is massive, not something you would have anticipated. He does not use the fluorescent overhead lights, instead having a series of tall warm-toned lamps scattered around the room. There is even a couch along the back wall, decorated with swirling filigree carved into the arms and legs. A laptop and second monitor on his desk bring you back to reality.

In your admiration of the office you pay no mind to the man it belongs to. Finally, you notice him as he stares at you from his chair, looking annoyed at having to wait for your introduction.

Even with the less than pleased look he’s giving, you can’t help but notice how attractive the man is. The picture had done absolutely nothing to show off the depth in those brown eyes, the softness of the delicately styled hair, the fullness of his well-groomed beard. He was much younger than you anticipated too. If anything you figure he’s maybe early 40s. And fuck, he’s just your type. Too bad he’s an asshole… and your boss…. you think belatedly.

“Oh! Sorry, um, I’m the new TA,” you introduce yourself and tell him your name. “It’s very nice to meet you professor.” You reach out to shake his hand. He does not move to return the favor, but instead keeps his calculating eyes on you. The silence tics on as you wait, hand outstretched. Clearing your throat you drop it back to your side.

Finally, he speaks in an accented voice. “You may call me Dr. Kreizler. I have space for you there,” he gestures with a nod of his head to a desk in the corner. “I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a list of expectations for you. Should you have any questions or concerns I expect that you address them with me directly. You’ll note that I have included my personal number for work purposes only. I expect you to provide me with your own should I need you outside of contract hours. Do not contact me while you are intoxicated or you will be dismissed from this position.” To the point then, you blink at his directness. And presumptuous as hell to assume that you would even consider drunk texting him.

He briefly explains your role and clarifies some of the less detailed points on his list. The entire time he’s speaking his focus is on whatever work sits in front of him, not you. A beat passes once he’s done.

“Sounds great, thank you.” You had done your best to remain civil and polite, ignoring the ill-reviews in hopes to create your own opinion. Quite frankly, he wasn’t faring well so far.

He looks up at you; his eyes are piercing. Does he always look like he’s picking apart people like they are a specimen he’s studying?

“I suspect you have done your research on who I am, yet you are still present today. That is promising. But tell me, who are you?” he asks, sitting back in his chair.

You’ve never been good at talking about yourself when put on the spot. “Well I’m 26 years old, I graduated magna cum laude with a dual degree in history and political science. The last few years I’ve been working with the graduate studies program to get my doctorate in history. My thesis is on 1960s shifting cultural norms and the development and impact of countercultures on American society.”

“Have you considered the emerging role of sequence murderers in your studies?” He almost looks interested as he asks.

“Some, not as much as I would like yet, though. I suppose a perk of taking this position means you can give me some insight on that since you teach about it.” You give a little smile-shrug, hoping the statement will earn you some points with him.

He ignores it. “And what background in psychology do you have? Or do you even have any?”

You are a bit taken aback by his tone. “I took an introductory course with Professor Stratton during my undergrad years.”

“Hmm. That will have to suffice. In the meantime I would suggest you make haste with the reading I’ve left you. It’s best you spend this week with that so you can be most useful to me this semester.”

Looking through all the contents he’s left on your desk you see two books, a textbook, a few slide show print outs, and his syllabi - each marked up with his cursive and colored tabs to mark pages of importance. Sitting down, you give an inaudible sigh; this is going to be a long semester. You pick up the first syllabus and get to work.

Noon rolls around after what feels like a lifetime. Packing up all the materials he’s provided, you wish him a good afternoon. As you are walking through the door he calls out to you.

“Next time, do not be late.” You give him a confused look, seeing as you got there exactly at 8am. “On time is late,” he explains curtly.

“Noted.” You don’t catch the door as it all but slams closed.

Tag list

@hardlyinteresting @lorna-d-m @livvyshmiv @somethingthatsaysbubbles

[whatdoesshedotothem]

Tuesday 23 July 1839

7 ¼

11 ½

fine morning long in dressing – ready at 9 ¼ at which hour F74 ¼° on the window seat – sun shining in – busy over 1 thing or other while A- dressed – went to Mrs. Todds’ at 10 to breakfast – café au lait and large dish of small good strawberries – had our bookseller with two recommendation letters of the payable gentleman about 10 ¾-courier it seems to some English sporting gentlemen – explained to our bookseller the sort of place that of courier was, and desired to see the man – he came soon after 11 – 5 Rigsgeld [kriegsgeld]  dollars a day, and we to pay all his expense of living and lodging – about what would these be? He could not possibly say – never would tell beforehand what they charged in Norway .:. he could not calculate, what we should have to pay – on pressing him to calculate, supposing us to travel on the average six Norse miles a day, he said 60 dollars Banco a day - £150 should be taken for a months’ journey – Enough thought I – I remarked upon this – said it staggered me – I would consider about it, and let him have my [?] thro’ Mrs. Todd – he begged if I thought of getting a carriage, that he might be let know before I made the agreement that he might see to the wheels, etc – I said I should say nothing about this at present – It was now near 12 – sent Gross, with Anderson to see if the banker merchant carnegie was at home – no! gone to England and his partner always away – but went there – the clerk could not give me money for £25 circular no. 8582 till 4am but gave me 50DB. in a//c to pay our coachman – then to our bookseller – explained about the courier – his calculations had alarmed me – 60DB. a day too much – they stared – then bought 2 vols. (my German dictionary size i.e. small square size) Swedish and English dictionary 6DB. and vocabulary Swedish Danish German French English and Italian 2DB. and Swedish grammar 36 [skillings] – No English Swedish grammar now to be had out of print – would send an old cashed for drunkenness but now sobered Lund [?] professor of languages to give me a lesson in Swedish at 4pm – I had told our bookseller this morning I would give him a letter (he is going to Brussels Paris and London) to Mr. Bewsher at our London custom house – but seeing that our friend had already got 37 letters of introduction I saw he had enough and told him the letter to Mr. Bewsher would really be of no use – I took the house he is recommended to in London doubtless good for him – George and Vulture Tavern St. Michaels’ Alley Cornhill  - He is taking his wifes’ sister to Paris to finish her singing education – 4 masters recommended – Lablache and Rubini 2 of them – I said R- was perhaps the best in Europe? – sauntered along the pier – one of the steamers gone (at 5am) the other waiting till Thursday – Had walked thro’ the establishment des Bains – pretty building with circular portico front towards the water and a little flower garden ground roses etc. and gravel walks in front to the edge of the pier – Home about 2 – paid our coachman having him at Mrs. Todds’ and having her and her secretary to help us – not dissatisfied with him, but it seems the [forebud] was in fault for our being so long en route – the man I had promised him 10 Rs. – gold dollars – no! thought all was paid when I had given him the 33+ Dollars B. it ended in my giving 2DB. for the [forebud] saying I was not satisfied with him – and then at the coachmans’ request I wrote ‘I am quite satisfied with John Harder, and much obliged to Mr. Munthle – I was thirty three hours and a half in performing the journey that is till half past three yesterday afternoon – Gothenburg Tuesday 23 July 1839 A. Lister’ – then came here (our lodging) and sat down to write – about 4, had a young

SH:7/ML/E/23/0090

man from the bank with the remainder of the money exchange 11 dollars 32 skillings Banco - .:. Mr. Munthe got 1 dollar 32sk. banco x 15 = 25 dollars Banco!!! besides probably a premium upon coachman, harness etc. – the banker merchants clerk just gone when John Vanderholm recommended by Mr. Tod came to offer as servant to go with us to Norway – a Swede – tanner by trade which he learnt in London and married an English woman – she is here – his trade failed him – he does what he can to get a living – has 8 children – asks 3 Dollars Banco per day, but then he pays for himself – calculated expense – He said at utmost                      

                           Dollars banco             skillings banco

1 dinner                        1                                    0

1 breakfast                   0                                    32

1 bed                             0                                    32

1 supper cold               0                                     32

                                      3                                   00 x 2= 6 DB. for A- and myself

3/9 --------- for the servant DB. a day exclusive of posting should sometimes go 12 Norse miles a day –

a hot supper same as dinner

3 horses cannot average more even in Norway than 2DB. per mile

all this seems more likely to suit us, yet the man has never been in Norway – But he can speak to be understood by the Norsemen – speaks English like an Englishman, and perhaps our own travelling knowledge and handbook will suffice – had just written so far (from line 8 inclusive of page 168) now at 7 40/.. pm – dinner at 8 – then went to look at the little open carriage for Norway – 200 Rigsgeld [kriegsgeld]   dollars without harness or anything  - but if not much worse, will give me half price, Rigsgeld [kriegsgeld] dollars for it on our return – dinner and looking about the carriage till 9 ¾ - then while A- had Grotza, sat reading the memoir and translation of Cassandra of Lord Royston till 11 at which hour F70° - fine day till about between 2 and 3 when heavy shower – and showers afterwards

[giogio-gucci-gangstar]

JoJo’s Disney Adventure!

Thank you @lostinthe-jojos for this request for the raffle! It was SO fun to write, and I loved having Joseph go to Disney (I go all the time and think he would absolutely love it) 

Summary: You and Joseph go to The Magic Kingdom at Disney World! JoJo is basically an oversized toddler and gets distracted by absolutley everything, but you two finally make it on your favorite ride (Splash Mountain) and things take a wet turn.

You looked up and saw Joseph giggling madly as the Mickey shaped confetti rained down around you two. After waking up at an ungodly hour and taking the Monorail to the park, The Magic Kingdom was finally open! 

The way his smile spread from ear to ear, somehow bigger than the toddler’s next to him, warmed your heart. It was worth standing in line so early just to see him like this. You gently reached up to dust a few of the sparkles out of his hair. But the sweet moment ended all too quickly as Joseph grabbed your hand and hurtled through the crowd into the park.

 Holding your hand with an iron grip, he started pushing past people, small and medium sized children not excluded. You tried to spare a look back, to make sure he hadn't actually pushed children to the ground, but you were scared to face the reality of this particular situation. Thanks to his reckless disregard for everyone else around, you two were some of the first people in the park. 

Joseph stopped and spun around trying to take in all of Main Street at once. “OH MY GOD! Look there’s a horse drawn carriage! A trolly! THE CASTLE!!!” Joseph was tugging you around, pulling you in each direction to every little detail, each more exciting than the last. Suffice to say the man was thrilled and you couldn’t help but smile at how happy he was. He truly was like a child, actually that wasn't quite accurate, you were pretty sure he was more excited than any child around you. 

“Come on! Let’s get some ears first!” You called up to him, just to make sure you didn't squander your day away looking at the park rather than actually being in it. Before you actually got to the park for the opening, you had thought you were the most excited for this vacation. But you were proven wrong very quickly. No one’s excitement could compare to Joseh’s. 

“Great idea!” He nearly shouted and pulled you into the little hat shop. Apparently the man had been looking over maps of the park before you two got there. Honestly you were very impressed, he didn't usually have this sort of dedication or attention span. 

You didn’t think it was possible, but his eyes were blown even wider as he took in all the possible choices for his very first pair of Mickey ears. 

“OH! Look at this one!” He pulled a Snow White themed pair of the rack and tried them on in front of a mirror. He scowled a bit and went on to his next choice: a pair of Elsa themed ears. This time he stuck a pose in front of the mirror, earning some odd looks from the couple wearing newlywed pins behind him. You supposed it wasnt everyday that you came across a 195 cm man wearing a crop top. Aside from just his stature, he sure warranted a stare when he tried on a “Just Married” pair of bridal ears. 

“Look at how it swishes!” JoJo was frantically waving his head side to side, watching as the veil trailed past him. You could put up with a lot of his shenanigans but you were pretty sure he was just doing it to piss off the couple behind you… 

“Joseph!! Come on, put those back, why don't you try these?” You pulled out a classic pair of ears, “Look, you can even get these monogrammed!” You held out the pair to him but his eyes were glued to another pair. Oh no. 

He reached up and grabbed a pair of bedazzled rose gold ears. He was awestruck as he slowly placed them on top of his head. You were pretty sure he was imagining an elaborate coronation service for himself in his head. Or at least that was what his expression looked like. 

“Okay those are cute!” You were literally fine with any pair he got, you just wanted to go on some rides before the lines got terribly long. 

“Okay okay, we'll take two of these!” he walked up to the cashier and very happily made his purchase. “Why two?” You giggled. You wouldn't have put it past him to buy an extra pair for himself...

“Well one is for you silly, they match your eyes,” He leaned down and coed in your ear. You weren't sure if it was cute or cheesy so you gave him a light shove and put them on. Now you were one of those annoying matching couples, but you supposed you could make this fun. 

Okay, now that you were finally outside of literally the very first shop in the park, your next task today was to get a photo in front of Cinderella’s Castle. Joseph was not satisfied with a single picture, so he made sure to strike a pose in some of his favorite looks.  

“Okay,” the photographer pointed to you, “hold your hands out in a little cup…” you did as you were told though you were a bit confused. Luckily Joseph had no hesitation asking. 

 “What’s that for?” His face was scrunched with confusion. 

 “Well we’re going to digitally insert Tinkerbelle in her hands-“ 

Joseph swatted your hands down, “Put her in mine!” You elbowed him a little, but his little pout was so genuine and he was so excited you couldn’t really stay mad. So you settled for a small eye roll. 

Alright now that photos were done you could head to the first ride on your list, Splash Mountain. But that idea was quickly derailed when Joseph noticed a concession stand. And my god this boy could eat. You sighed a little, just wanting to go on some rides, but you couldn't deny that those mickey pretzels smelled divine...

“Okay so I want two Mickey pretzels, three churros, a souvenir bucket of popcorn, aaaand two American cokes!” He has spent nearly 40$ on these little treats but damn they were good. 

You munched on your own pretzel as you walked around the castle, hopefully to your ride. But just as you were ready for a taste of a churro you noticed they had somehow disappeared. And that JoJo’s face was covered in cinnamon sugar… 

“JoJo did you eat all of the churros?!” It had been probably four minutes since you two had gotten your snacks.

“Mmm no I think one of those ducks stole it!” He pointed into the moat around the castle to a suspiciously inauspicious duck. You glared at him but there was plenty of time for snacks later. And later happened to be right now. 

“Is that a FUNNEL CAKE STAND?!” Joseph tugged you so hard some popcorn flew out of his princess themed bucket. But that funnel cake smelled delightful, so it wasn't hard for him to convince you that this was a necessary part of your trip. So you waited in an outrageously long line, luckily it was very easy to pass the time with Joseph. 

“I spy with my little eye, something tan and caramelly.” His nose was pointed in the air, a look of ecstasy spread across his face.

“Is it the funnel cake that person just got?” You pointed to the woman a few people in front of you. Joseph was literally drooling at the site of it. 

“How did you know?!” Somehow he managed to look actually confused.

“JoJo YOU'VE been staring at them as they go by for the past ten minutes.” He pouted a bit and somehow his stomach grumbled. How could he possibly still be hungry?! 

 Finally you two made it to the ordering booth, and he asked for two funnel cakes. You figured they were probably mostly for him, but this time you would definitely snag a few bites for yourself. JoJo speedwalked to a table, balancing a funnel cake in each hand.

“JoJo you have to share this time!” And you attacked with your fork before he could do anything but gape at you with a look of utter betrayal. 

“That isn’t sharing, you’re STEALING!” His eyes were blown wide with betrayal.

“JoJo! You look just like that kid over there in the stroller!” You laughed as they both shared a scrunched up, red face. Though it looked like the boy was more upset about being buckled into a stroller rather than having to share a cake. 

Somehow you managed to negotiate about a quarter of one cake, and that had been enough to satisfy your sweet tooth. So Joseph ever so kindly offered to finish the rest of yours. 

At this point of your food coma, Splash Mountain was looking a little daunting... Maybe you should just do that Haunted Mansion next. It was basically around the corner from you two. You turned to Joseph but he was bent over a little listening to his stomach grumble… As Joseph stood up you heard his stomach gurgle again. And his face was looking slightly green. Oh no, his stomach hadn’t been growling, he was getting sick. 

 “Wait JoJo,” you quickly stood up and moved behind him. Obviously to comfort him, and not just to get out of projectile vomit range. If that was going to happen. 

“Are you feeling alright?” You were a little worried he seemed to be having some issues standing up. “Oh for sure. Perfectly fine. Now let’s go get wet!” You were pretty sure going on a ride where you plunged 60 feet down a waterfall was an awful idea with him in this state. 

“JoJo you look really pale…” you looked around frantically, “Why don’t we go to The Hall of Presidents? It’s cold and dark and a great place to sit down!” 

 “Sure that sounds great,” he sounded relieved but quickly covered his slip up, “because it’s really hot and I don’t want you to get burned.” You giggled. Sure it was definitely because it was hot, and not because he had eaten so much junk food his stomach was violently protesting. 

 As soon as his tight butt hit the seat he leaned back and kicked his legs up, noticeably sighing. As soon as the George Washington animatronic started speaking, Joseph was already snoring. You snickered to yourself, he was like an oversized toddler. Buuut a cuddly one, so you snuggled in close. 

 Apparently you had fallen asleep too, because you were jolted awake as Joseph screamed, “WHY IS ABRAHAM LINCOLN MELTING?!” You were pretty sure your heart was beating out of your chest, not because of the weird animatronic, but because your boyfriend has pretty much thrown you out of your chair in his moment of panic. 

 He looked at you in terror, but pulled you up and ran out of the theater before more judging soccer moms could glare at him for interrupting their educational show.

“Oh my god! What was that?!” He was bent over gasping from shock. Still. 

You were laughing so hard at him you could barely speak, “that- was the Hall of Presidents!” You bent over to his level laughing still. 

“Why would they do something like that? It was TERRIFYING!” 

“JoJo this is America. They like presidents even if they're old and wrinkly.” He was certain that the show was a plot to scare children into submission, and despite your best efforts you could not convince him otherwise.

“Okay let’s go on Splash Mountain now!” Joseph was quickly trying to change the subject. Apparently all his stomach needed to feel better was a little 16 president nap. 

“It does look like you’re a bit hot anyway.” You threw him a little wink and your hint was not lost on him. He held your waist and pulled you against him on the walk there. It actually was very hot and standing so close against him was getting a little sweaty, but you wouldn’t ever want to let go. 

Oddly enough this time he was busy pointing out all of the odd wildlife that seemed to infiltrate the park. Everything from ducks to egrets, turtles to lizards. Joseph was excited about them all. You had to repeatedly pull him back on track to get to the ride. But once you finally saw the waterfall leading down into a pit of pretend thorns, you felt your gut drop with excitement. And JoJo’s expression wasn't that different, a glint of excitement and danger danced in his eye. 

Despite your many detours, the line was still pretty short because most people don't want to go on thrill rides at 9:30 in the morning. So you two got on pretty fast. 

“Please keep all hands, arms, feet, and legs inside the vehicle at all times. Please stow away any sunglasses, hats, and ears in the netting below.” The recorded voice played and you promptly tucked your ears away under the seat. 

“JoJo you have to take those off.” You gently nudged him but he pretended not to hear you. “JoJo…” you asked exasperatedly. 

“Oh come on they're not gonna fall off! Plus I want to look cute in the picture!!” You laughed at him, of course that was his reasoning. You were about to tell him he looked cute in every picture, but the ride started before you could.

It was a little long, and every small hill made you nearly jump and hold onto Joseph. You were just a little scared, just like a smidge, of the big hill. And then it came. You were paused at the precipice of the mountain, looking down at the monumental drop and you clung to Joseph’s arm so tightly he gave you a teasing look and let out a loud howl as you started to fall. 

You had your eyes scrunched closed but you felt Joseph lurch back but not even that could get you to open them. Only when you were slammed with a wave of freezing water could you open them. 

You gasped as the water seeped through all of your clothes. Not leaving a centimeter of clothing dry. You sat there like a wet fish, and turned to Joseph to see he was perfectly dry. How the hell did it just get you? 

Joseph finally heard your teeth chattering and wrapped an arm around you as you two walked to go see the photo taken on the ride. You were ducking into Joseph’s lap, and he was aggressively leaning backwards reaching for his ears that had flown off. 

“I TOLD you they would fly off!” You scolded him a bit, but from the frown on his face you knew he was already pretty upset. 

“And I told you you should wear a white shirt today.” He countered and that cheeky grin on him was absurd. 

“Oh shut up you pervert!” you shoved him a little, though you immediately missed his body heat. 

“It was a joke, I swear!,” He pulled you closer to him, “But I wouldn’t have minded getting a little peek…” 

“Just stop talking and hug me, I'm freezing.” You rolled your eyes but snuggled in close to your cheeky bastard of a boyfriend. 

[misslisterkeepsajournal]

1828 Sunday 4 May

7 10/60 12

Read over my letter to M- [Mariana Lawton] affectionate yet all the world might see it -

'were it not for musings that you may guess, I should sometimes feel my spirit somewhat weary - but the sight of your handwriting does me good; and a good account of yours is all I wish'........'Mary! could I once attain my wishes, I feel as if I should care only for quiet - How true! man never is, but always to be blest'......'By the way it amuses me to find how current, and by many how believed, the report of my being married - I cannot imagine how it originated - People stare at my ring, and silently seem as if they knew not what to make of it - 'Tis well there is but one to whom all hearts be open' -

Mention having written to Mrs. D- [Duffin] to be there on Tuesday, but not daring to promise for more than a week - mention having written to Miss Mc.L- [Maclean] and left my plans to her fixing, but as the Staffa steam packets do not start till June, and a week in Edinburgh at this time of year will be enough for us, may wait to pay my visit at Croft in passing - say I know not when I shall get to Langton, 'must contrive to spend some while with you at Harrogate' - uncertain how much longer I shall be obliged to here - if I make up my mind to do nothing here under present circumstances, then a few days would suffice, but several things must be done, and to do them now would leave me at liberty hereafter, otherwise must expect 'a 12 month's future plague and trouble at least, and that, perhaps, at the very time when we should best like to be otherwise employed' - think of building a farmstead at the Cunnery, and of felling the plantation there and replanting it with oaks, and of bringing water to the house here from a fresh source - to all which my father has consented - more building wanted at Lower brea etc. - have sold 2370 yards for the new church

'(which the vicar has promised to dedicate to St. James) for about £700; but this sum will soon be swallowed up; and I shall be rather straitened, much more so than I had the most distant idea of at L- [Lawton]....should be glad if you could let me have fifty, or a hundred this summer....if not, I may ask Mr. D- [Duffin] you need not fear for next spring - you shall then have all you may want for yourself and Duncan' -

Northgate let for 8 years at £84 per annum - the walk cleaned up, and the young trees looked after 'It is well I came over'....tithe business tiresome -

'worst of all, another turnpike road is about to be made from Mitholm just behind or in front of Lower brea, and all along that side of the hill - the canal is now cut up from Salterhebble to H-x [Halifax], and is a good job - But somehow, things are flattish - I shall be glad to get off for a while, and have my thoughts diverted by new scenes - were it not for musings that you may guess'....(vide line 1 of today) -

The Baileys, it is supposed, will have to return to India, 'as they are said to be living at the rate of £4,000 a year, instead of £1,500' - (Mrs. W.P- [William Priestley] named this yesterday Miss Hodgson is cousin to Major B- [Bailey] said he had £1500 a year - and the Miss Barlow his niece of Middlethorpe, £1500 a year also) -

Wrote the above of today and a note to Mrs. William Priestley with thanks for the plaid I had yesterday and to ask if she would take Martha Booth into her school - and sealed and directed my letter to M- [Mariana Lawton] (Lawton hall) sent it down for the P.O. [Post Office] and breakfast at 10 20/60 came upstairs a little before 11, and from then to one packing my light things, etc. etc.

At 1 went downstairs to read the morning service had just read as far as to the end of the psalms and fell asleep till two - at 2 sent of my note to Mrs. William Priestley Lightcliffe from then to 6 20/60 looking over the plans of the estate etc. - note from Mrs. W.P- [William Priestley] she will take John's daughter Martha at midsummer - 'I think with regret of your departure, but still indulge the cheering hope of one day (tho' I fear distant) enjoying some of your society - my wishes - or I ought rather to say - a fuller expression of them - are fettered by existing circumstances' - what can this mean? oh tis that I could not be here with my father and therefore she will not wish it - Dinner at 6 1/2 - from 7 40/60 to 10 35/60 wrote 3 pages very small and close to my aunt - and then came to my room - Rainy morning till about 10, or should have gone to church in the gig - afterwards fine day -  

Reference: SH:7/ML/E/10/0156

[weepylucifer]

Let’s Go in the Garden - Ch. 2

Team Folly - with one exciting addition - returns to London.

“Was he serious?” Mellenby asked me later. “Eighty years?”

“Around about,” I said.

We were sitting up front of Aed’s cave, parked here for now while Nightingale was further down the slope towards the road, bossing the paramedics around. Of course that situation was very much ongoing, and someone had to get it under wraps, I had just naturally expected that to be me. I had offered to go into town and see everything squared away, give them some privacy to reunite in whichever... way they saw fit, but Nightingale had shot that down.

“I would rather not be left alone with him right now,” he’d said, tension radiating off of him. He hadn’t even asked for his staff again, so I just laid it across my lap as I sat.

I regarded David Mellenby with curiosity. I still knew very little about him: the scientist, dead no longer, and now a person who called my boss ‘songbird’ and seemed accustomed enough to getting away with it. He was watching the paramedics. The moor was pretty timeless in and of itself and had probably looked about the same in the 1940s, but the ambulances and the uniforms of the paramedics had to be, to him, a shrill discord.

“But he still looks the same,” Mellenby said, with the air of a man trying to wrap his mind around it all.

“Long story.”

He turned to look at me. He had large, clear eyes, not really the kind you expect on your classic mad scientist archetype. “Do tell?”

“He got old, and then younger again at some point. Or so I hear, I wasn’t actually around to see it then. Now he seems to be... stuck in his 40s. Not aging in either direction. It’s one of these mysteries.”

“So he’s about the same age he was when I last saw him,” Mellenby said, his curiosity evidently piqued. I had known this guy for all of five minutes, and I could already see the gears starting to turn behind his eyes. “Has anyone found out what caused it?”

I shrugged. In truth, I hadn’t asked myself this for a while now, my magical unaging guv’nor having become just another part of daily life, something I had long ago begun taking for granted. There’s a lesson in there about growing complicit, or something. “No, come to think of it,” I said. “Our cryptopathologist is trying to puzzle it out in his spare time, but honestly I don’t think Nightingale’s that bothered. I asked once and he just gave me the line about gift horses.”

Mellenby laughed, a sudden, high, loud sound that surprised me. Down the slope, I thought I could see Nightingale’s head turning at the noise. “Oh, of course,” Mellenby said. “Of course he hasn’t thought about it at all. That’s so Thomas.”

He continued laughing, way longer than the moment warranted, hunched over and his shoulders shaking, and soon there were tears dripping down his chin. He put a hand over his eyes, the other over his mouth, but nothing could contain the outpouring. “Take life as it comes and no need to examine anything, that’s Thomas. Oh, I thought I’d never see him again,” he sniffled, chuckling, sobbing, all at once. “I thought I’d left him there. Oh god, I thought I’d left him there.”

I shifted a little where I sat, not sure if I should touch his shoulder, or say something to him, or what I could even say. The slightly mad laughter subsided after a minute or so, but he was still weeping a bit when Nightingale eventually made his way back to us.

“Back to London, I should think,” he said and I got up, brushing some dirt off my pants as I did so, already relieved at the prospect of returning home. I suddenly couldn’t wait to see Bev tonight.

Nightingale shot a brief look at Mellenby, tossed him a handkerchief and off we went on the long trudge to where the Jag was parked.

----

It was funny, really, Mellenby’s reaction to the Jag. Similar to mine, back when, but coming at it from the other side. To me, the Jag had been (and was still) remarkable as an old-timer. To Mellenby, it was a futuristic sci-fi car.

“It’s from the 1960s,” I explained, because Nightingale was still giving us the near-silent treatment, but I did manage to catch a glimpse of him smoothing a hand across the side of the Jag in furtive appreciation, maybe secretly proud that his car impressed his... well, what? Comrade-at-arms? Best pal? Boyfriend? Ex?

Nineteen-sixty, Mellenby mouthed quietly, eyes wide and round. “And, um, what year is it now?”

I grinned and imagined him reacting to the Ferrari in a couple hours or so.

----

Suffice to say I had many questions for the both of them still, but the drive home didn’t seem to be the time for asking them. For a while, we had little traffic, and Nightingale utilized this opportunity to drive even more maniacally than usual. I swear, an open highway seems to unhinge something within him. I, having called shotgun to preserve the peace, was used to his speeding by now, but Mellenby in the backseat was, when I checked, looking paler by the minute. When he wasn’t holding on to the door-handle for dear life, he was staring, incredulous, out of the window, gawping at the brave new world.

We didn’t talk much. After 30 minutes it started to feel like somebody had cast a silence spell of some sort, like the silence was a physical entity growing larger and larger in the car between us, suffocating all attempts at conversation and about as solid as a block of cement.

We stopped at a gas station about halfway back to London. “Does anyone want anything from the shop?” Nightingale asked, the first words spoken since we’d started driving.

The proverbial spell had broken. “I’ve just woken up and found that near a century has passed in my absence,” Mellenby said, somewhat heatedly. “The cars, the people, even the bloody roads are unrecognizable to me. You punched me, and you used your magic on me like I’m some blasted Jerry, and you drive like an insane person, and now you’re asking me if I want anything from the shop?”

“I’d like a snickers,” I said.

“Alright, one snickers bar and that whole thing,” Nightingale said dryly. Without acknowledging us any further, he went off to get gas.

It’s a weird kind of atmosphere, sitting in a parked car with someone you don’t know. But there also was this strange air of ‘dad’s away, now we can gossip’. That one was probably just me, but I decided to carpe the diem.

“Jerry?” I asked.

“The Germans,” Mellenby said darkly.

We were silent for another minute.

“Thomas got even better, didn’t he?” Mellenby said then. “That was a tenth-order spell at least back there, and he executed it with ease. He didn’t even have his staff. This is highly fascinating.” He seemed like he’d pull out a clipboard any second now and start scribbling observation notes. But then he met my eyes and gave me a crooked smile, and his eyes were shining wetly again, and I realized he was trying to put a brave face on.

I nodded. “Yeah, it’s impressive.” I didn’t even try to mention how that spell was used on him, and how said spell, while undoubtedly impressive, kind of creeps me out on principle.

“Why is he so fucking pissed at you?” I asked.

“He has a variety of reasons, probably.” Mellenby gestured resignedly. “Towards the end of the war, several things... went awry between us.” And that was all he seemed to want to say about that.

“So you’re Thomas’s apprentice,” he now asked me, leaning forward in his seat. “How is that going?”

I didn’t really know what to do with that question, so I said something about it going okay, thank you.

“And what sort of things has he been teaching you?” he asked.

This struck me as a bit odd. “Same stuff everyone used to learn, I guess,” I said. “Some formae and a truckload of Latin.”

“Greek?” Mellenby asked in an undertone.

“Not yet.” I shifted a bit. “Nightingale says I won’t need it that much, and to be honest, I’m still not doing as well with Latin as he’d like.” I suddenly felt that gross little prickle of self-consciousness about the state of my Latin. I do my level best, next to my day job, even when all the homework is frequently kind of dull, and by now I’m sure Nightingale knows that, and knows to exercise patience when necessary. But here was a denizen of the old Folly, who had started learning Latin at ten years old. Would he ask why I hadn’t? Would he make his own assumptions? He’s not better than you, I told myself. And I knew that. Thing was just, it might have gotten a bit nasty in here if he thought he was.

“I didn’t mean...” Now it was Mellenby’s turn to fidget. “What I meant to inquire was...”

Nightingale came back then and tossed me a snickers bar as requested, and so I didn’t get to find out what Mellenby meant to inquire until a while later. My attention was diverted from that, anyway, when I saw Nightingale attempting to stealthily pocket a small, square, red-and-white packet.

“I thought you said you stopped in the fifties,” I remarked.

“As you may have noticed, I’m having a bit of a day, Peter,” Nightingale said, perhaps a tad snippy, and, giving up all pretense of secrecy, just shook a cigarette out of the pack.

“Light you,” Mellenby offered hurriedly, already thrusting a hand up into the driver’s space.

“Don’t you dare, I have my phone on.”

“What?”

I leaned back in my seat and tried not to stare too openly as Nightingale actually, genuinely lit a cigarette, in a completely mundane, non-magical way using a lighter he had to have also just purchased. ‘No smoking in the Jag’ was high up on the list of Golden Rules of Jag Etiquette, even as it had never been an issue before. One hell of a day indeed.

----

We were taking Mellenby back to the Folly. For the time being, Nightingale said, making it clear that this wasn’t happening because his heart was so inclined, but because apparently Mellenby’s story still needed examining. We were going to have Dr. Walid take a crack at him at the nearest opportunity and, because we don’t do anything by halves, we would also swing by the military cemetery where Mellenby was supposed to be buried, and see what we could rustle up there.

“So we’re going grave-robbing?” I asked, somewhat incredulously.

“Of course not, Peter, don’t be ridiculous,” Nightingale told me. “I will get in touch with the persons responsible and acquire a permit to open the grave.”

Right. We were still the police.

“Did you ever see the body?” I asked. Mellenby had implied earlier that he had faked his death, and that there had been a body for poor Hugh Oswald to find, so if his story checked out, something (someone?) had to have been buried in his place. Nightingale shook his head.

“I missed the funeral. I was still in hospital.” His mouth thinned into a repressive line. “Nobody thought to tell me at all until weeks afterwards.”

“Why would they not tell you that?” I asked.

“I wasn’t family, Peter.” Nightingale smiled sadly. “I was David’s superior officer, sure, and a personal friend, but, in the eyes of the world, never more than that. The... queer thing only stopped being a crime punishable by jail time twenty years later, mind you.” He looked at his hands folded in his lap and I realized that I’d just been subject to my boss coming out to me. Not that I hadn’t ever suspected, but it had never been put into words.

“Oh,” I said, “Okay,” I said, and it felt like the most inadequate statement in the world.

----

But first things first: Molly froze on the spot when we walked into the atrium with Mellenby. She just stared at him, and then stared at Nightingale, and then she hovered, a bewildered expression on her face.

“Ah, yes,” Nightingale said. “Molly, you will remember... David.”

“Hi, Molly,” David chirped. “It’s good to see you again!”

Molly looked from him back to Nightingale again as if wanting to say explain this. She raised her hand, index and middle finger extended, and put the fingers to her temple, very efficiently pantomiming the obvious question she had. I wondered if Molly had had to clean up the laboratory... after.

“Well,” Nightingale said, giving her a strained smile. “Apparently, no, he didn’t.”

“I’m sorry for giving you grief, Molly, Thomas.” Mellenby looked down at his feet, abashed. “I would’ve come back, you know. If I could’ve... if I’d known.”

“Oh, would you have?” Nightingale asked, in that tone he reserved for statements such as “So Johnson does rather believe that about women wearing veils?” or “Tyburn did say that, didn’t she?”

Molly drew up to her whole height, an impressive thing to watch, and gave Mellenby a scathing glare before she brushed past him and off in the direction of the kitchen.

“Oh dear,” Mellenby said, fighting to keep a wavering little smile up. “Now two people are mad at me.” He cleared his throat. “Ahem. Where’s everybody else?”

Nightingale gestured at the atrium, empty of anyone but us three. “This is everyone. Well, Abigail comes around once a week, but she’s not a full apprentice yet. Nobody else stayed active, and certainly nobody else started aging in reverse. It’s myself and Peter and Molly.”

I watched Mellenby work through that. How for a moment he looked lost, and small, and stricken, and then attempted to straighten his back and push the weight of that down. “And me, now,” he said. “I’ll return to duty. I’ll help in any way I can.” He tried to take Nightingale’s hand. Nightingale slapped it away, maybe a bit too forcefully.

“You will be doing nothing of the sort until I’ve corroborated your story,” he said. “As a matter of fact, I will be heading downstairs later and forge you a pair of inhibitor cuffs.”

David looked at him, still grief-stricken around the eyes. “You use inhibitor cuffs?” he asked. “But they are... a German invention.”

“You would know about German inventions,” Nightingale said, really almost hissed, and there was so much vitriol in it that I didn’t dare ask what that meant. In fact I got the hell out of dodge.

----

I went into the tech cave to check HOLMES for anything we might have missed while out of town. I didn’t turn up anything recent that looked like one of our cases, and I had no missed e-mails or calls except for a text from Bev asking if I would be home tonight. I replied in the affirmative and headed back to see where else the day might take me.

I heard voices from the reading room and was about to open the door and announce my presence when I heard Mellenby say, “So, an apprentice, Thomas. Does he put out?”

Oh, I thought, at the same time as Nightingale replied, in the most incredulous voice I’d ever heard from him, “What?”

There was a dagger in that word.

“Come now, he’s a handsome young man,” Mellenby said.

“And?” It only occurred to me much later that Nightingale hadn’t denied it.

Mellenby sounded apologetic when he said, “One’s given to assume.”

“Well, don’t,” Nightingale said. “My relationship to Peter is a purely professional one, and also none of your concern. But while we’re on the subject, there’s something else I’d like to discuss.”

“Yes?” Mellenby asked.

I heard faint rustling, like someone shifting in their seat, and I could just imagine Nightingale sitting up straighter in the way he does that conveys ‘let’s get down to business’. “Many things have changed while you were away and Peter is, as you heard, my apprentice, with all rights, privileges and obligations that entails, and he has been my second-in-command here for the past four years. He’s not the help. If you are to stay here, I will see to it that you treat him with the respect you would have paid to any practitioner of the Folly. I especially don’t want to hear any comments with regard to his skin colour. There is also a plethora of words and phrases that were in usage back when you went off to have your somewhat lengthy nap which I will not hear used in Peter’s presence, or even in his absence.”

I knocked on the door and went in before Nightingale could start listing them. The two of them were seated in armchairs, across from each other and separated by the table between them, not close and certainly not touching.

“Hey, sir.” I ignored Mellenby, who wasn’t making a load of friends here. “I checked HOLMES, nothing new for us.”

“Well, I’m sure something will be along,” Nightingale said in that wry way of his. “It does give us the whole afternoon to visit Abdul.”

I noted the us. “You want me to come?”

“Not necessarily.” Nightingale gestured Mellenby’s way. “I thought I’d just take David.”

“Right.” I nodded. As this had been a unit of two since the start, I was used to we meaning Nightingale and I. That we could also mean Nightingale and David now was... novel. For me. Not for either of them, probably. They might have done we for a good long while, and were simply picking back up where they left off.

When I left the room, I heard Mellenby say, “And you’re sure you two are not making it?” and caught the beginning of Nightingale’s incensed negative before I decisively walked away from all of that.

[ask-joyce-byers]

#40 please!

1962 | 1967

{45 OTP Prompts: “I want a baby.”, and Drabble Prompt List: “I’m pregnant.”}

Christmas, 1962

The everlasting mismanagement of the NYPD meant that half of the deputies promised off on Christmas day had to work after all, and those who had volunteered to walk their beat despite the snowfall and the forfeit comfort and joy got sent home early to spend time with their families. As it was, Jim Hopper received no especial privileges despite his having requested off to spend the day with his wife. You don’t have kids, was the consensus. The deputies with kids got preference to go home and see their progeny, whereas if you had decided not to reproduce or were just otherwise unlucky, you got to work same as any other day. Nevermind the fact that Hutchinson got sent home, and he and his old lady were far beyond the kid-having age. Andrews and Williard too, both of them empty-nesters.

“Damn unfair,” Hopper muttered to himself, stamping through the snow that night, frozen to the bone, icicles having formed in the ends of his hair, stabbing him in the back of the neck and making his eyebrows so he could see them if he looked sharply up. “Diane? I’m home.”

"Merry Christmas, baby,” Diane beamed, a vision in her bright red sweater, blonde hair curled in loose waves, bangs full and just shading her blushing face. The warmth of the apartment’s interior hit him like a heavy quilt, and he let out a long breath, reaching for her and pulling her into a hug against his snowy coat despite her squeal and helpless attempts to swat him away.

“You’ll get me wet! This is cashmere!”

“Cashmere? Really…” He ogled, hands finding her waist, smoothing there as she pecked him on the cheek and twisted away.

“Food first. Then presents, then -”

“Sleep,” Hopper groaned, and Diane pursed her lips.

“If you say so.”

“Unless you had other ideas.” His level of alertness was immediately heightened.

“Food first,” she reiterated, all but dragging him into the kitchen where a modest, but fragrant ham sat, resplendent in its roaster, bordered in seasoned potatoes and bright greens. “And for dessert-” She gestured to the oven and he bent, cracking open the door to reveal a good deal of indistinguishable shadow and the unmistakable scent of apple pie.

“You’re an angel,” Hopper proclaimed, hugging her to him again, and this time she let him as he pressed a resounding kiss to her rosy lips and dragged a freezing hand through her soft hair. “Lemme go get cleaned up.”

“Please,” Diane grinned, and while he rummaged and recuperated, splashed and stomped, she arranged the presents on the small kitchen table, crowned with the bright Christmas tablecloth and overhung with fake evergreen swags. Little things, they weren’t living on big money here, but he was home from overseas, they had their own place, and it was time to start enjoying the little things in life. One present in particular, very light and thin, she placed in the forefront.

Supper enjoyed, one and two word answers to her questions sufficing to explain that the food was too good for conversation, Diane slowly inched the envelope towards him.

“Open this one first.”

“Why don’t you open one of mine? The little square one.” A bracelet, something he’d picked out with help from Mrs. Hutchinson, as he had about as much idea what to get a lady as a grizzly bear knew how to pitch a tent. He was keen to see if he’d hit the mark.

“Open mine first. You’ll like it.”

“Will I?” Tearing into the envelope with impish impetuosity, he pulled out a simple card made of folded stock paper, drawn all over in different colored ink and the curly message OPEN ME. Lifting a brow, Hopper did so and saw, in stark contrast to the elaborate outer portion of the card, the inside was blank save for one, short sentence.

I want a baby.

Blue eyes looked up at Diane, and then back to the card, and then back to Diane, the muscles in his jaw working as he strove to work out an appropriate answer.

Yes. Yes. Right now.

“You want a baby,” was all he managed to echo, voice sounding strange even to his own ears. “You don’t wanna wait another year -”

“Way I see it, we’ve done enough waiting.” Nam. It hadn’t seemed like waiting to him, it had been war, it had been hell, but back home, to Diane it had to have seemed like decades.

“You, ah….” He licked his lips, meeting her gaze at last. “You wanna start workin’ on that now?”

“You don’t want to finish presents first?”

“They get better than this?”

He stood, leaning across the table to capture her lips. The way she slowed into the kiss, her breath catching, fluttering against his skin, his hand going up to cup her cheek, and suddenly the fact that her sweater was cashmere didn’t matter at all, he just wanted it off. On the table, in the floor, anywhere not on her.

A baby. With blue eyes and blonde hair, just like Diane, perfect in every way.

Come September, he was reminding her of that, telling her his dream, their dream as he drove her to the hospital, her breath fast and ragged, forehead beaded with sweat, clenching his hand in a vice-like grip.

“Some Christmas present, huh,” he made the mistake of commenting, turning to her with a forced smile, and she tore her hand away at that.

“Just drive, James.”

James. Ah, he was in trouble, then. She never used his real name unless she was upset at him, or on other very, very special occasions. One like the one that had tears starting to his eyes some hours later as the nurses placed a very small bundle of pink blanket into his arms, tiny breaths shuddering her little body against him, eyes murky and blinking, looking into his own.

“Hey, little one,” he managed, voice hoarse. “Hey, baby girl. What’re you lookin’ at, huh. Big scary man? I’m your dad, little one. Your dad.”

“She’s beautiful, James,” Diane breathed, and reached for him, taking his hand, a faint smile tugging her lips. “Some Christmas present.”

__________________________________

January, 1967

Joyce pressed her eyes shut at the approach of footsteps outside the bathroom and steeled herself for the verbal onslaught. You’re taking fucking forever, what kind of issue do you have, locking yourself in there for hours at a time, hogging the entire goddamn bathroom because god forbid anyone else in this house have to take a piss while you’re in there doing your hair or whatever shit -

“Almost finished,” she called, not waiting this time, hearing his impatient breath on the other side of the door. “You should just go without me.”

“You’re coming with me. I’m meeting a potential agent, and I don’t wanna look like a fool who couldn’t get his wife to go and be social.”

“What kinda agent is this now?” Joyce managed, voice thin, fighting off another wave of nausea and hardly daring to look at the typed report on the counter, courtesy of the doctor’s office in Larrabee. If only there was some simple way of doing the same tests they did there from home, of checking this yourself, then one could avoid the embarrassment, the exertion, the expense…

She’d demanded a copy of the lab report anyway, and irritated, the girl with red nails had typed it up for her and yanked it from the typewriter. It was only because Joyce had proudly gotten an A in biology that she even knew the significance of hGC at all. Why the x-ed out upper-case H irritated her so much before the proper typing of the lab result was something that even good grades could not explain.

“Joyce.” The doorknob rattled and she grit her teeth against the jolt it gave her pulse. She’d locked it; short of forcing the door, he wasn’t coming in, though that had happened before. “Hurry the fuck up. What in the hell is taking -”

“Lonnie, I’m sick. I don’t wanna go.”

“Did you go to the doctor?”

“Yes.”

“What’d they say?”

“That I’m sick.”

More muttered curses. “Of course they did. Tryin’ to get money from you, they’re never gonna turn someone away and say you’re fine now, are they. Use your head, Joyce. You’ve been sick for days, I’m done with your damn excuses.”

“Lonnie.” Joyce steeled herself, eyes pressed shut from her seat on the edge of the tub. “Go to your meeting. I’ll see you later.”

“And leave you to sleep or watch TV while I work to get the pro-ball career that I’ve been after for years? No, you’re comin’. If I have to do this, so do you.” As if she didn’t spend entire weeks working at Melvald’s and coming home to an empty house, cooking actual food every night anyway on the off chance he should come home from whatever dive bar he was in this time, networking and schmoozing, all so he could have the pro-ball career he insisted was still coming to him. As if anyone else paid the bills to this house, as if he’d ever done a single thing for her other than order her around and wear her on his arm like some kind of gaudy watch.

The last jibe had her on her feet, steadying herself and yanking open the door, letting the full effect of her appearance sink in. Dark hair tumbled, face paler than a ghost, she simply stood there and met his eye for a long moment, before thrusting the typed paper towards him. Brow lowering, he grappled it and fumbled it open, peering in the shadow of the corridor before pushing past her into the bathroom to use the light of the high-set window.

“The hell is this?”

“My report from the doctor.”

“Did you get an A,” he jeered, and Joyce didn’t even bother responding, waiting for him to peruse the typed lines and thrust it back at her.  “What’s that supposed to mean anyway. You dying? You have cancer?” Is it gonna be expensive, she could all but hear the unspoken accusation.

“There.” She poked the corrected hGH line, the reading stating simply P. Positive.

“Okay?”

“I’m pregnant.”

Lonnie’s response was immediate, a muttered curse, a long scrutinizing look toward her midsection, and then an accusatory stare at the paper. As if he didn’t trust it.

“And how’s that supposed to prove anything?”

“It’s a hormone,” Joyce explained wearily. “You either have it in your blood or you don’t, and I did.”

“And that means you’re pregnant.”

“Yes.”

“Bullshit.”

“It’s not bullshit, Lonnie, that’s how it works. I’ve been throwing up, feeling awful -”

“This is it, then.” He flung the paper to the bathroom counter. “The gig’s up. How’d this happen?”

She didn’t even bother asking what he meant by the gig being up, he meant, however he decided to express it, that he had to face responsibility now. To at least be present, if not contribute. Somehow she doubted that was gonna happen.

“I figure it happened one of those times you came home drunk,” Joyce drawled and Lonnie fixed her with a warning glare.

“You’re blamin’ this on me?”

“You’re the one running the show when that kind of thing happens, so yeah, I’m blaming it on you.”

The sound of a resounding slap, skin on skin echoed through the hollow of the bathroom, and in the mirror, Joyce saw her own cheek flare red.

“This is your deal,” Lonnie threatened, voice low. “You deal with this, and it better not put you out of a job. That’s all we got until I can land this gig, and this better not derail the whole fucking plan.”

“’S not gonna derail anything,” Joyce mumbled, and her hand, instead of going to her cheek, went to her middle. As if by his blow he’d insulted not her, but one innocent in all of this. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.”

“You better. Lay down, I guess.” The nicety flung over the shoulder was all she got as he made for the front door and grabbed his coat. “I’ll make some kind of excuse for you.”

“Thanks,” Joyce muttered, her voice barely audible as she made her way gingerly to the couch and curled up there.

“And Joyce?” His voice, calling back through the cold air of the open door had her lift her head. “If it’s a boy he’s gonna learn to play ball.”

Then the door slammed, and she was left in quiet. Some say that when you bring a kid into a marriage, it can serve as a saving grace in the eleventh hour, bringing couples back together again. But in that moment Joyce Byers was never more sure – that one day, as soon as she could save up enough money, pay off the house herself and get it transferred to her name – one day,  this was going to be her home, her life. Hers, and the tiny life inside her. And if he didn’t want to play baseball, she wasn’t going to make him play goddamn baseball.

[dearophelia]

whiteout conditions [madam secretary]

fine is a four-letter word

1500 words, PG, Elizabeth, Elizabeth/Henry | also on AO3 | based on this prompt about Elizabeth’s first post-Iran panic attack by @lilacmermaid25

She dozes on the plane. There’s a bed for her tucked away somewhere, but that feels a bit too much like sleeping. And with sleeping comes staying awake and staring at the ceiling, so if she lies down on the couch in her office, turns off all but one lamp, kicks off her shoes and closes her eyes, she can pretend that she isn’t sleeping and fake herself into it anyway.  

An old Company trick she last used on a hardwood floor in a safe house outside Baghdad. Eight hours until her evac, she was running on 40 awake and knew she wasn’t going to make it the full two days. Not if she wanted to make it from the safe house to the LZ alive. And she had three very good reasons to make it to the LZ alive.  

All things considered, her leather couch in her office aboard her plane is significantly more comfortable than that uneven hardwood floor in the 110-in-the-shade heat. Which is probably why she can’t manage more than twelve minutes without waking up.  

Elizabeth sighs and scrubs a hand over her face. She checks her watch, squinting at the too-bright display in the dim light, and sighs again. Another two hours until landing - too late to take the sleeping pills Nadine has in stock for them on international flights with weird departure times. She’s stuck with the couch and pretending that she isn’t trying to sleep.  

She turns on her side and manages another three minutes before the plane hits a bump of turbulence and sends the attendants and their drink cart crashing into the wall just behind her head -

and suddenly her ears are ringing and there’s dust and plaster showering down around her, and Abdol’s screaming for his father who lies dead between them with his eyes open, staring at her, and she tries to crawl to him but Fred’s a dead weight on top of her and not moving

and as Fred’s arm falls down limply she realizes - amidst the screaming and the ringing and the shrapnel and the dawning sensation that she’s bleeding - that dead weight is literal

she tries to move, tries to push Fred off of her to get to Abdol but there’s more, there’s gunfire and another explosion, and everything’s too bright and too loud and she thinks of Alison’s birthday and the Laffy String fight -

Elizabeth inhales sharply and shoves the blanket off and sits up. She rests her head in her hands, threading her fingers through her hair, and just tries to breathe.  

I’m fine, she told Henry this morning. It’s England. Perfectly safe. She smiled, kissed him, hugged their children, and got into the black SUV waiting outside.

She is fine. She doesn’t have time to be not-fine. She has a meeting with the Prime Minister and several cabinet members, and there’s a thing with the Queen that may or may not be happening that her staff has been briefing her on for the past week. And then when she gets back there’s the peace talks and Russia and Greece and Juliet and -

Elizabeth forces herself to take a breath, and think. She solves problems for a living, and this should be cake compared to Middle East peace talks or saving Greece’s failing economy.  

In addition to her office and an actual working surgical bay, there’s a small workout room. She drinks the entirety of a lukewarm bottle of water and then goes in search of the sneakers she always packs on these trips in false hope she’ll actually have time for the treadmill.  

***

There is such a thing as too much coffee. She found that out in Yemen after finally getting what she needed from a sixteen-hour nonstop interrogation.  

And now, thirteen years later, she’s in a conference room in Whitehall, one cup of coffee away from too much.

Elizabeth doesn’t know what she’s saying. She hears words coming out of her mouth and sees the Secretary’s eyes go wide, she feels herself yelling at a man she’s known since she was sixteen, but a truck rumbles past and she’s on the floor of Javani’s living room, staring into his lifeless eyes while his son cries and her bodyguard lies dead on top of her.  

It’s like she’s catapulted over the line into way too much coffee even though she’s only had water in the past hour - she’s sweating and shaking, can’t think, can’t stand up, can’t breathe.  

She manages to excuse herself properly, manners holding steady only through muscle memory, and exits the room, leaving three stunned British cabinet members behind.  

Nadine takes one look at her and shuttles her off to the side room they’ve been granted, telling Blake to get a doctor here and fast and silent.  

“I can’t breathe,” Elizabeth rasps and she stumbles, leaning heavily on Nadine, who takes all her weight without so much as a hitch.

Daisy drops her phone, it clatters on the table like gunfire, and rushes to her side, helping her into a chair. Elizabeth hears her staff talking, but none of the words make any sense, and she can’t get to Abdol. Javani’s dead and Fred’s on top of her and she’s bleeding and the ringing in her ears is so loud but Abdol’s screams are louder and she can’t get to him, can’t hug him, can’t shield him from his father’s body.  

God only knows where Daisy finds a paper bag, and Elizabeth sure can’t hear anything, but something deep inside of her understands what Daisy’s trying to get her to do.  

By the time the doctor gets there - seven minutes, at most - she’s breathing again, but she’s sobbing into Nadine’s shoulder while a portrait of Winston Churchill watches over them.

***

“It was a panic attack,” she says softly, after telling him everything.  

Her staff has handled damage control, and she’s apologized to the Secretaries she yelled at, claiming jet lag and too many time zones in not enough days. The thing with the Queen is definitely not happening - something about a pregnant corgi, she’s fuzzy on the details - so thankfully she has one thing knocked off her list.  

Henry sighs quietly and smiles softly at her. “I’m glad you’re okay.”

“That’s debatable.”

He snorts, a completely unattractive noise she’d give anything to hear in person right now. But she’s an ocean away and video will have to suffice. “You know what I mean.”

A smile - a small one, but a smile nonetheless - tugs at her lips. “You were right,” she says. “I may not be entirely…fine.”

“That’s okay,” he assures her.  

Elizabeth waits for the joke to come, the smirk and I know how much it pains you to admit I’m right, but it doesn’t. She looks away, nearly drowning in the weight of how worried he is. She clasps her mug of tea in both hands, relishing the warmth, and tries not to hear explosions in the sky as thunder rolls quietly in the distance.  

“Hey,” he says, drawing her attention back to her laptop, “I can still fly over.”

Shaking her head, she rests against the pillows behind her. “No, we’re leaving in a day and a half. By the time you got here, you’d just have to turn around. I’ll be…” she feels fine start to form on her lips, and changes direction before the lie can fall out again. “I’ll see you when I get home.”

Henry nods. “Okay.” He holds her gaze for another moment, and she gives him a little smile. Nodding, he changes the subject, to Jason and his gigantic security guard.  

He stays with her on the video chat even as the chamomile settles in, even as she lies down and tucks up underneath the comforter, even as the clock rolls over and it becomes Tuesday for him too, still talking. Their kids, Stevie and work, Alison living in the aftermath of Jason’s expulsion, Jason and the social dramas of public school. Henry’s book, actually near finished, and he sends her a few final pages she skims and promises to read for real on the plane on the way home. 

Conversation drifts into other topics, lighter ones like the Nationals blowing an eight-run lead to be obliterated by the Padres, and whether she’d like pasta or steak when she gets back (surprise me), and a new Coeur de Pirate album.  

As she starts to drift off, the combination of chamomile mixed with sheer exhaustion an inevitable path to sleep, she hears Henry say her name.  

She opens her eyes.  

“I love you,” he says.  

“I love you, too.” Elizabeth reaches out and brushes her fingers over the screen, as if she could reach through the screen and touch him. She sniffs and drops her hand. “I know it’s late, but would you, uhm. Stay with me?”

His smile does more to settle her than anything else has all day. More than the soft breathe in, breathe out from Daisy, more than whatever the doctor gave her, more than takeaway Indian for dinner with her staff while watching Graham Norton, more than the chamomile and very hot bath.  

“Of course,” he says. “Sleep well.”

She folds her glasses and sets them on the bedside table. “I love you,” she murmurs, settling back down under the fluffy comforter.

“I love you,” he says, and it’s the last thing she hears before she finally drifts into a solid, dreamless sleep.  

[whipplefilter]

Gale's taking Jackson on a road trip for w/e reason, but her tires puncture near Radiator Springs.What happens next?

Gale and Storm run into some tire trouble on the way to Storm’s very first Piston Cup race. Radiator Springs has no reason to know who he is yet. But oh, they will.

The Hard Way

It’s Otis who finds them. He sputters to a stop at the top of a hill and coasts his way down it until his face slams against the edge of Storm’s trailer.

“Ouch!” he exclaims. Then he takes stock of what he’s run into–the trailer, askance; Gale, with one set of tires just a limp collection of jagged rubber streamers; Storm, parked beside her.

“Boy are you lucky you ran into me!” says Otis, amicably.

“You can’t be serious,” replies Storm.

But Otis is serious, because he’s always serious about these kinds of things. Otis breaks down like clockwork, and Mater should be along any time now to come pick him up. Mater’ll know what to do about these out-of-towners, too.

These out of towners, it turns out, had been sitting in the desert for a while. A few miles back, Gale had intuited something strange–what, she couldn’t tell, but the premonition was strong enough that she’d left the Interstate and slowed way down. But the premonition turned rapidly into a problem and there, straddling the distance between I-40 and whatever stretch of 66 this was, her tire rolled its last wobbly, oblong track. And then it was gone.

Storm should have gone for help. Gale told him as much. But he refused.

It wasn’t cruelty, or laziness. He played it off as loyalty–not wanting to leave her behind to the unknown–but Gale knows that Storm doesn’t quite have it in him to believe in that. Maybe one day, but not now. He’s too new, too drawn in the lines to have that kind of spirited conviction. After all, he’d only just mastered the one–the desire to win–and even that’s still got that new car smell to it.

She tells him that if he doesn’t go find help, he’s going to miss his race. His first race. But even that can’t move him.

Gale looks off at the horizon, squinting for the outline of a town she hopes is out there somewhere. But the wind is up, and so is the dust, and all she can see is haze. Again, Storm says, “No.”

His body betrays nothing, and his expression never wavers, but it’s terror that holds him there–even if he doesn’t know that’s what it is, isn’t familiar enough with the feeling to identify it. He’s scared of the desert, because he doesn’t know deserts; he’s scared of things not going according to plan. He’s scared of being alone.

“Ray told me I needed to stick with you,” Storm reasons aloud. “I’m not going to leave you, Gale.”

Storm sounds like loyalty but isn’t; he is fear, but doesn’t look it.

“You’re going to miss your race. Do you understand that?” Gale asks, for the last time.

“I don’t care.”

And because Gale is Gale, she resolves to let him ride this out. She believes that if you’re young enough to crash and burn and get right back up and learn from it, then far be it from her to stunt that growth. If this ends Storm’s career as a racer before it’s properly begun, he’s young enough to find something else to do. Maybe he’ll need to learn the hard way.

But along comes Otis, and soon enough, the tow truck he promised. In the span of one introduction from Mater-like-tuhmater-but-without-the-tuh, Storm shifts from quiet terror to deep mistrust to obvious displeasure.

“Yep, my friend Luigi can get you fixed up, no problem! He’s got all kinds a’ tires, he’s got–” Mater explains at length, hiking Otis up into the air every time he swings his tow cable around for emphasis.

Storm fixes Mater with an absolutely withering glare, but the tow truck’s enthusiasm is impervious.

“Tell you what, I gotta get Otis over to Ramone’s back in town, and I can’t exactly tow your friend here. But if you just wanna sit tight I got a good guess about what you need and I can just come back and–”

“I’ll go with you,” Storm interrupts tersely. “I know what kind of tires she needs. I can pay.”

Storm doesn’t trust Mater within an inch of him. He doesn’t trust Mater’s memory, he doesn’t trust his guesses, and he certainly isn’t ready to stake his and Gale’s lives on the reliability of some deranged, backwater tow truck. Whatever his other terrors, the terror of placing trust in this guy is far stronger. “I’ll go,” he says.

Mater beams. “Always happy to get to know a Route 66-er,” he says. “But shoot, we can talk more on the road!”

They can talk a lot more. The road is rough, far rougher than anything Storm’s ever felt beneath him. He takes it at a crawl.

It’s mortifying.

He’s not used to roads like this.

“Well, here’s the road,” says Mater, playing tour guide. Ten miles and almost an hour later, Mater says, “And here’s more of the same road.”

Mater has been obligingly matching Storm’s pace. It’s a constant modification, his mind leaping forward and his whole body set to bound across the desert like he usually does–before he remembers to reign it in.

Suffice to say, treading bottleneck-slow into town is not one of Mater’s favorite things in the world. But he perseveres.

“You know, I could probably listen to your whole life story before we even hit the outskirts,” he says, which is for Mater a silver lining and to Storm sounds like a death threat.

“Probably,” says Storm. “It’s short.” He gives Gale’s receding silhouette one last glance as he takes a particularly jagged piece of road sideways. The road into town is old, and desperately needs to be re-paved.

“I’m all ears,” says Mater. “Well, windows, mostly. But–”

“Once upon a time, the end,” says Storm.

That’s the most they ever get out of Storm. He doesn’t speak to anyone. Not to Flo, who offers him a cool drink that he does not accept.

“It’s not poisoned, honey,” she jibes, riffing off the suspicion vivid on Storm’s face.

Not to Ramone and Red, who offer a complimentary wash and wax to their dusty newcomer.

Not to Lizzie, who freely offers her own hypothesis as to his identity–Arab sheikh. For all Radiator Springs knows, Storm is Middle Eastern royalty. He has the build, and he’s definitely busy acting like this whole life is a government secret.

“What’s your business here?” Sarge asks. It’s not an interrogation, but it is.

“Leaving, ideally,” says Storm, all acid. The tire guys were taking their time sifting through their inventory in the back. Apparently it’s not often rigs like Gale drop in off the Interstate, and the truck tires are in deep storage.

“Mack always brings his own, for some reason,” muses Sally. “Something about rubber sensitivities. I don’t know.” She’s talking more to the town at large than to Storm. She’s the only one who hasn’t tried to push anything on him.

She seems distracted.

“They were supposed to leave an hour ago,” Storm overhears her whisper to the Sheriff. “If they can’t find the tires easily, just make this guy wait! Lightning’s expecting them. He needs–”

“Lightning?” Storm asks.

“McQueen,” Sally clarifies. She flushes; she hadn’t meant for this stranger to hear all that. “There’s a Piston Cup race at Copper Canyon today. Uh, down in Phoenix.”

Storm’s aware.

“Lightning… McQueen lives here?” he says slowly.

Mater is only too happy to confirm. “He sure does! Well, when he’s not Piston Cup racing and all. He’s my best bud! Didn’t you see the billboard?”

Storm hadn’t. He’d been too busy staring at the ground, daring its horrible, uneven surface to sabotage him. But when he looks around at all these cars, he could choke on their sentimentality.

They’re all so proud of him. They’re all so proud Lightning McQueen.

The whole dumb town.

Storm’s jaw tenses.

Eventually, Guido and Luigi locate the tires Gale needs, and the Sheriff gamely police-escorts their party back to Gale’s resting spot.

“Never did catch your name, stranger,” says the Sheriff.

They pass the billboard again. Radiator Springs–racing headquarters of one Lightning McQueen, seven-time Piston Cup Champion. Every part of the sign has been freshly repainted, except for the seven. As though the artist expects that that number might change.

“Oh, you will,” Storm assures him, and leaves it at that.

“How was your field trip?” asks Gale, once they’re back on the road. The two Italians Storm brought back with him evidently had someplace to be, because they’d zipped off towards the Interstate well ahead of her.

“I hate that town,” says Storm.

“They seemed friendly,” Gale counters, his Devil’s advocate.

“That’s their problem,” says Storm.

Gale wishes she could get Storm face to face right then. Look him in the eyes. Not that it would change much, she supposes; Storm has a wicked gift for appearing illegible.

But being and appearing are not the same thing. “It’ll come,” she assures him. “You’ll find your place.”

“First,” says Storm. His place is first place. That’s all that matters.

Gale thinks it’s a stupid answer, but Storm is not the first racecar she’s hauled. They all say that.

Because he’s her favorite, Gale assures him again. “It’ll come if you let it. Trust me.”

Maybe one day, he will. And perhaps the next, he will listen.

For now, they head to Copper Canyon.

[wolfy58]

1839 July Tuesday 23

SH-7-ML-TR-12-0007

Got upp 7 ¼   Went to bed 11 ½

Entered in Journal – our bookseller Gleerup has 37 letters of recommendation – to go to the George and Vulture Tavern Saint Michael’s Alley Cornhill London -

C.W.K Gleerup (1800-1871), famous bookseller.

1839 July Tuesday 23 (diary)

SH:7/ML/E/23/0089

SH:7/ML/E/23/0090

Got up 7 ¼   Went to bed 11 ½

Fine morning long in dressing – ready at 9 ¼ at which hour F 74 ¼ on the window seat – sun shining in – busy over 1 thing or other while Adney dressed – went to Mrs Todd’s at 10 to breakfast – café au lait and large dish of small good strawberries – 

Had our bookseller with two recommendations letters of the payable gentleman about 10 ¾ – courier, it seems, to some English sporting gentlemen – explained to our bookseller the sort of place that of courier was and desired to see the man – he came soon after 11 – 5 Rigsgeld dollars a day, and we to pay all his expense of living and lodging – about what would these be? he could not possibly say – never would settle before hand what they charged in Norway therefore he could not calculate what we should have to pay – 

On pressing him to calculate supposing us to travel on average six Norse miles a day, he said 60 dollars Banco a day – £150 should be taken for a month’s journey – enough thought I – I remarked upon this – said it staggered me – I would consider about it and let him have my [answer] thro’ Mrs Todd – he begged if I thought of getting a carriage, that he might be let know before I made the agreement that he might see to the wheels etc. – I said I should say nothing about this at present – it was now near 12 – 

Sent Gross with Anderson to see if the banker merchant Carnegie was at home – no! gone to England and his partner also away – but went there – the clerk could not give me money for £25 circular number 8582 till 4 a.m. but gave me 50 D.B. in account to pay our coachman – 

Then to our bookseller – explained about the courier – his calculation had alarmed me – 60 D.B. a day too much – they stared – then bought 2 volumes (my German Dictionary size i.e. small square size) Swedish and English Dictionary 6 D.B. and vocabulary Swedish Danish German French English and Italian 2 D.B. and Swedish grammar 36 skillings – no English Swedish grammar now to be had out of print – would send an old cashiered for drunkenness but now sobered Lund reverend professor of languages to give me a lesson in Swedish at 4 p.m. – 

I had told our bookseller this morning I would give him a letter (he is going to Brussels Paris and London) to Mr Bewsher at our London Custom House – but seeing that our friend had already got 37 letters of introduction I saw he had enough and told him the letter to Mr Bewsher would really be of no use – I took the house he is recommended to in London doubtless good for him – George and Vulture Tavern Saint Michael’s Alley Cornhill – he is taking his wife’s sister to Paris to finish her singing education – 4 masters recommended – Lablache and Rubini 2 of them – I said Rubini was perhaps the best in Europe? – 

Sauntered along the pier – one of the steamers gone (at 5 a.m.) the other waiting till Thursday – had walked thro’ the Etablissement des Bains – pretty building with circular portico front towards the water and a little flower garden ground roses etc. and gravel walks in front to the edge of the pier –

The Bath down right. Built in year 1830 by Alexander Keiller, out of use already in 1856.

Home about 2 – paid our coachman having him at Mrs Todd’s and having her and her secretary to help us – not dissatisfied with him, but it seems the forebud was in fault for our being so long en route – the man I had promised him 10 Rigsgeld dollars – no! thought all was paid when I had given him the 33+ Dollars B. it ended in my giving 2 D.B. for the forebud saying I was not satisfied with him – 

And then at the coachman’s request I wrote ‘I am quite satisfied with John Harder and much obliged to Mr Munthe – I was thirty three hours and a half in performing the journey that is till half past three yesterday afternoon – Göthenborg. Tuesday 23 July 1839 A Lister’ –

Then came here (our lodging) and sat down to write – about 4, had a young man from the bank with the remainder of the money exchange 11 dollars 32 skillings Banco – therefore Mr Munthe got 1 dollar 32 skillings banco x 15 = 25 dollars Banco!!! besides probably a premium upon coachman, harness, etc. – 

The banker merchants clerk just gone when John Vanderholm recommended by Mrs Tod came to offer as servant to go with us to Norway – a swede – tanner by trade which he learnt in London and married an Englishwoman – she is here – his trade failed him – he does what he can to get a living – has 8 children – asks 3 Dollars Banco per day, but then he pays for himself – calculated expense – he said at utmost 3 horses cannot average more even in Norway than 2 D.B. per mile

                               Dollars            Skillings

                               Banco             Banco

1 dinner          .           1.                    00

1 breakfast      .           0.                    32        a hot supper same as a dinner –  

1 bed   .           .           0.                    32

1 supper cold              0.                    32

                                    3.                     00        x 2 =       6 D. B. for Adney and   myself

3 – – – –  for the servant

9 D. B. a day exclusive of posting should sometimes go 12 Norse miles a day –

All this seems more likely to suit us, yet the man has never been in Norway – but he can speak to be understood by the Norsemen – speaks English like an Englishman and perhaps our own travelling knowledge and hand book will suffice – 

Had just written so far (from line 8 inclusive of page 168) now at 7 40/.. p.m. – dinner at 8 – then went to look at the little open carriage for Norway – 200 Rigsgeld dollars without harness or anything – But if not much worse, will give me half price, 100 Rigsgeld dollars for it on our return – dinner and looking about the carriage till 9 ¾ – then while Adney had Grotza, sat reading the memoir and translation of Cassandra of Lord Royston till 11 at which hour F 70º fine day till about between 2 and 3 when heavy shower – and showers afterwards –

Margin notes:          33 ½ hours from Helsinborg to Göthenborg

                                 John Vanderholm

[blueboxshenanigans11]

Blackout

Eleven x Reader

Request: Anon: could I have a 11 x reader with the prompts 36 & 40 please ? thank you !!! X

Hello!! I went a little long on this one, but I hope you enjoy it! There is a bit of a cliff hanger, so a part two may be a possibility….;) Thanks so much for requesting! Much love! xoxo

Title: Blackout

Word Count: 4,715

“Only five more minutes…” You groaned as you looked at your small black watch that laid gently on your wrist. You continued to take books off of the large stack piled next to you and placed them in their respective spots on the shelves alphabetically as you impatiently waited for closing time. It had been a long week, and all you wanted to do was go home, drink a few beers, cuddle with your dog, all the while watching some Dateline. As you thought of your evening plans, you heard the sharp jingle of the bell at the front door that indicated someone had come into your bookshop. 

You’ve got to be kidding me, the sign says we close soon. You thought to yourself, placing the book in your hand back onto the stack. “Hello! So sorry, but as the sign says, we close at six tonight. I’ll be open on Monday again.” You hollered out as you made your way through the maze of stacks and shelves to the front of the shop. As you turned the corner, you realized you were talking to an empty room and you felt your ears perk up for any sounds of another person present in your space. “Hello?” You called around, going up and down the science fiction, and romance sections. “Alright, look. I’m closing shop, and I’d like to not lock you in here, but I will and call the cops if I have to.” You stated, coming back up to the front awaiting an answer. But there was only silence.

Your frustration was rising as you looked about your immediate area. “Alright buddy, whoever you are, I am really wanting to get out if here. You have five seconds to show yourself, and then we can just get out and continue our evenings. If I get down to zero you’re going to wish you hadn’t waited until I found you. Five…four…” You threatened, continuing to look behind stacks and shelves. “Three…two….” You continued, looking behind your cashier desk, grabbing the bat you hid underneath it.

Usually in instances like this, it was just a homeless person trying to find a warm place, or some kid trying to pull a prank. Never anything malevolent, but you usually weeded them out by three. “Two and a half!” You yelled, as you cautiously turned another corner, ready to strike the intruder. You jumped as you heard a book fall off a stack a few aisles over, and spun to face the noise. You gripped the bat tighter, and quietly made your way to the history section of your store hoping to surprise whoever was hiding there. “ONE!” You shouted, bat above your head and ready to strike. “WHOA! Oi! It’s alright! I’m not here to hurt you!!” 

A man cried out, holding up his hands to try and show he meant no harm. You took the swing and let it hit the ground inches away from the man, and immediately picked it back up ready to hit him if he made any sudden movements. “What the hell are you doing in here?! Did you not hear me call out to you?” You asked, panting in relief that you didn’t have to hit him straight away. He stood himself up from the crouched position he was in, careful not to move to fast for your liking, and it was the first real look you got of him. He was tall, and quite pale. His dark brown hair that was in a pompadour-like style contrasted against his face and glistening green eyes.

He was dressed somewhat oddly, a white button-up top with a dark purple jacket, suspenders, and a brown polka-dot bowtie to accompany the ensemble. You looked at him quizzically as you waited for him to answer, and he straightened out his bowtie. “Of course I heard you, it would have been hard not to.” He replied looking down at you with a furrowed brow. “Who are you?” “I’m the Doctor. Pleased to meet you, well, mostly pleased. The bat is hindering that a bit.” He commented, pointing up to your still raised bat. “Well I’m so sorry that I thought I was going to need to beat someone who came into my shop after closing, and then was hiding behind a stack of books.” You articulated as you slowly lowered the bat, but still held onto it in case you still were in need of it. “And who are you?” This Doctor man asked, as he adjusted his coat.

“I’m Y/N. I own this shop, and if you would be so kind I would like to go home so if you would just let me lead you out the front door I’d very much appreciate it.” You began to try an usher him to the front of the store, but instead he began to thumb through your bookshelves. It was as if he was trying to find a very specific one. “Well Y/N, I am sorry that I gave you such a scare. That was not my intention, but you see one doesn’t usually answer when they are very concentrated on finding something.” He mentioned as if that would suffice as a reason. You looked up to him quizzically and crossed your arms over your chest. “What do you mean finding something? A book? You can come back in on Monday if you so need to. You’ll be lucky if I ever let you back in here!”

He spun to face you, peering down into your eyes with a look of frustration. “Well, I wouldn’t have come in this close to closing time if it wasn’t of dire importance!” “Importance? What is so important that your pompadour ass needed to come into a used book shop to find a book you honestly would probably have better luck finding online!?” You were squared up to him, straining your neck as far as it could reach. His jaw dropped at the mention of his hair, and shook it out a little. “I’ll have you know that it takes time to get my hair to sit like this! And it isn’t my fault that the universe does its thing without really giving me a fair warning! My job would be a lot less exciting if I actually had time to plan out other-worldly events!” “You’re a doctor! How could you not have your events planned out exactly how and when they are supposed to be? And universe jobs? What does that even mean?” You questioned, realizing more throughout this conversation that this Doctor is quite possibly insane and you might need to call the police to take him back to whatever asylum he escaped from. “Look, I’d love to explain every detail to you, but right now I have to find – AH THERE!” He announced, pushing past you to get to a shelf that held science and astronomy books.

You turned and watched him reach to the very top shelf and pull down the long-lost book. You had to admit it was kind of funny watching him attempt to multitask of getting the book down while it almost fell out of his hands as he also was trying to turn the pages. You didn’t feel like you needed to worry about him being a threat anymore, so you put the bat down. However, you still were a little annoyed that this stranger was acting like he ran the place. He was mumbling to himself about space and time, as if he was in a science-fiction movie. You cocked your head as you watched him, trying to figure him out the best you could. “So tell me, why you are in need of a book about astronomy and space? What’s so impertinent?”  You asked, crossing your arms over your chest. He held up a finger indicating to wait a minute, which made your frustration rise.

“The least you can do Mr. Doctor is tell me what it is that you are attempting to do, or trying to figure out. I mean, if my one book was able to help, then I probably could help you further.” “No offense, but I highly doubt you can help me with what I’m going to need to do if these facts reign true Y/N.” He answered without looking up at you, finger running under the lines of words. You furrowed your brow at him, getting angry at the fact that he didn’t seem to notice you were taking offense to his comment, but before you could quip back, he found the information he was looking for. “Oh no. No, no, no! This can’t be!” He exclaimed reading, and re-reading the page. “What?” You asked, wanting to kick yourself for becoming so curious. His eyes were wide, and his mouth agape as he was glued to the page. You tilted yourself down to see the cover of the book to see if you could maybe put a few pieces together yourself.

The title read; Beyond the Atmosphere: The History and Myth of Stars, a book you hadn’t personally read, but you had known of the content from other articles and webpages you’ve had to look up back in school. This Doctor seemed to be enthralled and distraught at what he was reading, and you wondered how he didn’t know at least something about stars. “What is so unfathomable about a myth?” You queried, leaning against the sturdy wood shelf. His eyes shot from the page to looking straight into yours, with a worried look on his face. “Myth?” You once again looked at him puzzled, “Yes, a myth. I mean, I think there’s enough evidence to prove that there once may have been a few stars, but you don’t see me up there doing the research. But I don’t think people should just shut down the idea completely you know?” He stared at you in silence, taking in all that you were saying.

“On second thought, Y/N, I think you can help me.” “Oh can I now?” “Yes. I need you to tell me, how long have there not been any stars?” This really confused you, for if this guy was really from this planet he would know indefinitely the answer to this. “Well, for as long as I can remember. I have never seen a star. No one has.” The Doctor’s eyes grew even larger and slammed the book shut, turned towards the door and ran out the front. “Hey! Come back! If anything you need to pay for that!” You called as you ran after him outside, but to your surprise, you ended up slamming into him. He was standing in the middle of the nearly empty street looking up into the night sky, spinning in circles. “Where are they!? Where are they!?” He repeated, walking up and down the street.

Even though you had just met him and not on the best of circumstances, you felt concerned for him, and attempted to figure out what was wrong. “Hey, Doctor man, what are you talking about? Where is what?” “The stars! Where are they?!” He shouted, looking up into the sky and then back down in to the book. You walked up to him and touched his arm comfortingly and attempted to get him back onto the sidewalk. “Look, Doctor, just come over here.” You coaxed, leading him to the sidewalk, hoping that the people that were around just thought he was drunk and not totally insane. As you stopped in front of your shop, he continued to look up into the sky. “Just…just stay here alright?” He nodded and you quickly ran into the shop to grab your jacket, bag, and locked the door behind you. 

I wish I could hate you…This would make things so much easier… You thought to yourself as you finished your tasks. You didn’t know why, but you felt responsible for this strange man. You were genuinely worried for him since it seemed that he didn’t know a thing about the world, especially something like the stars. “Y/N, where are they?” He asked you as you turned around to face him. “Where are what Doctor?” “The stars. The little, twinkling lights in the sky. Where are they?” He pushed still looking up, “I mean, can you see them?” You decided to humor him, and as you walked up to him you looked up into the night sky and saw nothing but black as you had your whole life. “No. No Doctor. There are no stars. I don’t see them, and they’ve never been there. I wouldn’t even know what I’m supposed to look for.” You claimed, gazing up into the deep blackness that surrounded you. You felt eyes staring at you, and when you looked back at the Doctor, he was looking at you in shock, and sadness. His eyes glistened with tears as he watched you.

You could tell that he knew something you didn’t know, and by the looks of it, it was a terrible thing. You reached over and squeezed his arm, “Are you okay? Is there anywhere I can take you?” “I couldn’t save them…I’m the reason they’re gone…” He uttered quietly, tears breaking the boundaries of his eyelids. “Who couldn’t you save?” But before you could get an answer, he grabbed your hand and started to run down the road. “Whoa! Hey! I was asking to be polite! I don’t have time to go with you!” You exclaimed as you trailed behind him, trying to keep up in an effort not to fall on your face. “Just come with me!” He commanded, and no matter how hard you tried to wriggle away, he kept his grip tight and led the way to wherever he was taking you. After a few turns, you were running down an alley, and you felt your heart racing in your throat. 

Where the hell is he trying to take me?? You thought to yourself, but soon after you were both slowing down in the depths of an alley, shrouded in darkness. There was only one street light on and it was flickering, but it put light on the Doctor as he ran inside a blue police box. Not too long after he went inside, he leaned back out the door and looked right at you. “Well, come on then!” You felt uneasy that a strange man that was hiding in your bookshop, and who was so concerned about there not being any stars was now trying to get you to go into a cramped police box with him. “Look buddy, I don’t want any trouble.” You stated, trying to catch your breath. “If anything, I will be calling the police on you!” “Look, Y/N, there isn’t time to explain, but I need you to come with me.” “With you? To where!? This is just an old, small poli – “ but your statement was cut short as he was close enough to pull you inside. “LET ME GO!” You yelled and flailed, not sure what was going to happen next. But rather than being in an enclosed space, you felt that there was still openness around you.

You opened your eyes, and what you saw astonished you. You were inside what looked like a giant space ship, with a bunch of lights, weird markings, and a control center in the middle of it all. “What the…” You breathed, unknowingly walking further inside. “It’s…it’s…” “Yes! It’s bigger on the inside!” The Doctor stole the words right out of your mouth as if he had said or heard it a many a time. “I…I don’t understand…” You stammered, not able to string your thoughts together. “You don’t need to right now, just hang on!” He claimed as he pressed a few buttons and pulled a few levers. All of a sudden, with a jerk, the police box began to wheeze and it felt like you were in an old, rickety, plane. You fell onto the railing that was near you, unable to comprehend what was going on. After you felt steady, you marched over to the Doctor and grabbed him by the lapels of his shirt. “Alright Doctor, you’re going to tell me what is going on right bloody now before I punch your face in! You can’t just kidnap someone on…in….THIS!” You motioned to your surroundings, “And not bloody explain yourself!”

You were breathing so hard, and were so distraught you were on the verge of hyperventilating as you gripped tightly onto his shirt, not even to threaten anymore as much as you were trying to ground yourself. His big hands covered yours and gently loosened them to hold them down between your bodies as he looked into your eyes. “Okay, fair enough. I’m sorry I did this to you, but I needed you to come with me. I needed to show someone.” “Show me what??” “Let me start from the beginning.” And the Doctor explained who he was. He was an alien from a planet called Gallifrey, and that this police box was actually called the Tardis and it was indeed a spaceship that could travel through time and space.

He paused as he let you wrap your mind around everything he was telling you before he continued to explain tonight’s events, “I was involved in an incident that involved another alien race called the Daleks, and they had planned on extinguishing all of the millions, and billions of stars in order to gain control of all the universes they could. I was trying to stop them, but in my final attempt of one of my damn big ideas, I was thrown into the time-space continuum and landed in your town on earth. I needed to see if what I did worked after all, and that’s why I ran into your shop because I figured you would have the books and materials to find out for sure.” “Find out what for sure?” You asked numbly, not quite sure how to think about everything he was telling you. “Find out if the stars were really gone.” “Stars? Stars have never been around! They don’t exist Doctor! And the sooner you realize this, the sooner you can take me back and we can just get back to our regular lives!” You announced, not even realizing tears were threatening to fall from your eyes.

It was all just too much, and you couldn’t comprehend everything right in that moment. But you were also intrigued, and even though you were terrified to be with this alien man called the Doctor, there was a part of you that was pushing you to beg to know more. As if he could read this deepest part of you, he continued to tell you about how many stars there were, and what stars actually were. He had lived amongst the stars for hundreds of years, and the fact that you hadn’t seen them was more than saddening to him. “I don’t know why our paths crossed tonight, but I have a feeling you and I were supposed to meet.” He claimed, walking away from you and back to his controls and began pushing buttons. “Well, what good could I do if I’ve never even seen these stars? You must know other people, or, species that have seen them.” You rebutted, leaning back against the metal railing.

An awkward silence fell between you two, as if he immediately thought of others that could have maybe helped him, but he didn’t want to talk about it or even think about it. He let his lips curve into a half-hearted smile and kept his eyes down on his controls, furiously working on something specific. “Yes. You would think that initially wouldn’t you?” He muttered, not actually asking you but you could tell it was bothering him. You took a deep breath, and looked around the gigantic room again, letting the sight, smell, and feel of it all encompass you. “Well, if you are telling the truth, then prove it.” His head shot up and he looked at you confused. “What?” “Show me the stars. Prove it to me that they’re real.”

He was speechless, and you made your way over to him as you explained, “Look, I don’t know why we met either, but if what you say is true and you can prove it to me, then I want to help in any way I can. I do feel an urgency to help you, and a connection with you for whatever reason. I may not be one-hundred percent on if I like you or not because of the circumstances, but…God I can’t believe I’m saying this…But I’m willing to try.” The Doctor’s eyes sparked with a new found life, and a grin spread across his face. “You don’t know what you’re in for Y/N.” He stated, an immediately began to press more buttons and pull more levers as he coordinated where you were going to need to go.

You felt butterflies in your stomach, as you were putting all your trust in this person you just had met in your bookstore, but you trusted your gut. And your gut was telling you to go with him, and if there was a chance to see the stars, some phenomena that you had only heard of all of your life, you were going to take it. You were definitely skeptical but the outcome could be so much sweeter than the reality you knew. As the Tardis wheezed its way through what you assumed was the space-time continuum, you held onto the center control as the Doctor did until it jerked to a stop, and glided into stillness. The Doctor ran past you to the doors, and you were sure he had gone crazy. If there were stars out there, that means you were out in space, and even you knew that it was impossible to breathe or live without the proper equipment. As if reading your mind, the Doctor explained, “It’s safe to open the doors. The Tardis, she will keep us safe.” “She?” You asked, touching the smooth metal around the center system. The Doctor smiled at your curiosity and watched you take everything in. “Yes, she.” He simply replied. You looked over to him and then to the ominous doors right behind him, not sure if you were quite ready to see if what he was saying was true.

You both stood in silence as you contemplated, until he finally asked you, “Are you ready Y/N?” He stretched his arm out, hand out waiting for you to take it, not pushing, but more as a comfort. You nodded silently, and slowly walked up to him and took his hand in yours. You noticed that his skin was very soft to the touch, and you felt safe when he was holding yours. “Do you want me to just open it, or do you want to close your eyes first?” “I…I think I’m going to close my eyes.” You muttered, your nose nearly touching the door in front of you, with an entire mystery standing outside. “This must be what Schrodinger’s cat was like.” You rambled, causing the Doctor to chuckle. “Well, you can see the whole cat for yourself, whenever you’re ready.” You nodded, still staring right into the wood grain. You took a deep breath, and shut your eyes tight, squeezing the Doctor’s hand to let him know you were ready. He pulled you back enough to open the door, and you felt its presence open in front of you. Even though your eyes were closed, you felt the vast emptiness in front of you, and your lids closed even tighter than before, afraid to open. The Doctor didn’t utter a word, just stood with you as you prepared yourself, holding your hand for support.

It felt like a long time before you finally allowed your eyes to open, and when you did…you couldn’t believe it. What you knew to be black and ominous, was lit up with bright, swirling, sparkles dancing across the sky. You felt your body vibrate as the silence of the dance moved through you, and the variety of colors sparked your brain in a way that nothing ever had before. You felt tears fall from your eyes in awe, and wonder. A smile, creeping on your face as you stepped out as far as you could go, the Doctor still holding onto your hand tightly as you took in the sight. “I must have entered an alternate universe, you cracked a smile.” The Doctor quietly teased. “Shut up space man…” You quipped back, and his lyrical laughter filled your ears as you kept your eyes glued to the not so empty vastness of space. “How…what…why…?” You couldn’t even think of what to ask first as your whole world and reality shifted.

The Doctor exhaled a soft laugh as he closed the short distance between you, standing shoulder to shoulder with you. “I know it’s a bit much, especially since you’ve never even seen one star. Now I’ve introduced you to the small amount that is all across the millions of universes.” “Small amount?” You scoffed, not able to even think that there could be more than this. “We are all connected to these stars. We are made up of a bunch of space particles, and we are who we are because of them.  All these stars could be entrances to alternate universes, planets, comets, just plain old stars. It’s quite amazing how everything intertwines, and you never really know the depth a star could be.” You felt his eyes looking at you, and you finally tore yours away to look up into his.

“Why are you showing me this?” “Because I think you needed to. I hardly believe in coincidences. I think you were meant to see this, and I think you and I could bring them back.” “But, but they’re here. Maybe Earth is just, in a deep, dark part of space.” “No. Earth used to sit in the Milky Way with billions of stars around. This,” He pointed out to the swirling space dusts, “This is another universe, at the beginning of time.” “Oh…” You whispered, captured once again by the beauty. You both stood in silence in the doorway of the Tardis, just being with each other in the presence of all the stars.

You felt jubilance, awe, and fear. How could something so vast, so beautiful, and so detrimental just disappear? How could you have never known that this was out here in the usual blank space that you lived with all your life? You had just met the Doctor, but he changed your life in more ways you could imagine. You couldn’t go back. Not without knowing where all the stars were, and not until you brought them back. You needed them, the people of Earth needed them. “All right Doctor,” You turned to face him, he mirroring your position. “I want to go with you. Let’s go save the stars.” He squeezed your hands, and with a wide smile on his face you could see a new sense of wonder and hope in his eyes. He took off to the console and started to put in coordinates to travel to wherever it was you needed to. You turned to take one last look outside, and took a deep breath. “I won’t forget you. I’m coming to find you.” You declared before closing the door.

You didn’t know where, or when you were going with this strange alien man, but you felt the need to be there with him. As you went up to the console to hold on as the Tardis began to wheeze, you noticed he was staring at you with a smirk. “We’ll be together for a while, don’t take up too much time staring at me now.” You disclosed, giving him a wink, a slight pink filling his cheeks. “Don’t worry, I’ll be sure to spread it out,” He claimed, and placed his hand on a red handled lever. “Ready Y/N?” You nodded eagerly as he prepared to pull it down. “Geronimo!” He chanted out into the large room, and then you were off through time and space. You were off to save the stars.

[spooky-ghostwriter]

Dressed to Kill - Chapter Nine

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Tsukiko parted the curtains of her trailer window. It had been a full day's drive around Lake Erie. All of the driving had been done by non-performer employees – particularly those with the drivers' licenses that Tsukiko herself lacked – so from her perspective, it had been a fairly uneventful period. Still, despite not having any of the stress that she imagined came with driving around trailers full of ghost lions and elephants, she was happy to see that they'd arrived at their destination.

Tsukiko hadn't considered it at first, but in retrospect, it had been incredibly obvious – circus performers' trailers were not large. Her new bed was smaller than she was used to and even it took up a good third of her available space.

Still, her trailer had felt empty. Her bedroom at her parents' house had had Gary's enclosure as a centerpiece, but now Tsukiko's snake was in the care of Pierre and his crew. The props and costumes that had once littered her room's floor were now in storage somewhere. Tsukiko had to admit, they were likely more organized than she'd ever kept them.

And so, Tsukiko's trailer contained only a bed and a mini-fridge; both of which were already in the trailer when she'd walked in. She made a mental note to see how Galen was using his trailer's space and copy it.

As she sat on her bed, imagining the walls covered in posters, there was a knock at the door.

Oh, speak of the devil, Tsukiko thought.

She pushed open the door. As the thought was still on her mind, she greeted her visitor with a question. “Hey Galen, would it be weird to put a picture of Gary on my wall?”

Vercingetorix blinked.

“Oh, you're not Galen,” Tsukiko realized.

“Indeed I am not,” Vercingetorix confirmed. “Gary is your snake, right?”

“...Yes,” Tsukiko admitted.

“You're free to do whatever you want with your trailer, as long as we can still move it from city to city,” Vercingetorix explained. “Most performers here decorate their trailers with mementos from their favourite or most important shows.”

Suddenly remembering the reason he was there, Vercingetorix opened the briefcase he was holding. It was the very same metal briefcase that Vercingetorix had held the Tank Top in. For a moment, Tsukiko was breathless – she imagined the wonders of a second Religalia that Vercingetorix might give to her.

“I have the schedule for this week's shows.” Vercingetorix passed a stapled set of papers to Tsukiko. “You'll be performing one show a day.”

“O-okay...”

“Is something the matter?” Vercingetorix asked. “If you're worried about having fewer shows than the other performers, that's just because you're new. Once you're used to the routine, we'll bring you up to an alternating schedule of two shows one day, one show the next.”

“No, it's not that,” Tsukiko tossed the schedule onto her bed. “It's just that...” She scratched the back of her head, trying to word her question appropriately. “Is the schedule really the most important thing right now?”

“Of course!” Vercingetorix said, sounding affronted. “One cannot have a circus without some semblance of order.”

“What about the plant monsters?”

“Dryads.”

“Whatever. What are we doing about them?”

“It's a little cool for dryads this morning,” Vercingetorix said, looking up to the overcast. “I don't think they'll be a problem.”

“You don't think – ” Tsukiko stammered. She sighed. “Okay. Fine. I don't want to fight any plant monsters anyway. But can you at least show me the other Religalia?”

Vercingetorix nodded to himself. “I suppose. Meet me at Stage 1 during Pierre's show. I'll make some time.”

Stage 1 was the largest of the four. The tent around it stood almost 40 feet in the air; it was the beacon that attracted people to the circus as a whole. Two towers of scaffolding held the tent in place, with a large 'Alesia Circus' logo between them. The stage covered most of the available space, with seating for over 700. Tsukiko would have loved to watch Pierre lead his ghost lions around – or, for that matter, to perform on the stage herself. Instead, she stood backstage, awaiting Vercingetorix.

Still, even if the sights and sounds eluded her, the smells and tastes were up for grabs. Tsukiko passed the time by shoveling caramel corn into her mouth as fast as her unfortunate need to chew and swallow would allow.

Finally, a few handfuls into her third bag, Vercingetorix stepped out of the Stage 1 tent.

“Ah, there you are,” Vercingetorix said, noticing her.

Tsukiko swallowed two cheeks' worth of caramel corn.

“Free circus food is one of the greatest perks of working here, wouldn't you say?” Vercingetorix asked.

“This is the best caramel corn I've ever eaten!” Tsukiko said, pointing ecstatically at the few kernels remaining. “What's your secret?”

“It's not something that should be disclosed to the public,” Vercingetorix said, his voice suddenly low and ominous. “But, sufficed to say, dryads come in many shapes and sizes.”

Tsukiko pictured five ears of corn stacking together to create a behemoth, just as the pumpkins had. With no emotion on her face, she dropped her current handful of kernels back into the bag.

“I'm joking,” Vercingetorix said with a smirk. “I don't know what the secret is. And, just like I won't ask how you perform any of your magic tricks, I won't ask our chef how he makes his caramel corn.”

Tsukiko tentatively ate another kernel, but her eyes narrowed in a suspicious glare.

“Now, onto the Religalia,” Vercingetorix said, unlocking his briefcase.

A shiver of eagerness crept up Tsukiko's entire body. The Tank Top had caught her attention even before it transformed into a mobile cannon. She remembered the strange allure it had; some glimmer of specialness emanating from every stitch.

As Vercingetorix reached into the briefcase, she stared at it in anticipation. Finally, he pulled out his hand.

Tsukiko felt her eyes widen.

Vercingetorix held a woolen sweater. It was a garish pink, with a needlessly bright yellow 'J' knitted on the chest. On its sleeves were flame designs that graduated from the same yellow of the 'J' to a bloody crimson.

It was hideous.

“This is the Jumper,” Vercingetorix introduced. “The second Religalia I'd like you to try.”

Tsukiko said nothing, and decided it best to hide her expressions behind a final handful of caramel corn.

“Now,” Vercingetorix continued, oblivious to Tsukiko's pained reaction. “To truly master a Religalia, you must be able to believe in it, no matter how impossible its abilities seem. Think of it like an actor being fully immersed in their role. To get the greatest performance, the actor must believe that they are the character they are trying to represent.”

“Are you sure? I had no idea what the Tank Top would do.”

“Precisely,” said Vercingetorix. “At the moment you activated the Tank Top, your mind was full of desperation, not doubt. You didn't know what the Tank Top would do, but you believed it would do something to save yourself, Galen, and your audience. And no matter how impossible that sounds, you believed it.”

Once again, Tsukiko didn't know how to respond to this. What he said was true, but she couldn't help but feel that he was calling her naive.

“I truly respect that conviction in the impossible,” said Vercingetorix. “The Tank Top is, in fact, one of the hardest Religalia to master. Most people don't believe it can transform into a tank.”

“Even after they see it happen?” Tsukiko asked.

“One's eyes can be deceived. You, of all people, should know that.”

“Well sure, but after fighting living pumpkins, what else is there for people to think is impossible?” Tsukiko asked.

“That is exactly the attitude I was hoping for from you,” said Vercingetorix. He passed Tsukiko the ugly sweater. “That's why I'm not going to try to trick you with this Religalia. I will tell you exactly what the Jumper does, and hopefully, you won't doubt it for an instant.”

Tsukiko turned the garment over in her hands. The back side had another knitted fireball and was no less ugly than the front.

“Try me.”

Galen made his way through the field reserved for Pierre's animals. An L-shaped tent lined one corner, housing the enclosures of a few small animals. As he passed through it, he stopped at the tank that now housed Gary. The snake was coiled under a hollowed rock, but he poked his head out as Galen approached. Gary flicked his tongue up in greeting.

“Hey, buddy,” Galen said softly. “Sorry, I don't have time to play right now. I have to help wash the elephant.”

He was relatively sure that Gary didn't understand what he said, but the python seemed to relax and stretched itself out under its heat lamp.

Along the way, Galen rested his arms on the railing surrounding Pierre's alligator pit. Some shows involved Pierre or an assistant sticking their head in the largest alligator's open jaws. Now, the three of them looked no more dangerous than Gary. In fact, they were stretched out under a bright heat lamp just as Gary was.

Before he could enjoy the view too much, a monkey jumped onto him and grabbed the back of his head. Galen recoiled as the monkey began to howl; he wondered just how much force he could use to remove it without causing it any harm.

While flailing, Galen turned; Pierre was standing a few feet behind him.

Pierre snapped his fingers; the monkey bounced off Galen's head and ran up to sit on Pierre's shoulders.

“Th-thanks,” Galen said, breathlessly. “I don't know what got into that monkey.”

“I told him to do zat,” Pierre said. “You are supposed to be washing ze elephant. Now move!”

Galen muttered some vague apology and ran off.

Betsy the elephant didn't appear to have noticed Galen's lateness. She had a large, fenced-off field to herself, and was frolicking around enjoying the free space while she could. She toyed with a tree branch, swinging it across the autumn leaves on the ground as if raking.

A senior stagehand, by the name of Jeffery, waved both the elephant and Galen onto a raised platform. It was a simple basin that had nothing more than a drain in it, but it was large enough for Betsy to lie down and stretch. Galen and his elder took turns spraying the beast with hoses connected to some water system Galen didn't yet understand.

“You're late, Mark,” said Jeffery, watching Betsy play in what was rapidly becoming mud.

“Sorry about that – ”

“Ah, don't worry about it,” The large, bearded man said cheerfully. Galen mused that, if it weren't for Jeffery's harsh Boston accent, he would have made a perfect Santa Claus. “Did Pierre hit you with the monkey?”

Galen nodded. His boss laughed.

“It's fine. Just don't mistreat any of the animals and he'll warm up to you eventually.”

Galen looked past Betsy to the pen that housed the ghost lions and beyond even that back to the alligator. “I was sort of worried when I heard how many animals were kept here. But it looks like they're all taken care of properly.”

“Of course. Y'know, Pierre is the only reason we're allowed to have an elephant in the first place.”

“Oh?” Galen asked, deciding that continuing the small talk would improve what seemed to be a good first impression.

“Yeah. Pierre started as an exotic vet, then a zookeeper,” said Jeffery. “By the time he joined the circus, he had so many licenses that he can keep any animal he wants. Including some that aren't even supposed to exist.”

“Like ghost lions?”

“Like ghost lions.”

The two of them continued to wash and admire the elephant for a few minutes. Then, Galen saw something out of the corner of his eye.

“Jeff...” Galen said. “How many monkeys does the circus have?”

“Just one. Why?”

Galen now looked in the direction of Stage 1. It was hard to tell from a distance, but it looked like a humanoid figure standing on the 'Alesia Circus' sign.

“Well I'll be,” Jeff said, shading his eyes with his hand. “That's no monkey! That's a person.”

“One of our guys?”

“Must be! But they're supposed to use the crane to take that thing down.” He took the hose from Galen. “I'll finish up here. Go check out what's happening and radio Vercingetorix if there's an issue.”

Galen tapped the walkie-talkie on his belt.

“Got it.”

It was a jog of annoyance that drove Galen across the field to Stage 1. He wondered how someone had even managed to climb the tent, let alone why. It should have taken the crew's cherry-picker to even reach the scaffolding.

Whoever it was, Galen was sure it must have been some determined idiot.

He approached the base of the tent. Galen and the climber were still separated by the entire height of the tent, but they were close enough for him to recognize the climber's long, black hair flowing in the breeze.

“Oh goddammit it's Tsuki,” Galen muttered.

“Hey Galen!” Tsukiko cried from above.

“What are you doing up there?!” Galen demanded. “And how – ”

“Check it out!” Tsukiko said gleefully. She let go of the scaffolding tower and bent her legs.

“No, don't – ”

It was too late. Tsukiko leapt off of the sign. She flew a surprising height before clearing the ten. Then, gravity remembered its place and she began to fall.

Galen's instincts took hold. It was clear where Tsukiko would impact the ground. He sprinted to that spot as fast as he could manage.

As he and Tsukiko both sped towards the point of impact, he heard Tsukiko scream something.

Galen stretched out his arms. He hadn't had time to think about whether or not this would help and, in hindsight, he would realize that it wouldn't.

One loud, painful crash later, Tsukiko and Galen were a collapsed heap.

For a moment, both were silent.

“Why did you catch me?” Tsukiko asked.

“What kind of question is that?”

“No, seriously. Why did you catch me?!” Tsukiko demanded, managing to get herself onto all fours. “You're no softer than the ground!”

“I had to do something,” Galen said, struggling to his feet. “Why did you jump?!”

“Because of this!” Tsukiko stood up fully, then tugged the bottom edge of her fiery pink sweater. “It's the Jumper!”

“It's ugly!”

“I know. But it lets me jump super high. And then not die when I hit the ground.”

“You could've told me that.”

“Believe me, if I knew you were going to try to Superman me, I would've!” Tsukiko rubbed her neck. “I think it only works properly if I land on my feet. And it doesn't protect you at all!”

“You don't say.” Galen muttered, rotating his wrists to ensure they still worked. While doing so, he took a long look at his left hand.

“Hey, Tsuki?” He asked.

“Yeah?”

“Does my pinkie look all right to you?”

Tsukiko looked at Galen's left pinkie. The finger itself looked fine. The angle it was sticking out of his hand did not.

Tsukiko let out a short terrified scream.

“Yeah that's what I thought,” Galen said. “It's just that it doesn't hurt, so I was – ”

Tsukiko released a second, completely identical, scream.

One of the two screams managed to attract Vercingetorix, who sauntered over from the far side of the tent. He looked at Tsukiko's pained expression, then to Galen's more stoic, confused expression. Finally, he noticed Galen's sideways finger.

“Well,” said the manager. “I think it's time to introduce you to the next Religalia. It heals injuries.”

Vercingetorix led Tsukiko, Galen and Galen's dislocated finger to a trailer, very similar to the one Tsukiko had began her day in.

It even had an identical insignia on the front – a stylized top hat and magic wand.

“This where you keep the Religalia?” Tsukiko asked.

“It is.”

“I was expecting something more... I dunno, magical,” Tsukiko said. “Like a wormhole to an alternate dimension where tanks and clothing are one and the same.”

“That is a very healthy imagination you have,” said Vercingetorix. “One moment.”

He stepped into the trailer, closing the door behind him.

“How's the finger?” Tsukiko asked Galen.

“Still sideways. And it still doesn't hurt.” Galen said. In curiosity, he poked it with the index finger of his other hand. In an instant, his face contorted in pain.

“That looked like a bad idea,” Tsukiko said, wincing.

“It was,” Galen said quietly. “It really was.”

In the moment Vercingetorix promised, he emerged from the trailer. He held a pair of red, sparkling shoes. Their hue and sheer size of the heel made Tsukiko think of something Stiletto the knife thrower would wear.

“These,” said Vercingetorix. “Are the High Heals.”

“Of course it's a pun. Sure. How do they work?” Tsukiko asked, taking the shoes. “Do I wear them, or does Galen?”

“You do.”

“Darn,” Tsukiko said, kicking off her current footwear. “The other way would have been way funnier.”

Galen gave her an annoyed look, no doubt exacerbated by the pain in his hand.

“Now, place your hands around Galen's injury like so.” Vercingetorix extended his index fingers and thumbs, tracing a diamond. “You can heal as big of a wound as you need to by spreading your hands further.”

“You should have shown me this one first!” Tsukiko said. She placed her hands as Vercingetorix showed her, ensuring that Galen's distorted pinkie was in the middle of her hand formation. “Now, I just need to believe that it will heal Galen, despite how impossible it seems?”

“You have to click the back of your heels together to activate it, but yes, that is what you must believe.”

Tsukiko closed her eyes and cleared her mind. She concentrated on her breathing, and nothing but the idea that Galen's finger would be repaired. Then, she clicked her heels.

She felt a slight shifting in her footwear, as she had with the Tank Top. She opened her eyes slightly to allow herself a brief glance at her feet. Wires emerged from the High Heals' lining. They slithered down around her ankle and conglomerated on the shoes' toe box. In seconds, each shoe had a shining silver cross on Tsukiko's toes.

“This is incredible,” Galen said. He watched in awe as his finger twisted back into place. In an instant, his finger was back to normal. He curled and extended it a few times, without any pain. “You need to tell hospitals about this!”

“We can't do that,” Vercingetorix said solemnly.

“Why not?” Tsukiko asked. “You can't just keep something like this locked up in a trailer!”

“No one knows how to make another set of High Heals,” Vercingetorix explained. “I'm sure you understand that dissecting a pair of shoes looking for some miracle cure would only risk damaging the Religalia.”

“Have you studied them at all?” Galen asked.

“Of course, but all we have learned are that they have some limitations.” Vercingetorix held up fingers as he listed, “Number one – they cannot cure diseases, even the mildest stomachache. Number two – they cannot heal injuries that are too old. We're not sure what the cutoff is, but it seems that injuries that the body has already begun to heal of its own accord are unaffected by the High Heals' power. Number three – they cannot replenish blood. They will fix the damaged tissue and prevent further blood loss, but someone who has lost too much blood already will still die. And, of course, number four – they cannot bring someone back from death.”

“The shoes are still pretty far above modern medicine,” Galen said, still enchanted by his working finger. “I still think you need to take them to a hospital.”

“And tell them what? That a circus has magic footwear that can mend broken bones?” Vercingetorix asked. “In the past, we did take the shoes around hospitals. Unfortunately, the surgeons thought we had planted fake injured victims as a publicity stunt. Quite a frustrating affair.”

Vercingetorix shook his head.

“You're welcome to try, whenever we're set up close enough to a hospital,” He said. “Just don't be late for your shows. Hospitals have doctors that can help patients without you, but we need you here for your magic shows.”

“Believe me, I won't be late,” Tsukiko promised. “In fact... I think I'm going to go get ready for the next show.”

She looked back at Galen.

“Come find me when you're done washing elephants or whatever!” She said cheerfully. Then she departed, bouncing dozens of feet into the air. After a few leaps across the field, she vanished completely out of sight.

Galen watched her depart, then sighed, staring at his finger.

“Is something troubling you, Galen?” Vercingetorix asked. “Your finger is back to normal, isn't it?”

“It's completely fine,” said Galen, wiggling it to make sure.

“Then what's the matter?”

Galen leaned against the banister of the trailer's stairs. He looked across the field, and in the distance, he saw a shape that looked distinctly like Tsukiko leaping a few dozen feet into the air.

“Tsukiko and I are partners,” Galen said. “She's said it before – that her magic shows wouldn't be as good without me. It really meant a lot to me to hear that.”

“Oh?”

“Do you ever feel jealous of the circus performers?” Galen asked. “Well, maybe jealous isn't the right word, but – ”

Vercingetorix nodded before Galen could even think of a way to reword his question.

“The performers are truly something special,” said Vercingetorix. “They do things that no one else can possibly comprehend. Myself and the crewmembers, we tend to sit on the sidelines and watch the magic. We are, to be blunt, ordinary people. However close we are to them, it can feel like we're worlds apart.”

“Yeah. I know what you mean,” Galen said. “But I wasn't always so far away, you know? Tsukiko and I were... eight, I think, when we met. Even then, she could do card tricks and sleight of hand. But I understood all of that. I only learned the tricks I needed to do, and even then I was never as good at them as she was, but it was always possible.”

Vercingetorix continued to nod.

“Now there are all these Religalia in the mix,” Galen continued. “And now she's jumping fifty feet in the air and healing my broken finger and...”

“And turning into a tank.”

“Especially turning into a tank! How's an ordinary person like me supposed to keep up?”

“Tell me, Galen,” said Vercingetorix. “Why did you decide to be Tsukiko's partner in magic? And why did she decide she wanted you over anyone else?”

Galen shook his head.

“I can't answer the second one. I mean, I don't get stage fright and we can bounce jokes off each other. Maybe that's all it is.”

“Well then, what about the first question? Why did you get into stage magic with Tsukiko?”

Galen paused. He had thought this would be the simpler question to answer, but he had to think back to each and every magic show he'd been a part of to find his answer.

“It's fun,” Galen said simply, a faint smile on his face. “I wouldn't have thought of doing it if it weren't for Tsukiko, but it really is fun. Tsukiko once tried to describe it as showing people impossible, amazing things, and letting them forget how boring reality is. I thought it was silly at the time she said that, but I guess that's really what we do.”

“And now she's doing what even you think is impossible.”

“Yeah. It's like I'm just an audience member now.”

“The thing is, Galen, the things Tsukiko does now are feel as impossible to her as they look to you. It's her conviction that makes it possible.”

“And the Religalia.”

“Well, here's a much simpler question,” said Vercingetorix. “Do you have the same conviction as Tsukiko? If you were to wear a Religalia, do you think you could make it respond to you?”

Galen turned to look at Vercingetorix, eyes wide.

“Are you asking what I think you're asking?”

Vercingetorix smiled.

“There are a couple Religalia left,” Vercingetorix said. “Two of them even have the dubious tradition of being worn by the magician's assistant as opposed to the magician herself.”

Galen paused.

“Why didn't you start off by telling me that?”

“I was curious,” Vercingetorix said with a shrug. “I wondered if your thoughts were the same as those of their previous owner.”

“Oh? Who was their previous owner?”

Vercingetorix scratched his chin. It was a contemplative reply when he said, “The man gave up his magician's assistant ways many years ago. And considering how he, like you, tended to give the fame to the magician herself, I think he may prefer to remain anonymous for the time being.”

“Doesn't sound exactly like me, then,” Galen said. With a grin, he added, “I told Tsuki I'd steal her show at some point.”

Vercingetorix laughed. “Let's see how well that translates into a conviction in the impossible, shall we?”

[powershirt8-blog]

The Only Thing You Should Eat at the Airport Is Chicken Nuggets

This post originally appeared on March 25, 2019, in the inaugural edition of The Move, a newsletter for Eater’s editors to reveal their recommendations and pro dining tips — sometimes thoughtful, sometimes weird, but always someone’s go-to move. Subscribe now.

With several notable exceptions, airports are, by and large, culinary wastelands. Much like those $5 bottles of water hawked at their newsstands, airport food is stupidly expensive and, with few exceptions, extremely mediocre; most of the concepts with celebrity chef names attached to them are cash grabs, and with a captive audience, in-terminal restaurants simply don’t need to be very good to stay in business. Accordingly, as soon as I step foot onto airport property, my palate shrinks to resemble that of a 5-year-old: I would like an order of chicken nuggets and that will be all, please and thank you. My preferred specimens come from McDonald’s (God bless that crunchy, tempura-like crust), but I’ll also go for Wendy’s nuggets, which are breaded rather than battered but always juicier than I remember. But as long as they come frozen out of a bag and plunged straight into a deep-fryer, I’m good. The move is: If you find yourself stuck eating at an airport, chicken nuggets are your best bet.

Why does air travel transform me into such a finicky eater? Frankly, in-flight food poisoning changes a person. After a (suspicious, in retrospect) taco salad consumed at the culinary wasteland that is the Ontario (California, not Canada) airport, I spent the entirety of a three-hour flight home doubled over with my hand clamped firmly over my mouth; suffice it to say it was a formative experience in my eating career. Part of my reliance on the chicken nugget, then, is strategic: Now, the only food that passes my lips inside an airport has to be highly processed, to the point it couldn’t possibly harbor any funky bacterial growth.

But even if I didn’t harbor food-poisoning fears, only eating nuggets at the airport is a solid strategy. Helen Rosner posited in a Beard Award-winning essay that chicken tenders are the perfect food, writing, “There’s no narrative to chicken tenders, there’s no performance. That is the substance of their allure: If you’re ordering them, you don’t have to look at the menu.” The same applies to chicken nuggets. Airports are stressful even at the best of times, thanks to the snail-paced security lines, forced shoe removal, and invasive TSA pat-downs; defaulting to generic chicken nuggets requires zero consideration and offers a small refuge from the otherwise anxiety-laced process of navigating air travel. Most of us over the age of 12 probably indulge in chicken nuggets only very rarely, so eating them at the airport provides a specific sense of comfort (even if they don’t come flanked by a Hello Kitty toy), allowing us to return to a taste of our childhoods. It’s way too easy to drop $40 on an extremely mediocre and sad airport meal for one, but ordering that taste of nostalgia will rarely require you to fork over more than a $5 bill.

If you’re traveling somewhere far-flung, nuggets offer you one last taste of stereotypically American food in all its sanitized, deep-fried glory. And if you’re traveling somewhere not known for a robust food scene, a repast of nuggets sets the bar delightfully low for any meals to come. Additionally, while carrying hot food on an airplane can attract dagger-like stares from fellow passengers (too many smells in a recycled-air environment!), leftover nuggets are basically devoid of aroma, so they make a perfectly suitable in-flight snack. Safe travels, and enjoy your nuggets: Just be careful not to spill any dipping sauce on your seatmate, though I maintain that McDonald’s sweet-and-sour is worth the risk.

P.S. For more expert opinions about America’s best chicken nuggets, do consult Eater’s ultimate nugget rankings.

Thanks for reading The Move! What are the tips/hacks you’d like to know about? Email newsletters@eater.com if you have a burning question or topic suggestion, or check out our Life Coach column for more how-tos for navigating modern dining rituals.

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Source: https://www.eater.com/2019/3/26/18267771/best-airport-meal-chicken-nuggets-the-move

[clairedmaddox]

Wasting Time

The following is an excerpt from The Lund Loop Newsletter. To learn more click here.

It was an interesting week.

Sunday was Father’s Day and I didn’t get in a fight with my wife. That’s a major accomplishment because it seems like right before every holiday – both major and minor – we get into an argument.

The blame is mostly mine for not being mindful of the stress these holidays give her, and thus treading lightly in the 24 to 48 hours before they begin.

I made the same mistake (again) this year on Mother’s Day – though I was oblivious to it at first.

Rising early, I got everything set up to celebrate the day, but by 11:00am, my wife had not come downstairs. A text inquiring if she was up yet went unanswered, so I decided to run out and do a few errands.

Being a heroic husband, I texted again around noon to see if she wanted me to pick her up something for lunch.

Ding!

“No, thanks” was the response.

Whew, I thought. I’m in the clear.

But I wasn’t. Not by a long shot.

Ding!

“By the way, I’m mad at you.”

That was followed by a series of “dings”, each indicating that a new one-line text had come through, none of which were very flattering towards me.

“I’ll give her a minute to cool down,” I said to myself. But a few minutes later, the dings were still coming in hot and heavy.

It reminded me of playing slots in Vegas and hitting 7 – 7 – plum – cherry – 7. It’s a winner but not listed on the payout chart, so you don’t know how much you’ll get or when it will stop.

At five texts I thought about defending myself, but before I could think of something to say, we were at ten texts, and at that point, even I knew better.

After strategizing a bit, I decided to reply with “I hear what you’re saying.”

But before I could hit “send” my wife must have seen the three floating dots indicating I was writing because she preempted me with “don’t even start texting right now.”

Backspace, backspace, backspace…

At fifteen I thought it’d be safe to use the emoji version of “I hear you,” and begin giving every fifth text the thumbs up symbol.

Suffice to say, there was a lot of venting going on, and though I was fully prepared to let it run its course, she could have at least taken some etiquette from Twitter and let me know how long the textstorm was going to last.

“1/432 You’re an asshole.”

But on this Father’s Day, I (finally) learned my lesson. Though it is my day – in theory – I tiptoed around the days leading up to it and made sure I didn’t do, say, or even think anything that would get me in trouble.

Tuesday found me wrapping up another year of my kid’s scholastic career. It’s always a painful day for me.

My father liked to work with his hands and always had a project going on. When he died, he was in the middle of building an old-fashioned children’s sled -which was rather odd as we lived in Southern California and there were no children in the house.

His process was meticulous.

The garage workbench was the nexus of the project. It was there where he kept the plans, tools, and materials needed to build the sled, as well as the custom-made hardware, decals, and ornamentation, each stored and labeled in their own specific pullout drawer.

Each piece had significance. Each piece had import. And losing just one of them – even a single stainless-steel screw – could stop the project in its tracks.

But the moment he died, the project – and the pieces that made it up – lost their meaning.

The hand-carved runners. The polished blades. The rose and thistle stenciling. Every part of the sled suffered a terminal loss of what made it important.

A small death brought on by a larger one.

Fully aware of the dramatics the statement carries, the end of the school year is a small death of sorts for me.

The backpacks and lunch boxes so deliberated over just nine months prior are cast aside, tattered and torn.

The required folders for each subject, decorated with doodles of boredom and superheroes of inspiration, have no more part to play.

The science project we stayed up until midnight to finish, the lines for the school play we memorized, and the 36 grammar and spelling packets we stressed about weekly no longer mean a thing.

And my kids could care less, so it’s up to me to sift through the ephemera from their final day to determine what things – if any – I should save.

Lecture notes, quizzes, and homework assignments are easy – trash, trash, and trash.

It’s a toss-up with the art projects, term papers, and report cards, things they might look back on with fondness – or at least curiosity – 20 years from now, but then again, may not give a damn about.

I used my best judgment and saved about 2/3rds, while the rest went into the trash.

But the backpacks and lunch boxes aren’t as clear cut.

In my mind, I envision mounting them chronologically – trophy hunter style – along a highly lacquered piece of oak, with appropriate grade level and teacher’s names on brass plaques under each.

I will then present these totems – with great pride and tears in my eyes – to my children at their respective wedding receptions.

To which they will, if I’m lucky, respond with a gentle hug and “there, there” pat on the back, while winking at the crowd behind me. But more likely, will just stare in shocked embarrassment, then give the DJ a frantic head nod, meaning, “quick, play some Bruno Mars so we can get out on the dance floor.”

So, I put them in the “we’ll see” pile.

Finally, I come to the gut punch pieces. The “Why I Love My Mom/Dad” type pieces. The easy pieces.

When I turned 20 my mother kicked me out of the house – rightly so as I was an insufferable A-hole. But when I left, boxes of my belongings – packed by her – came as well.

In those boxes were years of art projects, term papers, and report cards, but also “Why I Love My Mom” projects. To this day I can’t figure out why? Why didn’t she want to keep those for herself?

I made them for her.

When it comes to my kids there’s no question about those types of items – I want them all. And so, I hoard every single one of them.

Friday found me lying in a dimly lit room as a technician moved warm gel around my abdomen with an ultrasound wand.

No, I’m not pregnant.

Two weeks ago, I went in for my annual physical. For the most part, everything checked out okay.

But when the labs came back, there were some minor issues.

My cholesterol was slightly above normal. This is a semi-regular occurrence since turning 40 and means I’ve been too sedentary. I start riding my bike, running on the treadmill, and limit my Double-Double intake to once every other week, and like clockwork it goes back down into the normal range.

I also had slightly elevated liver enzymes. And when I say “slightly,” I mean “slightly.”

Google “normal liver enzyme range” and you’ll universally get a range of between 10 and 40. However, for some reason, my doctor/labs say 10 to 35 is the normal range – and I came back at 38. Last year I was at 37.

To me, this was not very worrisome. Lot’s of things can raise your enzyme count. Alcohol. Check. Prescription medication. Check. Tylenol. Check. Let’s just say, it was no mystery to me as to why my levels might be slightly elevated. But my doctor suggested an abdominal ultrasound.

I’ve got great insurance, so why not?

Lying on the table, I tried my best to avoid playing “game the technician,” but it was unavoidable.

The rules of the game state that the technician will know exactly what they are looking at on the screen. Kidney stone, swallowed car keys, stage IV cancer, they can discern them at a glance.

And so, I watch the technician for telltale signs.

A furl of the brow. A twitch of the eye. The almost imperceivably quick frown which says, “WHOA! THIS MUTHER FUCKER HAS CANCER.”

But my tech had a poker face and wasn’t giving away any clues.

No problem. I have a fallback plan.

She was taking a lot of time on my right side. And one spot – just under my ribs – seemed to have a particular interest for her.

Back she went to that same spot, over, and over again.

“SHIT, SHIT, SHIT…SHE’S FOUND SOMETHING,” I screamed to myself.

Okay, calm down, I thought. You don’t know how this is done. Maybe this is part of the standard procedure?

Desperation breeds genius, and in a stroke of revelation I came up with a plan. If she spends the same amount of time scanning my left side as my right side, then everything is normal.

The right side had taken about 5 minutes, so when she started on the left side I began counting.

“Okay, we’re done,” she said.

It had only been two minutes.

“FUCK, FUCK, FUCK, I’M DYING. I’M A DEAD MAN!”

The report came back fine. Everything is fine.

But laying on that table it occurred to me that everything could change in a moment. You go along in your life thinking everything is great, then you get hit by a car, your child gets ill, or they find a tumor on your liver.

And it also occurred to me that if that happened, I’d be so mad at myself for having wasted time arguing with my wife, or stressing out about keeping worn out backpacks, or worrying about getting sick while I was healthy.

As I said, it was an interesting week.

Wasting Time published first on your-t1-blog-url

[omgnsfwisnsfw-blog]

NSFW #18: Purple Reign

his was a particularly desolate patch of desert scrubland- nothing but dry, cracked soil, cacti, and scraggly looking sagebrush for miles around. The sky was wide and clear and blue, without a single cloud to dampen the vivid sunshine as it beat down its mercilessly hot rays onto the baked, parched ground. The heat cast mirage waves on the far horizon, the lines between ground and sky a deceptively wet-looking blur- and out of this mirage, something came racing forward, kicking up great clouds of dust into the arid atmosphere. The whitewall tires hugged the nearly invisible path of the dirt road cutting through the wastes. Despite the dusty surroundings, nothing seemed to mar the arctic white paintjob of the vintage Challenger as it roared further into the depths of the middle of nowhere. “You make me sick.” The first thing we see of the speaker is a pair of brown eyes, framed in the rearview mirror. A pair of hands clutched on the brown leather of the steering wheel, so colored to compliment the Challenger’s knotty-pine looking dash. The rest of the interior was done in black, the bucket seats in leather. Annie Lennox’s ‘Walking On Broken Glass’ was just audible from the radio speakers. The driver’s dark eyes stared intensely into the reflection. “Huh?” The passenger’s head turned. Their hair was the glossy black of new dye, tied in a shortening knot at the back of their head, and though the voice had a lower timbre, the shape of their face was somewhat softer than the tone would suggest. Their nose twitched, as if tickled by their moustache. Both men were dressed sharp, the driver in a charcoal suit and lavender dress shirt with the first two buttons undone, the passenger in an off-white suit with a grey shirt and a silver and turquoise bolo tie. The driver was startled out of his trance at his passenger’s question, breaking eye contact with himself just long enough to look at the other man - one eye on the terrain in front of him. “Nothing. Just practicing my lack of self awareness.” The car hit a slight bump. Something large in the trunk rattled about. The driver’s grip on the wheel tightened as he reasserted control. The passenger looked out at the passing scenery, bleak as it may be. “Dude. I don’t see any statues out here.” “We don’t do that anymore. Not since Conner’s Career Matters.” The driver surveyed the surroundings ahead of him as if searching for just the right place. “Just the four of us.” He looked to the backseat briefly, nodding at the unknown pair in the back. “Where’s Noon?” The passenger pondered that with a tap of the chin. “Uh, he said something about not wanting to be complicit.” “No matter. Here is as good as any place.” His eyes flickered towards something of interest. His foot shifted from the gas to the brake, rolling the muscle car to a stop and pulling the automatic shift into park, the music cutting dead short and plunging the scene into a tense silence. The doors opened and two pairs of feet hit the dirt- the driver’s in snakeskin boots, the passenger’s in shiny Italian leather way too nice to be worn in an environment like this. The driver’s boots scraped against the sand as he made his way to the trunk. He gave an appreciative nod to the Vanilla Poltergeist Snake decal by the keyhole and then popped the trunk open. His expression was apathetic towards the contents. The passenger joined him, his expression was wide eyed, like he hadn’t just seen this earlier. “Whoa.” “Here.” He hefted a shovel to the passenger before grabbing a second one for himself. “You know, I’ve been thinking…” The driver sighed and his shoulders slumped as if to bear the weight of such dangerous actions. “How can I be double champion with what happened?” The passenger’s question was ignored as the driver counted paces away from the Challenger under his breath. After twenty, he stopped. “Domingo.” “It’s Dominic, Rob.” “Yeah, that’s what I said.” Rob dragged the blade of the shovel behind him to meet Dominic. “Look. I ain’t no dummy. I know my multiplication tables. One plus one equals two.” “No. I think you’re missing something. There is only one. America’s Most Hated is me. And then the rest of you are what one would consider expendable.” He waved his hand dismissively at that. “After all of this time, I’m glad no one figured out that this group was just a vanity project to feed my ego. It’s all about me. My success. My gains. My money. Although, I do appreciate the help.” Rob gave the bright, cheerful, yet somewhat dopey smile of a loyal golden retriever that was sadly dropped on its head as a puppy. “Anytime, bud!” “Let’s get this over with.” In the sizzling heat, they speared their shovels into the hard packed sand and dirt and eventually made some headway into digging a hole that was big enough for a very tall occupant. After a moment, Dominic supervised Rob as he leaned against the upright shovel stuck in the ground. “But you’re right about one thing, Rob. NSFW is old news. America’s Most Hated, a supergroup that relies on subterfuge is certainly new and innovative. We’re totally not like The Legion, The Trinity, or The Future. Being shitty to other people, sure, that’s been done. But it’s never been justified.” Between heaps of dirt onto the ever growing pile… “I don’t know why I do any of the things I do.” Dominic nodded in agreement. “That’s okay. I’ll handle that part. But think about it. All of my transgressions towards others are justified because of flimsy reasoning. And when people object, I’ll just gaslight them into thinking they’re in the wrong or just like us!” “So that’s how we’re gonna do it! We’re gonna go old school and light our farts on fire. Gonna burn that ginger’s eyebrows right off of her stupid face!” Dominic ignored that and wiped the sweat from his forehead. He glanced towards the car. “D.J.! Ethan! Yeah, you two! Thanks for the help!” Leaning against the passenger’s side door were two fifty pound bags of manure. Each have a piece of paper taped to them with the faces of D.J. Frank and Ethan Alexander on them. Ethan, as if in response to Dominic’s sarcasm, falls over. Dominic turned back to the hole. “That’s good enough.” Striding back over to the trunk, Rob looked at the contents once again and made a face. “Do I have to carry it? It’s really heavy and I don’t want it leaking on my suit. I payed… a lot for it. Like seriously a lot. I think you could buy a whole child for as much as I payed for this suit.” “Just drag it, you big baby.” Dominic leaned against the Challenger, again taking a supervisory role as Rob, with some effort, yanked a huge burlap sack with a suspicious wine-colored stain on it out of the trunk. The car’s suspension bounced up almost in relief as the gigantic bundle hit the dry ground with a whump. Dominic smirked as he watched his partner do all the work, but then grew impatient with his struggling and begrudgingly lent a hand in towing the heavy load. Slowly but surely, the two dragged the sack and its contents towards its final destination. “So. When we win the tag titles, you think it can be like last time? We just screw around like I did and duck all of our challengers for months on end?” With labored breath, Dominic answered. “Sure. You think I care about teamwork? Or that stupid division? That would require me to have human emotions like empathy. No, it’s all about ruining another facet of this company with our short sighted ideology. Scorched earth.” Both men, with some effort, manage to get the sack into the hole, and wordlessly begin to fill the hole with sandy soil. As they worked, Dominic’s expression began to soften. Saddened, even. “Rob? Why doesn’t anybody like us? I mean, me especially! I’m capable. I’m handsome. I’m smart. I tell important truths to the people. They should love us. But they don’t, and I don’t understand.” And in Dominic’s moment of need, Rob’s eyes filled with a clarity unbeknownst to most that have known him. He spoke in a calm and decisive manner. “Because we’re self serving idiots who are so transparent in our hypocrisy that most anybody could see through it? I mean, I think they liked you before, but that’s what this is all about now, isn’t it? People like us being self serving hypocrites.” The two of them faced forward. There was a long pause. A large head of tumbleweed blew by. Buzzards squawked overhead. Dominic shook his head. “Nah, that couldn’t be it.” Rob shrugged, and the two of them went back to their task, continuing to shovel the hole full as the scene faded to black. The lights in the Enzian Theater rose up slightly. Sitting front and center in the otherwise empty room, comfortably reclined in the plum upholstered cushy chairs, are the Tag Team Champions. Both are in jeans, Mike in her tan Lugz and John in his custom green and orange Reeboks, he in a plain black hoodie and her in a NY Islanders jersey, the number 40 on the arms and the name ‘Lehner’ in block letters across her back shoulders. As the camera panned around to show their faces, it was revealed that both were also wearing 3D glasses, Mike chomping away at a bucket of popcorn. Their title belts are resting on the small armrest tables at their respective sides. “Ain’t Hollywood magic somethin’, Faithful? I don’t know about you, but if I didn’t know better I would’ve sworn that was a fuckin’ documentary. I mean, Mac even got us the hookup for a really good leading man. Helps that he happens to be a giant NSFW fan, so suffice to say he was a shitton more pleasant to talk to than the guy he was portraying.” “And thank you to the new International Champion, Iggy Swango. And even rising play by play man Grizzly Duggan for helping out. Mike, you know what’s funny about all of this?” The redhead turned slightly to face her partner, one finger tapping at her chin as if in thought. “What’s funny about it, my championship-caliber compadre?” “Those two? We’ve had our issues with them.” He briefly recollected about some confrontations. Both parties thinking they were in the right. “That’s true. I mean I’ve said some things about Duggan in particular that’d make Griffin Hawkins’ hair curl into a Little Orphan Annie ‘do. But we realized we were in the wrong. We misjudged or misunderstood our peers, and made amends. That’s what you do when you hurt somebody, y’know- leastways, if you’re a decent fucking individual.” Mike turned back to the camera, removed her 3D glasses, and raised an eyebrow pointedly. “And how did we make amends? Did we betray them? Did we attack them when they weren’t looking? Did we orchestrate attempts to drum them out of the business?” John shook his head. “No. What did we do?” “We apologized. We extended an olive branch and, little by little, mended what we broke. Which, again, is what most decent people would do. Sometimes words ain’t enough when you do somebody wrong. You gotta give them reason to believe you ain’t a shithead.” And then he followed suit by removing his glasses, too. He tossed them on the table in front of him. “But that’s just who the subjects of that little piece are.We have a very long history with our next challengers. Rob Garcia, as unintentionally likable he manages to be, he still perpetrated a heinous attack on us. Because his previous partner was a fraud. Because they couldn’t get it done. And Dominic Sanders? He knows who he is.��� He’s somebody who’s recently knocked off… let’s be honest, a couple’a fuckin’ knockoffs. The Diet Coke of Saunders. Diluted dipshit, almost like our dear Undisputed Champion is the first segment of a fucking Human Centipede.” “And he has spawned this mindset that has given platforms to these malicious individuals. They lack the sociopathic charm that Dominic Sanders exhibits with the flash of a smile and instead clumsily navigate social issues or just outright display toxic behaviors. But because they’ve managed some success, they get a pass. Just like Dominic Sanders when that mask slips just a little.” “I even made a nice visual aide to illustrate our point. See?” Mike glanced up to the projection booth in a wordless signal. The screen lit up again, this time with a still image of a slightly altered diagram. “Here we have Saunders, who’s the shit genesis. His shit gets fed to Conner, who’s a pale imitation at best, and then his shit gets fed to Cottoneye Fucking Joe, who is literally the byproduct of twice recycled shit with an Einstein wig on it. And by that I just mean the hairdo- I am in no way insinuating Joe is smart. He has the fucking intelligence of someone who’s been smashed in the head with a hammer. Repeatedly.” As John observed the image, he had gone a little pale. “I’m sorry. What is that?” “Like I said, bud. The Human Centipede. It’s a horror flick that kinda became a cult classic about a mad scientist who built, y’know, one of those. Like, he surgically grafted some poor schmuck’s mouth to another -” “No thanks.” The two of them shared an unreadable glance, ending with Mike giving a shrug and a light chuckle. “Fair enough. I’ll take it out of our Netflix queue. Anyway, where were we?” She tapped her chin, trying to recapture her train of thought, before nodding. “Oh yeah. So now, comin’ off a loss and a victory respective, America’s Most Hated is nosing into our division. Heh, bet the Limit is really fuckin’ thrilled, but on the other hand, I guess I can see the strategy of not sending in the meatheads who’ve never beat us like, ever.” The Bronx brawler gave a soft, humorless snicker, shaking their head. “Y’know, Saunders, I was getting to the point where I was willing to treat you like a pimple in a non-obvious location. Annoying, something you wish wasn’t there, but you can live with fucking ignoring it. But apparently you’ve decided- and I feel safe in assuming you decided because I don’t think Cherrypie could make his own decisions if he had a gun to his head- that one championship wasn’t enough for you to drip fucking pus all over, and you have to glom onto someone else’s hard fucking work.” “The hypocrisy of it. It’s time to move forward. Calling the tag team division the bottom of the barrel. But here you are. Answering our open challenge. Couldn’t help yourself, could you? Not content with spreading yourself about the company like a disease, you’ve enlisted one of the worst tag team champions in recent history to aid you in this boon. No longer satisfied with your tour of, by your own admittance, meaningless exhibition matches, you want these. While you wait for months on end for a challenger, we’re here dishing out opportunities. Whether it be a tag team of hard fighting sisters or even a team likeAmerica’s Most Hated.” John raised a finger as if to object to that. “And I know this tournament isn’t your idea. But look at you. You’ve went after Ace King in the past, mocking what you perceived as an unworthy championship reign. But turn that accusation inwards. Seven days as Television Champion and not even by yourself. Twenty eight days as International Champion until you pretended to lose. You see how petty that sounds? But that’s Dominic Sanders. Focusing on piddling details instead of the big picture.” Mike gave a low whistle. “See, you could be busting ass, working hard, trying to prove us wrong and show the world that you’re a real champion that EWC can be proud of, y’know, like you say you are whenever given the goddamn opportunity. Instead, you’re being a misogynistic fat-shamer on Twitter to someone who was a more worthy champion than you by a million miles. Nice.” She rolled her eyes to punctuate her sarcasm, then gave a flick of her hand as if to push the topic away for the time being. “Moving on. Mister Rob Garcia. It must’ve been really nice to hold onto some gold that you actually earned, even if it was just for a hiccup. I’m not being facetious here, believe it or not. You really worked fucking hard, took what you were doing seriously, and it payed off. See what you can do when you apply yourself?” Mike paused, making a face. “Jesus, I sound like a goddamn grade school teacher. Anyway. It’s a real shame you didn’t keep it up. I guess it was just easier to relegate yourself to the role of Saunders’ toadie than to continue the trend of doing actual hard work. Pity, everytime I pick up an iota of respect for you, you manage to flush it down the crapper.” “Don’t think we’re trying to be divisive here. That’s the modus operandi of our esteemedchampion. We’re expecting our greatest challenge to date. A team that NSFW just can’t seem to figure out. But…” A brief moment of silence for emphasis. “I talked about that whole details thing earlier and while Dominic Sanders enjoys bragging about his accomplishments, he always seems to forget certain events.” “Revisionist fuckin’ history.” “Like how his glorious tag team victory over NSFW was due to it being a six on two fiasco. Or how he wasn’t even conscious at the conclusion of our last encounter.” “They say history is written by the victors. The problem here is, the people who ‘lost’ are still around to correct your stupid ass. See, we make note of every little hole in that seemingly impenetrable douchebag armor of yours. Every time you think you got out clean as a whistle, we know the truth. See, a very smart person once told me that training your brain for a match is just as important as training your body. And we’ve got a whole book on every little weakness you have.” Mike couldn’t keep from shooting a brief, fond smile to her partner at that, but was all steely again in a blink. John picked up on that thread. “Our opponents, they don’t think much of us. Dominic Sanders can pay us as many backhanded compliments as he wishes but he believes that he is on a different level than us. Rob Garcia, some could admire his fly by the seat of his pants approach but natural ability only gets him so far. Rob Garcia fails and he never looks at what he could have done to improve his chances. Never thinks what he could have done better. But that’s part of the package. The world waits on baited breath on what he’ll do next. Laughing at his antics.” John pointed to himself. Deadpan reaction. “I’m not laughing. He lost the tag titles because he never understood what it means to be on a team. And now? He’s an accessory. An afterthought. A way for Dominic Sanders to get a bigger slice of the pie. He’ll be lucky to get scraps from the table.” “Which, again, is too bad, because we’ve seen clear as day that he can be better. And that fact just pisses me off. There’s nothing more infuriating than willfully wasted potential. It’s one thing if you have it and Fate decides to be a giant bitch and you wind up not being able to capitalize on it in your prime. It’s another altogether to have it and let it fucking rot.” Her eyes flash, as if taking some personal affront to one of her opponents’ lackadaisical manner. “I take it back. It’s not ‘too bad’ at all, it’s what you get for being a lazy dipshit. But don’t get it twisted. Like my partner mentioned, we’re not saying all this stuff to try to be divisive. Far be it for us to try and make you fucks doubt each other. No, chucklenuts, the writing’s on the wall.” “But Dominic, you tried your best to paint us with that same brush. Seizing on some non-existent point of contention. Failing to understand context.” “We are a unit. What we do, nine times out of ten, we do together. But then there’s that occasional one time. Maybe I’ll want to prove that I ain’t fuckin helpless, that I’m capable of pullin’ my weight and not gettin’ by on my partner’s coattails. Or maybe I had my fuckin’ hand broke and wasn’t medically cleared to fight, you numbskulls. Either way. The occasional singles foray on either of our parts is the exception, not the rule, and ain’t nothin’ to be read into. Unless, a’course…” “You’re taking this Ace King obsession too far. Sounds familiar. Never thought we’d come across someone with Orianna’s power of deduction again.” “She made a big fuckin’ deal of doubting our commitment. To tag team wrestling. To each other. To our fuckin’ conviction to get and retain these.” She gave the belt at her side a fond stroke, like a beloved cat. “And where is she now? Who gives a shit, and who gives a fuck? She’s gone, and we’re still here and dominating the division the likes of her predicted we’d wash out of.” And then John stood up, picked up his half of the gold. Like the great champions of the past, he slung the leather strap over his right shoulder. He spoke louder than he usually would. His voice echoing throughout the theater slightly. This last year had rekindled a passion he never knew that he had. “So about three months removed from America’s Most Hated’s coming out party, you two are gonna slink back into this division after never being a part of it in the first place. Three months of Dominic Sanders’ achievements and hearing about them ad nauseam. Three months of Rob Garcia’s inability to live up to his potential. Three months of The Limit doing what they do best - LOSE. Three months of deceit. Three months of passive aggressive nonsense spilling from the champion’s mouth.” His tone then became quiet. Deliberate. “And I’m sick of it. So Mike and I? We’re going to do something about it. On February 4th, 2019 - America’s Most Hated gets a hard lesson on why we are the greatest goddamn tag team in this company.” Mike stood up as well, lifting her belt in a similar fashion, giving her partner a look of unrestrained awe and, if one were to look into such things, a liberal dollop of adoration. It took a moment for her to even find the words to follow such a passionate speech- which was a feat in and of itself. Then she nodded. “We can not and will not be stopped by a couple fuckin’ jerkoffs who want to crash into the division we’ve poured everything into on a whim. These belts are not fuckin’ yours and never will be. But our word is our fuckin’ bond and if you want to challenge we can’t stop you…” Her face hardened, and she leaned forward, glaring into the camera hard. “But we can make you sorry you ever did.” The theater lights begin to darken once more, casting the room again into pitch black before the screen flickers one last bit of film. It was twilight. The sky was purple, lightening to pink and orange around the horizons, stars sprinkling over the darkest parts. Cicadas chirp, a snake slithering across the ground to its den as the environment cooled. The only thing amiss was the patch of recently disturbed ground in the form of a large shallow grave. All is still. And then, without warning, one huge, sinewy, dirt-covered hand burst up through the loose dirt. It felt around, looking for solid ground to rest on, and finding purchase pushed up. Slowly and perhaps terrifyingly, a huge, monstrous figure rose from the dirt… ...until a rather filthy Grizzly Duggan stood in the moonlight, looking rather put out. Snorting a cloud of dust from his nose, he tilted his head to the side and gave his left ear a few good whacks, causing a bit of crumpled metal to fall from the right side of his head and into the dirt. Looking around, he sighed, and reached into his pocket, hitting the first number on his phone’s speed dial. “Candice? … It happened again.”