#the fish flying up and down the bar had a funny little hat

[adw520]

cant believe no one told me about the fishing derbies

[starlessea]

𝙎𝙩𝙚𝙥 𝙤𝙣 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙂𝙖𝙨 - Chapter 2. Manic Pixie Dream Bitch

A/N Make sure you read the prologue and other chapters first! Things are starting to pick up - I hope you stick around for the ride.

Series Masterlist: Step on the Gas

Summary: A dishonourable discharge from the military results in you being hauled off to live with your grandparents in the boonies, otherwise known as the middle of nowhere Georgia. After running over a nail on the road, and pushing your grandpa's vintage Camaro to the nearest auto-shop, you meet Daryl Dixon - the local mechanic. At some point, the world ends, but that stubborn man never gives you a chance to slow down. His smile gives you whiplash, but he still insists that you to step on the gas.

Words: 5374

Chapter Warnings: Language, Injury, Domestic abuse mentions

The evening was cool, and a breeze hung in the air.

The midday Georgia heat had all but melted away, leaving behind tepid winds that rustled leaves on the trees — and the canvas tents. They fluttered around you as you walked, like the beating of butterfly wings, or ripples atop the ocean.

It was peaceful. It felt safe.

All eyes were on you as you followed Daryl to the firepit, taking a seat on a low log beside him — but not too close.

The night was still too young to turn in yet, so the man had begrudgingly led you out of his tent when the silence became stifling. For some reason, conversation didn't come as naturally to the two of you as it once had.

There was tension there. You could feel it.

But you didn't have the slightest clue why. The last time you had seen Dixon, it was in the midst of a tremendous thunderstorm. The two of you had laughed, and ran through the rain until your clothes were soaked through, and your skin was cold.

It was one of the best nights of your life.

Yet, here you were — sitting beside the man in stagnant silence as he kicked at coal embers with his boot, and pretended not to feel your stare seeping into the back of his head.

Across from you were the people you had briefly met earlier — the two officers by the names of Shane and Rick, or helicopter boy — the asian man named Glenn, and Carol who was sitting beside her husband. Their individual conversations were low, barely audible against the crackling fire, but one-by-one they seemed to filter off, until there was nothing but silence once again.

Shane stood up.

He stoked the fire a little with a branch, careful not to let the flames rise too high. "So, tell me," the man spoke, his voice wide and assertive,"how's a sweet young thing like yourself figure out how to fly a Sikorsky Hawk?"

His presence was big.

It made you shuffle in your seat as his eyes dragged down you, resting on your arm — which was bound by a sling. "Well, minus the landing part," he murmured below his breath.

You didn't like the way he smirked when he said that, like it had been amusing to him — funny to him that you'd almost died. Daryl let out a sound beside you, a low rumbling noise from the back of his throat that only you could hear. But you didn't bite to his words.

After all, men like that could only bark.

"I was in the military," you answered, meeting his eyes and not breaking the stare.

Your throat was still sore, but your words rang out clear, atop the thrum of the evening air, and flickering flames. Shane stuffed his hands in his pockets, and rocked back on the balls of his feet — as though he was putting on some type of show.

"Air force, then?" he questioned, but it was starting to feel more like an interrogation.

You caught the whites of Carol's eyes across from you, as they darted between the officer and yourself, and to her husband, then back to the other officer. She seemed as skittish as a person could possibly be — just watching, waiting, for something to happen.

You cleared your throat and forced a smile. "Training to be," you clarified.

For some reason, the exchange didn't feel like a conversation. The mood was too tense, too untrusting. It reminded you of the few minutes you'd spent alone with Dixon, back at his tent.

Something felt wrong.

Shane stalked around the firepit, his police boots crunching against the leafy bed, and kicking up dirt where he walked. He stopped directly in front of you, looming a shadow down onto you and Daryl — and making the other man scoff as he looked up.

"So not actually a pilot yet?" Shane smirked, crossing his arms over his chest.

Your smile faltered, he was asking too many questions.

The other officer, Rick, took off his sheriff's hat and tracked his partner's movements with his eyes, as though anticipating something that hadn't happened yet. It made you feel a nervousness you were ashamed of.

You never did play well with men like Shane.

"And tell me this," he said, lowly, as he crouched down to your level, "why aren't you at Fort Benning?" He looked back over his shoulder, at Rick who was sitting stiff as a board, before cocking his head back to you."Or were you part of the group that showered Atlanta with napalm?"

The word hung heavy in the air — even though he had practically whispered it.

Your mind flickered back to the day it rained fire down upon the city, to the sounds of screams, and the charred remains you'd stumbled across on the occasions you wandered too close to the centre.

You shook your head immediately, feeling the pain shoot up your shoulder. "I had no part in that," you hissed — much more viciously than you anticipated.

As soon as the words left your mouth, you curled in on yourself. You didn't miss the way the man recoiled slightly from your face, and you'd even caught a fleeting glimpse of your reflection in the blacks of his irises.

You wore a look of pure disgust.

"I was discharged," you whispered, after taking a few moments to collect yourself. "Couple months before all this." You glanced to your right, to where the former mechanic was sitting — trying to pretend like he wasn't watching you. "Got sent to Georgia afterwards, which is where I met Daryl," you explained, noticing his eyes narrow at your words. "Briefly."

He looked away. He didn't seem to like that choice, either.

Shane stood back up, stretching out his knees, and then his neck. He rolled his head back in a circle, before glancing to and from you and Daryl with a smirk.

"Makes sense," he murmured, before turning on his heels to walk away, "dropouts tend to stick together, no?"

And for the second time today, Dixon went wild.

The tension finally snapped, like an elastic band having been stretched to its limit, and Daryl shot up to his feet, lunging for the man.

But you reached out for him at the same time, trying to grab his hand so that the night didn't end in the way you were almost certain it was going to end.

After all, you'd only seen Daryl go off once before — back in the old world — which had left an aftertaste of bloodstains over your bar, and maroon-tinted bruised knuckles that needed tending to well after your closing time.

But now he seemed even worse — more tightly wound than a coil beneath your boot, always ready to jump up and spring.

He was playing the part of a man far more angry than you had ever known him to be.

Although you still couldn't figure out why.

The ticking of the wall clock was stark against the silence. Joe's Bar had been cleared out more than an hour back, but the two of you remained — like ghosts haunting whiskey bottles and looming around the jukebox until it played a song you liked.

Dixon hissed as you tipped alcohol over his knuckles, watching as it seeped into the cuts and spread over his bruises like a clear film. They weren't that bad, really — only a purplish hue to them.

After all, you'd seen the other guy.

But you'd never seen Dixon get so riled up before. He'd always been a cocktail of shy glances and dumb wonder around you. That was until tonight at least, when a drunken customer slapped your ass at the bar, and the mechanic beat him bloody.

He'd probably seen how rattled it had made you, and how you looked ready to either snap or break.

"Ya don' have to do this," the man rasped, purposefully avoiding your eyes. "Save the vodka."

Your hand stilled over his knuckles, as you breathed in the strong, sharp scent which made your lungs burn. You laughed, pointing back over your shoulder at the shelves atop of shelves — stacked with an array of bottles, all different shapes and sizes.

"We've got plenty to spare, don't you worry," you hummed, before tipping more Smirnoff onto a cotton pad. "And you didn't have to do that, either," you chided, narrowing your eyes at a particular cut — which had already begun to crust over. "I could've handled him."

The mechanic scowled, glancing back over his shoulder to the place where it had all gone down — as though watching the scene play out once more in his mind.

He shook his head. "Ya could'a lost yer job."

"I'm used to that by now," you bit back, not once looking up from his bruise-splayed knuckles. "But Dixon," you cautioned, "don't go doing that again."

A car drove by outside, its headlights streaming in through the window and illuminating the dark husk of the bar — the pool tables that had been otherwise cloaked in shadows, and the expression of the man sitting opposite you, studying your every word.

"Joe might bar you next time," you whispered, screwing the lid back onto the bottle.

But Dixon only laughed.

"Barred from a bar?" he scoffed, stretching out his fingers to inspect your work, "he ain't gonna do tha'."

The stool squeaked as the man stood up, dusting off his jeans and retrieving his jacket. It was long past midnight, and you knew you'd be catching a ride back with him as he sped down the streets, reminding you to hold on tighter.

"What makes you so sure?" you teased, untying your apron and leaving it at the end of the counter.

Daryl held the door open, and fished around in his pockets for something that jingled — pulling it out to show you.

It was a set of car keys, with a tacky coke-bottle charm hanging from them.

"Still got his truck sittin' in the shop," he smirked.

The scuffle between Shane and Daryl was interrupted before blows could even be exchanged. Rick grabbed a hold of his partner, whilst you pulled the former mechanic back down to his firepit seat, trading places with him until you were face-to-face with the other asshole — a few inches shorter but a whole lot more pissed.

Daryl tried to stand back up again, but you flashed those eyes at him — the ones that made him immediately second guess the action.

"Sit down," you seethed, punching out each word as you spoke them.

And surprisingly, Dixon did as you said.

You weren't angry at him, exactly, but you didn't want him fighting your battles for you anymore — especially not whilst he had a chip on his shoulder more noticeable than the sling on yours.

Then you turned back to Shane, looking up at him as he stood with his chest almost flush to you, completely ignoring Rick's pleas behind him. He knew exactly what he was doing. That comment wasn't off-handed — he made sure you could hear it.

"I don't like you," you said lowly, not backing down from the glare he shot your way.

You didn't want things to turn out like this. There was nothing more you hated than making a scene.

Well, there was one thing, you thought.

You couldn't fucking stand men who abused their power.

"Don't have to like me, princess," Shane retorted, reaching out a hand in your direction. "I'm just here to keep you alive."

You smacked his palm away — as though it were a fly buzzing much too close — before he could make contact with your skin. And you saw red.

Daryl would have punched a man for less, if you'd so much as given him the right look. But this time, you shot a warning glance at him, telling him to stay put.

"Don't fucking touch me," you whispered, but your words held more weight than if you'd screamed them — and Shane retracted his hand. "I can take care of myself."

Except, he made a point of letting his eyes drag over your injuries, lingering on the makeshift sling, before settling on your stomach — as though he could see your stitches underneath the material of Daryl's shirt.

"Clearly," he remarked, before turning on his heels once again.

Nobody stopped him this time — not even Rick — as he stalked around the fire, and into the night. You caught a glimpse of his metal dog tags as he did, glinting off the light of the flame and jumping around his neck with every step he took. You thought it was ironic for him to even wear them.

Or maybe not.

After all, he seemed the same as every other military man you'd encountered — a goddamn animal.

"Make sure you take care of your manic pixie dream bitch," he yelled, probably directed at Dixon. "Wouldn't want anymore helicopters fallin' from the damn sky."

And so Shane disappeared into his tent — into the shadows you couldn't quite make out — and Daryl stood up straight after, heading in the opposite direction. The remaining group was uneasy, tentative almost, as they watched your head whip back and forth between them and the mechanic as he left.

Dixon stalked away into the brush, despite the shouts and warnings not to stray too far from the campsite.

And you followed him.

With each step further from the flickering flames of the bonfires, it became harder to navigate the night. Your injuries had slowed you down, and you flinched every time a twig snapped, or leaves rustled near your ear. You didn't even have a weapon anymore — since it had burnt up with the rest of your gear in the crash.

But it didn't take you long to track down Dixon. After all, his smoke trail gave him away.

He was sitting on a grassy bank, over facing the quarry waters. There was a full moon out, and you could now see it peering above the tops of the trees — ghostly white against the stark, black sky. And cigarette smoke swirled around it, leading back down to the shadowy figure on the ground, legs tucked up to his chest as he breathed deeply.

You approached, wincing as your shoulder caught on a low-hanging branch.

"Yer gonna bust ya stitches messin' 'round like tha'," Dixon spoke, not even turning around to confirm it was you. But still, he outstretched a hand, helping you sit down beside him.

The moonlight was beautiful. It drizzled over the treetops in the distance, and the spindly branches that reached up to the sky. It even reflected off Daryl's skin as you glanced at him in the corner of your eye — watching as the smoke poured out from his lips and settled in the air.

You tucked yourself into his side just a little, missing the heavy feeling of your jacket which smelt like him — and was almost just as warm. Part of you expected him to shrug you off, or make some remark in-keeping with how withdrawn he'd been throughout the day.

But, he didn't.

He let you sit beside him, as he blocked you from the breeze — as though you weren't the one person who would be used to it.

"Got a spare?" you asked, eyeing his packet of cigarettes.

Dixon hesitated for a second, before placing them down in the space between you. "Thought ya didn't smoke," he replied.

You shook your head and laughed. "I don't."

In truth, you'd only recently taken up the habit — smoking much too scarcely to even call it a habit, really. It had all started when you'd stumbled across a rundown convenience store, and looted a packet of cigarettes without thinking — just because they were the brand that Dixon smoked.

The first time you lit one, you'd cried. They smelt like him.

They'd smelt like your only friend, and reminded you of just how lonely the end of the world was. So, you started to smoke — only when you missed him — and you continued because, even though he was now sitting beside you, for some reason you still felt empty.

Neither of you said anything after that, but you could hear his thoughts — those questions he wanted to ask but didn't. After all, he'd voiced them once before, back before the world ended. Except, it was you who wasn't willing to answer.

"What'd ya do tha' got yer ass sent here?" Dixon asked, one day whilst you were hanging around at the auto-shop, watching him scrub down that Honda bike. "Y'know, locked away in rural Georgia."

You laughed at his words, taking a swig from the ice cold cola you'd skimmed from Dean's fridge.

"Wouldn't you like to know?"

"I was training to be a helicopter pilot," you admitted into the air, answering that question truthfully for the first time.

But he'd already guessed — after the day you'd both had.

"Why didn't it work out?" Daryl mumbled, the cigarette bouncing between his lips as he spoke the words.

You watched as the smoke formed white clouds against the black night, before finally reaching for the packet yourself.

"Fear of heights," you told the man, letting out a breathy chuckle that blew out the lighter's flame.

It was a lie, but the truth was much more bleak.

Though, perhaps that was what nights like this were for. Out here, there was no one else to hear you speak your thoughts, or even see the two silhouettes sitting in the dark. Maybe you could even start trusting the man called Daryl Dixon, since he'd done nothing but pick you up and set you back onto your feet ever since you fell from the sky — and even some time before that.

"No matter how long I would fly for, I always had to land at some point," you explained, though it didn't really sound like much of an explanation. "But the people on the ground made me wish that I never had."

Daryl met your eyes, and in that moment you swore you saw a glimpse of that former mechanic — the one who was street smart but still clueless to people.

"That was until I met a man at a garage who promised to show me the world on his bike," you smiled, before letting the smoke trail from your lips, "but we ended up watching the stars instead."

Dixon didn't smile back.

And somehow, the smoke on your lips tasted more familiar — felt more like Daryl — than the man sitting beside you.

"Ya can take the tent tonight," he mumbled, snuffing his cigarette butt out on the grass.

You pulled a face, but he didn't retrieve it like he normally would — he probably thought there was nothing left in the world worth preserving anymore.

"And what about you?" you asked, making an expression he couldn't even see. "You should rest up before tomorrow."

But the man shook his head in the dark, pushing back on his knuckles to stand up — and offering you his hand once more.

"I ain't none of yer concern," he dismissed, whilst his palm was still warm in yours, "'m gonna sleep out under the stars."

The stars were bright overhead, with no light pollution, or mysterious blinking flickers that could have been mistaken for planes of satellites. But somehow, you didn't fully believe his story.

You laughed, but it wasn't the warm kind. It was the kind that felt foreign on your tongue, because it was a far cry from the fits of giggles the man normally had you in.

"Well, enjoy the view," you replied, shortly.

But you failed to notice the way Dixon watched you the entirety of the way back to camp — as though he already was.

Once Daryl had walked you there, and left you at the tent doorway, he did indeed roll out an old blanket over the grass, to lay back underneath the stars — just as promised.

He was far enough away that he didn't feel like you were right beside him, but still close enough to make out your silhouette against the lamp-lit canvas walls of his tent. That way, he didn't have to worry about walkers — but he didn't have to worry about you, either.

The night was quiet. The full, bright moon beamed down on him like a streetlight and the stars blinked in the sky like peering sets of eyes — staring back at him whilst he looked up. Daryl sighed, and crumpled his packet of cigarettes in his fist, crushing any left inside.

He needed to stop smoking them, because now they'd become tainted by you — and had become another thing that inescapably reminded him of you.

The lingering scent of them on his fingertips alone made him remember just how intoxicating you were. It made Daryl feel like he'd gotten a high from the scent of unbottled moonshine, or from that smile of pure starlight which could make a man go blind.

Though, he'd only had the pleasure of seeing it once today. The rest of the time you'd been pissed, confused, hurt.

He'd probably caused a lot of that — he wasn't that oblivious.

But you were the type who could break his heart without even knowing, and then offer to mend it like it had been someone else who'd done the damage.

He didn't understand how you could act so nonchalant, so blasé, as though you hadn't nearly died, and as though you hadn't just come back from the dead — where Daryl had thought you'd been this entire time.

He laughed, and it almost sounded as cold as the one you'd directed at him earlier.

Merle always called him naive, but Daryl often overcompensated for the fact with blind curses and bruised knuckles from butting heads those who suspected him of being as much.

But it had been the truth.

He was naive — especially when it came to you.

But, Daryl was also angry and hurt. And he didn't know how to fix that without bruising his knuckles — or his ego.

He bit his lip, wetting away the dryness with his tongue, whilst trying not to focus on how dry his throat felt, too. Then, Daryl rested his arm over his eyes.

He didn't feel like watching the stars anymore.

When you awoke, light had filtered into the tent through the mesh netting, speckling over your face like glittering gold as you blinked.

But when you awoke, the man was gone — leaving only another shirt behind in his place.

It almost made you cry, because of how familiar it felt. It smelled like Joe's Bar, of Marlboro cigarettes, of Georgia, and of home.

But you couldn't cry; you hadn't done since the day everything fell apart. So instead, you pulled on your big-girl shirt — the one belonging to the man twice the size of you — and grit your teeth as you threaded your bruised arm through the sleeve, and caught your stitches on the buttons.

You spent the whole morning trying not to notice the glaringly obvious absence in the camp — the men who'd left in search of Merle Dixon. But at the same time, you grimaced at the sight of the ones who hadn't left, the ones like Shane, and Carol's husband — who leered at the women as they washed his fucking underwear.

"Carol, why don't you ask Ed to come and help us," Andrea remarked, glancing towards the man resting languidly by his jeep, "make himself useful instead of just standing there smoking cigarettes."

Beside you, Jacqui laughed a high-pitched laugh, as she wrung out another damp t-shirt in her fists. You had only been formally introduced to her this morning, but her smile was infectious — and for a minute, it made you forget about the anxiety deep in the pits of your stomach.

Carol was quiet, but eventually chirped up once she mustered enough confidence.

"If I knew how to get him to do that, I would have done it years ago," she muttered, and shyly rolled her eyes.

Andrea boomed out a laugh, whilst the others chimed in at the appearance of Carol's unexpected humour. You tried not to let the chuckle wrack up your body, since every slight movement sent shockwaves to your injuries. But at this moment, you didn't really mind.

Carol had a pretty smile, and an even nicer laugh.

Except, her husband didn't seem to think so.

He stalked over with the same bravado Shane had mastered the night before — probably taking inspiration from the other man who wore boots three times his size. You could make out the sneer on his face before he even got within a few steps of you all. It was just that deep.

The man flicked his cigarette in your direction, and it barely missed the toe of your boot.

"What's so funny, hmm?" he jeered, but his tone was anything but light. You didn't have to hear them twice to recognise those words as a threat. "Gotta be somethin' if it's got you ladies so distracted."

Each of the women stayed silent as a grave — as though in some secret pact Ed was unaware of. He sauntered around, weaving in between Jacqui and Andrea, until the latter eventually snapped.

"Is it really any of your business?" she remarked, frustration clear in her voice. "After all, we're the ones doing your laundry."

She thrust the damp clothes she was holding at the man's chest, before letting them fall to the floor. The moment you heard them hit the ground, your hands were already shaking with adrenaline. You knew that look — the one Ed wore — and nothing good ever came from it.

He stepped up to Andrea, his pride damper than the shirt at his feet. "Know your place, little bitch," he hissed, shoving her back with his shoulder.

And chaos broke out.

Jacqui's screams sounded very much like her high-pitched laughs had done, and Lori called for Shane like a broken record that only knew a single name. You wanted to get everyone to calm down. You wanted to diffuse the situation like how you'd been trained to do.

But all you saw was red.

Carol interjected, lacing herself around her husband's arm as she begged for him to stop. "Ed, please don't-"

The man backhanded his wife, sending her to the ground with a single strike.

And that was your queue.

You rushed over, feeling your feet sink into the pebbles deeply with each step. You had a dozen stitches in your stomach, but you would rather pop every damn one open than let him get away with that.

"You dare lay your hands on her?" you roared, approaching the man — the monster — from behind as he loomed over Carol like a shadow of cowardice.

Ed reacted out of instinct, flailing his arm backwards and hitting you across the jaw with his elbow as you tried to pull him away. Immediately, your mouth pooled with the taste of copper, and you spit it out onto the pebbled stones beneath your feet.

You looked over at Andrea, who was dumbstruck as she watched blood drizzle from your lip, before you wiped it away by the sleeve of Daryl's shirt — with your one good arm.

"Get Carol out of here," you said, so quiet that it might as well have been a whisper.

You looked at the man, sizing him up as he stared you down.

"She isn't gonna want to see this."

The evening sunset was a vibrant salmon, tinged with deeper, darker hues the further you got from the sun. Those parts of the sky were the same maroon colour as your jaw — you'd caught glimpses of it in Andrea's compact mirror.

You'd spent the latter part of the day avoiding Shane's lectures, and the women who meant well but fussed over you far too much. So, you retreated back to Dixon's tent — icing the ripe bruise on your chin with a pack from Dale's RV cooler.

The scent of Marlboro cigarettes lingered around you — faint but still present in the fibers of the blankets beneath you, and in your shirt which was now bloodstained. You tried to ignore the pull of it, not wanting to smoke.

The tent puckered as someone fumbled with it, and soon the entrance flap was unzipped — revealing Carol, who timidly ducked inside.

"We meet again," you greeted her, thinking back to how she'd tended to your wounds in this very spot, not even a full day before. "I was going to apologise for beating your husband into the ground, but I couldn't bring myself to say that I'm sorry."

You grimaced as the words left your mouth. They sounded a lot more sharp than you'd intended.

But she still smiled warmly at you, a smile that you didn't think you deserved, and shook her head. The woman sat down on her knees opposite you, coaxing the ice-pack away from your skin for a second to inspect the damage.

"I don't blame you," she said, as gentle as her touch. She smelt like citrus, and summer days as her palm ghosted over your face. "I came to thank you, actually. For being the first to stand up for me."

Your gaze dropped down to where her sleeves had risen up, revealing the yellowish bruises dotted over her arms — in the shape of fingerprints.

"Well, someone had to," you noted, sadly.

She caught the way your eyes lingered, and quickly adjusted her shirt, pulling it back down to her wrists.

"Was it really that obvious?" she chuckled, nervously.

But you felt like she already knew the answer.

Her stance was practiced, even sitting down. She wasn't at all relaxed, hovering on her knees like a small rabbit, ready to dart to safety at a moment's notice. You felt like you were looking into a mirror — one that only reflected the past.

You nodded. "When you know the signs, it is," you admitted, sitting back against Dixon's pillow. "I had my suspicions before."

She hummed in return, acting much more casually around you than she had done a mere moment before. "What gave it away?" she asked — curious more than anything.

Light streamed in through the little plastic windows on the tent, falling in a stream between you — warm against your lap.

"Your hair, for one thing," you confessed, gesturing with your free hand. "You shave it yourself? To stop him grabbing it during fights?"

She remained silent at the accusation, but her eyes gave her entirely away.

You nodded. "They always tend to stoop that low."

And Carol bit her lip in response, not pointing out how you'd done the same with your braids — keeping them tight to your scalp, not even a strand out of place.

She excused herself then, making some remark about how she best ought to go check on her husband, before letting you catch a glimpse of the brave scowl which made its way onto her face as she said it. The sun hung high in the sky as she ducked back out, almost as bright as that full moon had been the night before.

"Hey, Carol," you said, loud enough for her to still hear it, "if he gives you trouble again, don't hesitate to come find me."

The woman nodded once more, and waved you off.

"Just you wait until my good arm heals," you called after her. "My right hook's even better than my left."

Then, you winked — watching as she debated letting out the laugh she had stifled — as you recalled the actual reason that got you hauled off to Georgia in the first place.

Dishonourable discharge, my ass.

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A/N Things are picking up here! How are we feeling? We all doing good? I promise this series won’t be really angsty, so stick with me, my dears :)

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[loversandantiheroes]

Anything else you'd care to tell us about what gets Frankie off (aside from manhandling you and getting you off)? 👀👀

SO!  This was gonna be a nice little bullet point list, but then I got a little stuck on what would be on it and ended up distracted thinking about a couple specific points while I was hopped up on anxiety and too little sleep and too much caffeine so now it’s just a whole goddamn fic!  I have been staring at this for so long I have no idea if it’s good anymore so Happy Thanksgiving / I’m sorry, YMMV.

Risk and Reward

Excruciatingly shameless Frankie/F!Reader smut, 4.2k+ words (don’t ask me I don’t know what happened either), unbeta’d bc I’m impatient and the offered beta-er went to sleep, moderately edited bc I cannot linear a thought process.

Warnings: praise kink, risky sex, dirty talk, road hand (this is apparently what it’s called???), semi-public sex, semi-feral Frankie, car sex (truck sex?), unprotected sex (do as I say, not as I fictionalize), cream pie, implied come-eating (not actually shown).

Pedro Perma-taglist: @littleferal, @thirstworldproblemss, @corvueros

It’s nothing you mean to start.  It’s just a congratulatory kiss on the cheek and a soft mutter of “Good job, baby,” when Frankie thrashes Benny at a game of pool at the bar.  It’s been a rough week, and it’s good to see him enjoying himself and not propped up miserably on your couch while you try to work the knots out of his shoulders and neck for the fourth night in a row.  He preens a little at the attention, eyes downcast but with a crooked smile that stops just on the verge of smug.  You loop your arm around his waist to keep him close, hooking your fingers under his belt, and as Frankie raises his head for a proper kiss you catch a wicked little glimmer in his eye.

His mouth hits yours and there’s nothing telling in that, it’s perfectly sweet and nearly chaste, but his hand slips up to the back of your neck, squeezing gently like a thank you.  The wheels in your head are turning a little slow courtesy of the drink you’ve been nursing while you watched Frankie play, and it takes a long, long moment for the thought to finally land: he likes it when you praise him.  It was possibly the easiest of his inclinations to find - the first time you’d taken him to bed and locked your ankles around him and told him how fucking good he felt had dragged such a gut-wrenching sound out of him you’d thought he’d pulled a muscle until he’d begun to move faster. 

You hadn’t considered that maybe that might push his buttons outside of the bedroom, but now you’re thinking maybe it’s worth a try.

Frankie tugs you along back to the table to sit, scooting close enough that your chairs knock into each other whenever one of you shifts, but it’s enough for you to lean into the crook of his arm comfortably.  You drift through the conversation, not feeling any pressing need to be included, just pleased to be close enough to feel the way laughter buzzes through Frankie’s chest.

“What about you, Fish?  How’s the mechanic gig working out?”

“Eh, it’s fine,” he says.  “It’s work.”

You nudge him with your elbow.  “Understatement of the century, baby.”

Frankie inclines his head in reluctant agreement.  “We’re shorthanded right now, I’ve been picking up extra shifts.  But the boss isn’t a complete prick, and it’s good money, so…”  He trails off, shrugging as if that’s the only explanation needed.

He’s modest to a fault, god bless him, and you sigh with exasperated affection as you knock your head against his shoulder.  “Well I’m proud of you, baby.  You’ve been working your ass off.”

Santi points a finger over his beer.  “Ooh, careful, man, you ain’t got much of that to spare.”

Frankie mutters a short stream of Spanish over the top of your head - the only word you manage to catch in your limited vocabulary being pendejo - and the other man grins.

“Language, Francisco,” Santi says, one hand to his chest as though scandalized.  “There are ladies present.”

You laugh, craning your neck to place a kiss by Frankie’s ear.  “Don’t listen to him, baby, you’ve got a cute ass.”

His cheek grows warm, and warmer still when Benny cuts in: “All right, ease up on hype routine before we gotta call emergency services to get Fish’s giant fuckin’ head out the door.”

“We got a hacksaw in the truck, it’s fine,” you insist, giving Frankie’s thigh a squeeze under the table.  “Not my fault you yahoos have never heard of positive reinforcement.”

Frankie’s chuckle is so low you almost miss it, his face hidden under the bill of his hat.  Santi eyes this display with one of his impressive eyebrows hiked.  He meets your gaze for a second, a knowing smirk on his face that suggests he at least is fully aware of what you’re pulling on his friend right now.  You only smile, sip your drink, and let your hand wander out of sight up and down Frankie’s thigh.

Abruptly Santi thumps Benny’s shoulder with the back of his hand.  “C’mon Benny-boy, I feel like knocking balls around.  I’ll let you win the first round, get you some of your pride back.”

Benny scrunches his face up, scooting away from the table with his hands spread.  “Like hell.  You ain’t letting me do shit, Pope, I’ll kick your ass fair and square.”

Santiago tips you a wink as he ushers Benny off to the pool table.  “Behave yourselves.”

“Hell no,” you shoot back, and he grins.

Immediately Frankie’s mouth brushes your ear.  “You’re a menace,” he says, a little heat crackling through his amusement like dry lightning.

It’s a small effort to school your expression into something reminiscent of innocence before you turn to face him.  “What, can’t a girl pay her boyfriend a compliment?”  You trail your hand up, brushing the back of your knuckles against his fly.  His jeans feel just a bit tighter than they really ought to, and it absolutely delights you.

His eyes seem to darken; no small feat in the already dim light of the bar.  “I know what you’re up to,” he says, that small, pleased smile still curling the corners of his mouth.

“And?” you press, a little laughter coloring your voice.  “Is it working?”

He doesn’t answer, but the way he looks at you suggests he finds it funny you even have to ask.

Emboldened now, you leave a kiss against the corner of his mouth and press your hand a little more firmly between his legs.  “Come on.  You work so hard, and you always take such good care of me.  Let me be sweet on you, Frankie.  You’ve been so good, you deserve a little praise.”

“Querida,” he mutters, low and light enough that his voice nearly cracks.  If it weren’t for the feel of him stiffening you might’ve mistaken the tone for embarrassment rather than barely concealed excitement.

You smile at him, all sugar, and cup him through his jeans, the outline of him clear against the fabric.  “Say it, Frankie.  C’mon baby.  Tell me you’ve been good.”

The bulge under your hand twitches hard and swells, the denim stretching even tighter.  “We’re leaving,” he announces quietly, pulling his coat into his lap as he stands.  “Now.”

Grinning, you stand, unhurriedly slipping on your own coat and waving as Frankie ushers you past the pool table and towards the front door.

“Good night, boys,” you call back over your shoulder.

Santi laughs, and the last thing you hear before the door closes is him announcing to Benny: “Told you.  Not even five minutes.  Pay up, bud.”

Ever the gentleman, even now, he follows you to the passenger side to get the door.  You stretch up, offering a kiss in thanks, but he damn near collapses into it, pushing against you so suddenly the backs of your legs strike the step behind you and you almost lose your balance.  Luckily Frankie’s reflexes are better than yours, even now, and as quickly as you start to feel your balance go he gets an arm around your back, dragging your body flush to his again.  The surprise leaves you giddy and giggling, and before you even know you’re planning on doing it you’re giving his cock a heavy squeeze through his jeans.

“Fuck,” he breathes, breaking away.  “Not here, baby.  Fuck don’t get me started here.  We’ll get caught.”

“Thought you liked it a little risky, Francisco,” you tease, but you still your hand anyway.

“Baby there’s two cruisers parked over there,” he says with a thin laugh, jerking his chin over your left shoulder.  “Shaking my dick at the cops is not the kind of risky I like.”

You glance over and sure enough, there’s two police cars in the parking lot, one of them still occupied and idling.  The men inside don’t appear to be paying you any mind, but Frankie’s right: it’s best if it stays that way.  Sputtering laughter, you pull your hand away and cup the sides of his face, thumbs stroking through his coarse stubble.  “Better take me home then.”

Frankie keeps a close eye on the occupied car as you pull out onto the road, eyes returning again and again to the rearview mirror for at least three blocks before he finally seems to relax a little.  He rolls his shoulders, nodding, muttering a quiet affirmative to himself, and then tenses all over again when you slide your hand back up his thigh.

“Baby,” he warns.  There’s a heady mix of panic and excitement in his eyes as his right hand darts out, grabbing your wrist inches away from your prize.

“Both hands on the wheel, baby,” you tell him evenly.  “Let me do this for you.”  And then you wait, thumb rubbing a slow circle across his denim-covered thigh.  It’s an offer, not an order.  You’re honestly not sure if he’s actually good with this idea, and you’re not about to bulldoze him into something he doesn’t want to do on a blind, horny whim.

He squeezes your wrist a little tighter, then nods.  “Okay,” he whispers, and returns his hand to the wheel. 

“Good boy.  You’ve got this, Frankie.  Just keep your eyes on the road,” you mutter, shifting a little closer and giving him a slow squeeze.  Your heart’s beating faster now, thrilled at the prospect of what you’re about to do - what he’s about to let you do.  “I know how good you are behind the wheel.  What’s it Santi always says?  ‘Anything with wheels or wings,’ that’s your specialty.  You just focus on the road and let me take care of you.”

“Jesus,” he croaks when you undo his belt, lifting his hips automatically as you draw his zipper down and work his jeans down just enough to let his cock spring free.

You can’t help but crow a little at the sight of him: hard and wavering and already welling a glassy bead of pre-come.  “Fuck, I love how hard you get for me, Francisco,” you murmur as you take him in hand, delighted at the rigid heat under your fingers.  He whimpers at the praise, shoulders pushing back hard against the seat.

He’s silent as you begin to stroke him, his jaw set too tight to allow him to speak.  A small whimper escapes him when you swirl your thumb around the head of his cock, spreading that bead of slickness over it. 

To his credit, the truck doesn’t waver in the slightest.  He damn near drives a razor-line down the highway, speed so steady you would’ve thought it was cruise control.  The only real show that this is costing him any kind of effort is the way the steering wheel creaks under his white-knuckle grip.  It’s still early enough that the roads aren’t fully deserted, and it’s taking all of his concentration to keep his focus on what his hands are doing instead of what your hands are doing. 

The light at the intersection ahead turns from yellow to red and he slows to a stop, one hand trembling on the gear shift. In the brief reprieve his eyes slip closed, allowing himself just a minute to fully focus on the sweet, overwhelming friction of your hand.  He shudders, sinking back into the seat as all the pleasure he’d tried to tamp down overspills.  His hips jerk up into your hand, sharp at first and then rocking, chasing the sensation.  A deep, sweet groan tumbles out of his open mouth and Frankie’s eyes flutter closed, his head dropping against the back window hard enough to make it rattle.

“Good, baby?”

“Fuck yes,” he breathes.  

It’s wonderful to see him like this, so willingly overwhelmed and aching for what you want to give him.  It lights you up, a bright, sweet ache that starts low in your belly and blooms out everywhere, flaring up hotter with every little sound he makes.  The heater’s blowing now, warmth swirling around your legs and you hike your dress up, pressing your fingers insistently against your clit through your tights.  

A moan escapes you before you can stop it, teeth clamping down on your lower lip just a bit too late.  Frankie’s head whips around at the sound, mouth agape at the sight of you with one hand around his cock and the other working half-hidden between your legs.  And then you’re reminded of just how fast this man can be, because one moment his right hand is resting on the gear shift and the next it’s pushing your own fingers aside to rub eagerly at your clothed slit.  The fabric is absolutely soaked through, and Frankie swears under his breath.

“You get this wet for me, baby?” he all but whispers, rubbing a slow, firm circle over your clit.

Sighing, you cover his hand with your own, trying to match your strokes with the rhythm of his fingers.  “Mm-hm.  Just for you, Frankie.  You look so sweet like this, I can’t help it.”

“I promise you, baby, you look sweeter.  Fuck, I could eat you up.  Wanna tear these fucking tights off you and bury my face in your sweet little pussy until you can’t think of anything else.”  He’s quiet - he’s always so quiet - but somehow the gentle rasp of his voice only serves to make that stream of filth even hotter.

A sudden honk makes you both jump, Frankie spitting out a stream of obscenity in Spanish while you can only give an undignified squeak.  The light, you realize as you look up, has gone green again.

Frankie fumbles the truck back into gear, waving an apology to the person behind you. As soon as he’s got the truck into gear his hand returns to you, trying to take its place between your legs again.  Despite literally everything in you that desperately wants to feel those thick fingers against your desperately aching cunt, you shake your head.

“Both hands on the wheel, Frankie,” you remind him, considerably more breathless this time than the first.  “The sooner you get me home the sooner you can take these off me just like you want.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, you’re killing me, baby,” he pants shakily as he settles both hands on the wheel again and eases down the road.  

Control is a little harder to come by now that he’s let it slip, his body turned into a perpetual motion machine, rocking back and forth without the need for his input.  He’s dripping like mad, enough that your hand slides easy back up his length.  Your fingers glide over the slick head and he shudders, swearing, and thumps his heel against the floor.

“Don’t-” he chokes, and his hips press up hard against your hand as a thick runner of pre-come trickles down the underside of his cock.

You slow, squeezing him rhythmically.  “‘Don’t’ what, baby?  You want me to stop?”

He groans, gritting his teeth.  “No.  N-no, no.  Just...fuck, if you keep going you’re gonna make me come.  Don’t make me come like this, baby, please.”

“You got something else in mind?  Tell me, Frankie.  You deserve a reward.  Tell me what you want.”

“Christ,” he pants, searching for words and coming up empty, his ability to think stretched far too thin trying to drive a straight line while you nudge him closer and closer to the edge.   “Madre de fucking Dios, baby, goddamn it.” 

Home is still a good five minutes away, but there’s no way Frankie’s going to make it that far.  Grasping his cock tight at the base, you scoot in closer until your chin’s on his shoulder and you can press your mouth right up against his ear.  “Easy, Frankie.  Take a breath, and tell me what you want.”

There’s a thin whistle as he hitches in a deep breath, the loose front of his t-shirt drawing tight under his jacket as his chest expands.  He holds it for a dizzying moment, pulse thudding so heavily his cock bobs in your grip with it.

“I want to fuck you, querida,”  he whines.  “Lemme fuck you, baby, please.  I don’t want to wait until we get home, I want to feel you on my cock now.”

The heat that’s been pooling in your belly bursts into a goddamn fireball, and any desire you had to keep your hand on the reins in this little scenario, to make him wait for it just a little longer, wholly evaporates.  The skin high up on his neck is cool when you press your lips against him, smooth at first and then raising up into goosebumps when you whisper: “Pull over, Frankie.”

“Fuck, I- fuck.”   His throat works, eyes darting between the road and the mirrors, and then his arm shoots out, holding you back against the seat.  There’s a side road ahead, choked with weeds and largely unused, and Frankie takes the turn onto it one-handed, killing the engine as soon as he gets the truck far enough into the weeds to be mostly unnoticed.  

And then he’s on you, his mouth crashing into yours with a staggering intensity, dragging you up to straddle his lap and sliding his hands underneath your dress.  His fingers hit the apex of your thighs, catching at the sodden seam of your tights and wrenching them apart.  The sound of fabric ripping is startlingly loud in the small space, and you gasp against his mouth, stealing his breath.  

Your head spins, wondering if maybe you teased him just a bit too far, but then there’s another rip and your panties are gone, too, fluttering down to catch on the brake pedal.  The hot, wet head of his cock nudges your entrance and suddenly your only thought becomes - oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck.  You brace yourself for the jolt, because even as wet as you are Frankie is big, and you’re certain you’ve worked him up so much he hasn’t got the control left to give you time to adjust.

But Frankie always has a way of surprising you.  You’re tensed up, expecting force and speed and instead he pulls you down slow; taking you at a crawl when you expected a sprint, and all you can do is scratch your fingers across his scalp and whine as he fills you up, sweet and hot like honeyed brandy.  He shudders so hard the springs in the seat creak as you slip down another inch, and another, clenching and fluttering around him as he buries himself inside you with a groan so deep it’s nearly a sob.

“Yes, baby,” he mutters, words returning to him in a slow trickle.  He drops his forehead against your chest, his breath lovely and hot on the thin skin between your breasts as he tugs the neckline of your dress down to leave a kiss there.  “Fuck yes. You take me so good.  Keep going.”  His fingers bite into your thigh as you sink down a little more.  “Don’t-don’t stop, baby.  I need to fuck you.  I need to.  Don’t stop.”

His body thrums underneath you as you sink down, every muscle trembling like high-strung wire, ready to snap.  He’s trying so very very hard to hold on long enough to let you open for him, to be ready for him to give you what he wants.  The realization leaves you dizzy, your grip tightening around his shoulders and he lets out a choked moan as you settle fully in his lap and all but gush around his cock.

You’ve got bare seconds before his patience gives out, but you settle your hands on his chest, feeling the race of his heartbeat under the well-worn cotton of his t-shirt, and push yourself just far enough away that you can look down at him properly.  God, you want to move.  You need to move.  Every time with Frankie holds the same sense of shuttered awe, like you forget what it’s like to be this full until he’s inside you again, pressing up against nerves you barely knew you had.

It’s dark now, the streetlights barely reaching into the shaded alley, and Frankie’s face is painted only in shades of blues and blacks.  But even in the darkness you can see that awe-struck look on his face: lips parted, eyes wide and impossibly dark.  The first thing you think rolls straight off your tongue without a second to parse it: “You’re so beautiful, baby.”

And Frankie breaks.

He grits out a sound that’s half a snarl and half a whimper and lunges up into you so hard you have to brace yourself against the roof of the cab to keep from hitting your head.  Without even meaning to you cry out, the air forced out of you in a broken staccato as Frankie plants his feet on the baseboard and fucks up into you so hard you swear you feel the jolt of it lance up brightly through your ribcage.  It’s unrelenting, frantic and primal and fucking overwhelming.  All you can do is wrap your arms tight around his shoulders and hang on, let him take what he needs, letting him give you everything he can.

Frankie’s beyond words.  Teeth bared against your throat, arms locked tight around you.  One of his hands is hooked around your shoulder, the other gripping mercilessly at your ass.  Even as wet as you are you still grip him tight, especially at this angle, and it’s nearly a struggle for him to move, to drag himself out of you and bury himself all over again.  

You want to encourage him.  Want to praise him.  God knows he’s earned it, but every nerve in your body is on fire and you can’t even find the air to breathe, let alone speak.  You manage a sharp, keening whine as he shifts under you, just barely grazing your g-spot.  Every nerve sparks like raw metal on flint and without even meaning to you clamp down on him tight, your body taking the initiative and trying to hold him against that spot, to chase that burn.

Snarling, Frankie shoves you back, your shoulders thudding against the steering wheel.  The change in angle is sudden and shocking and oh god it puts him right where you wanted him, driving up relentlessly against your sweet spot.  It’s brutal and blissful and fucking perfect, and when he shoves his hand under your dress and drags his thumb in shaking circles over your swollen clit it’s even better.  It’s fucking heaven, and you’ve got no idea how much more of it you can take.  Your whole body shakes, unmindful of any direction you might give it.  Your hand strikes out blindly, knocking hard against the solid plane of his chest and grabbing a fistful of his t-shirt.

“Please, baby,” he groans through gritted teeth, and you have just enough senses left to hear just how close he is to coming, and how desperate he is to get you there, too.  “C’mon.  Come for me.  Please.”

“F-f-frankie.”  So close.  Each thrust, each stroke of his fingers pushes you a little closer to your peak, all other sensations fading out and making room for the overload.  You’re not sure if you could see anything even if it was broad daylight right now, but goddamn it you wish you could see his face...

The last thing you hear is Frankie’s shaking voice pleading with you: “Please baby.”  And then there’s just a ringing, high and tuneless.  You have the barest second to wonder if you’ve truly gone deaf and then, like the sheer enormity of it was too much for your brain to process at once, then you come.  Every muscle contracts and you seize up, shuddering, all control over your body lost.  Your throat burns, and it isn’t until Frankie’s hand clamps down over your mouth to quiet you that you understand why.

His heel pounds the floor and he thrusts up into you once more, lifting you up as he goes rigid, under you and inside you, his arms locking tight around your body.  He comes with a broken sob, his face buried against your neck as he quakes his way through the spasms.

The ringing fades, and you listen to the sound your mingled breathing, harsh and labored.  You tighten your grip on him, curl one arm around his head so you can brush his hair back - god, when had he lost his hat in all this? - and press a long kiss to his damp forehead.

Your throat’s a wreck, your voice rough and uneven when you finally find it again.

“Good boy,” you murmur.

“Love you, baby,” he says hoarsely, the words stifled against your skin.  “Jesus Christ I fucking love you.”

“Love you too, Francisco.”

He laughs, breathless and utterly come-drunk.  “Fuck, we need to get out of here.  Somebody definitely heard that.”

You stroke your fingers through his hair, too pleasantly fuzzed to care overmuch about that.  “Hm.  I’m gonna make a mess of the seat,” you complain drowsily, already feeling him begin to trickle out of you as his cock softens.

“‘S okay, baby,” he says, the scratch of his stubble oddly soothing as he kisses his way up your neck. “As soon as we get home I promise I’ll clean you up.”

His tongue traces a shockingly warm line up to the corner of your jaw, and your legs tremble at the suggestion.  

“Very good boy,” you amend.

.

[your-worst-knightmare]

Hoist the Colours

“Yo ho, all together Hoist the colours high. Heave, ho, thieves and beggars Never shall we die.”

The docks were noisy. They always were, during this time of year at least. The clamour of the people coupled with the pounding rain made for a strange melody. Calming, almost, if you were accustomed to it. Fishermen hauled barrels of fish off their boat, proud of their catch for the day. School upon school of fish swam through these waters this season, and with their bounty came people. And so, the docks were noisy. 

Noisy docks meant good business for barkeeps and innkeepers. It also meant good business for thieves and pickpockets, who took advantage of the lackadaisical wealthy who happened to wander too far into the Narrows. But if you had enough sense in your head, you knew better than to wander. Roy liked to think he had sense. His most perilous adventures were the immeasurable stack of dishes in the kitchen. Except for the influx of barfights newcomers brought with them, there was only one thing he had to worry about: Pirates. 

Oh, they were thieves of a higher breed and more ambitious in nature. They also possessed a strange sense of nobility, one that no particular barkeep could classify. Roy could, to an extent at least. But that was only because he had considered himself one in his youth. He had hung up the title long since, now spending his days mopping up spills or refilling some ruffian’s drink. Mundane tasks, but it was honest work at least. Unlike one of his oldest friends, he preferred an honest life to one of trickery and adventure. 

Jay Todd. The Damned Prince. The surname ‘Todd’ never stuck after he joined his first crew and insisted he was nobody. It almost made Roy laugh. Jay and Jay Todd were two different people completely. They did have one obnoxious trait in common though: they were both always ready to go for a round, them against the world. He was a captain now, in charge of a ghost ship, as they called it. A pseudo captain, if you will, because the captain was the only one on the ship. It wasn’t hard to imagine Jay out there, lonely as Lady Lune, with only memories for company.

Despite his conviction of loneliness, Jay always made his adventures seem wonderous. Tales of glory and swashbuckling, tales which seemed too tall to be true. Roy knew there was more to Jay’s life than emprise and endeavour, but he sometimes wondered: was a pirate’s life really all it was cut out to be?

––––––––––––––––

Damn. A pirate’s life was really not all it was cut out to be. Jason had just finished a job for an anonymous employer, and though the pay was good, he could use a break. Perhaps he’d pay Roy a visit. He wouldn’t be noticed much anyway, not with the amount of sailors that passed through that port this time of year. 

Jason set his course north, hoisted the sails and climbed the shroud to watch the endless waves. He made himself comfortable for the journey, an old sea shanty playing on his lips. It was funny, how much he sang to himself now. Roy would tease him endlessly if he found out, Jason could all but hear it right now. “‘Ey, look ‘ere boys, the old bird’s finally singin’ for us!” 

Despite the time that had passed, he still knew exactly where to find Roy. Only the side of town with a raging infamy for brawls of the most dramatic kind would house Roy. It was always wise to enter town with some sort of concealed weapon, but especially when one entered the place Roy called home. It was as if he used his circumstances of living to satisfy his thirst for adventure.

The bar was busy, and so Jason wasn’t noticed when he stepped inside. All the attention the bar could hold was directed on one individual: a woman challenging sailor after sailor to fistfights. She had a captain’s hat on over her russet hair, merely to show her rank. It was braided back on one side of her head, a clever combination of style and practicality. She looked familiar, and Jason kept trying and failing to place her. He would have thought about it all day if Roy hadn’t found him first.

“ Hey, ‘ya  finally come ‘ta visit and ‘ya don’t even stop for a hello.” 

“I came here to find you, ‘ya big crybaby. I’m here now, so stop whining,” Jason said, giving Roy a hearty clap on the back. Roy brought out some food and they sat down, as far as they could from the commotion.

“So, Jaybird, how’s life been treatin’ ‘ya?”

“Not bad. Finished a job in the Southern Isles. Came ‘ere for a little break before my next job.”

Roy slammed his mug on the table wiping his mouth. “Where’s all the charisma gone? The adventure? The next thrilling tale in the saga?”

“Aw, Roy, not every job is exciting. Some o’ them are jes’ messy an’ tiring.”

“‘Ol captain ready to hang up the hat then, eh? Ready to settle down with some nice lady?” Roy raised his eyebrows, mocking. 

“I won’t hang up the hat ‘till I go down to Davy Jones’ locker or Angel comes ‘ta take me. Can’t, rather. My mistress will have to live with it then, won’t she?” 

Roy let out a good-natured snort. “Unless you plan on wooing the Red Amazon herself,” Roy said, gesturing to the red-haired pirate in the middle of the bar, “ you’re goin’ ‘ta spend your days alone, mate.”

“Is that what her name is?”

“Aye. Loud as a pistol and twice as destructive, she is. Had to drag at least five folks out jes’ today.” Jason kept staring, his intent clear in his eyes. “Oh no, you’re not going to. She’s knocked every ol’ seadog here into sharkbait. ‘Ya don’t stand a chance.”

Jason got up, heedless of Roy’s words. The latest challenger stumbled out of the Red Amazon’s reach, yielding before he was hurt too badly. She smoothed her hair, annoyingly, before pausing to look Jason up and down. “Pray, sir, who might you be? Another challenger?” Her accent suggested a respectable upbringing, which caught Jason off guard.

“If ‘ya wish me to be, miss. I ask for a conversation if I do win.”

She thought for a moment, watching him twist a gold ring on his finger. “When you lose, I’d like your ring.” 

He looked down at it. It was an intricate thing, and probably held quite some value. Alas, he could find another ring, not another conversation. “Fine. Draw your cutlass.”

She raised her eyebrows. “A duel? If that’s what you want, then.” She held a hand out, reaching towards thin air. “To me, Mistress.” When called, a huge, polished sword came flying to the Amazon’s hand. A magical item, then. 

Jason drew his own cutlass, quite modest in comparison. The Amazon smirked, a mischievous light burning in her eyes. Green eyes, he realized. Her first strike was so fast that Jason struggled to meet it. The clang of metal against metal echoed in the now quiet bar while the audience held their breath. 

The blows were so rapid that the fight quickly became a show of instinct and muscle memory. Jason was proud to say that he held his own quite well, albeit a nick he had sustained to the arm. She held no wounds, as of yet, but if Jason couldn’t prove his skills, he’d prove his spirit. 

The Amazon deflected Jason’s latest strike onto the ground.” Really, I’d like to know who you are.”

Jason thrust another strike towards her breathlessly. “ The Prince, miss,” he said, stepping back, tipping his head. “ The Damned Prince.”

“Well,” she began, taking the opportunity to disarm Jason of his weapon. It clattered to the ground loudly and he grimaced as she pressed her blade against his throat. “I’ve ne’er seen a prince so ragged as you.”

Discreetly, he unsheathed his concealed knife, pressing it to her side. “Looks aren’t everything, mate,” he smiled. “A draw, then?”

The Amazon bared her teeth, sneering. She sheathed her sword, but not before giving Jason another small taste of its blade. “ A dirty rapscallion, y’ are.” 

He handed her the ring as Roy found seats for them and drove their audience away. “ A good duel, wasn’t it?”

“Tell me what your business is before I find you a dance with Jack Ketch.”

“I heard news that you was lookin’ for a bow. My ol’ employer wanted it too. What’s the fuss wi’ it?”

“It’s a calamitous weapon. Lord knows what would happen if it were taken by th’ wrong buccaneer.” She pushed her chair back, ready to leave. “I’m not looking for any hands. You may go.”

“I know where ‘ta start lookin’.”

She stopped, now interested. “ Pray, then, where?”

He told her what he knew, from the gossip he had heard in the Southern Isles. The journey would be long, but work was what he had come looking for. “All I ask is that I accompany you.”

“Fine. No prey, no pay, Prince. We leave at dawn.”

A share of any loot was fine by him. He’d leave his ship for Roy to take care of until he came back. He just needed to make sure his old employer, whoever he was, didn’t get his hands onto the bow. Jason took off his hat and extended his hand. “Jay Peter Todd.”

The Amazon returned the gesture. “Artemis Grace. Don’t be late.”

 Should I do a part two?? 

[grizzbe]

Outbreak

How about Fallout, guys? What a freaking great movie! I’ve already seen it a few times in theaters and was so inspired by it that I wanted to know if I could write my own sort of Act 1/Act 2 Mission: Impossible heist! I’m afraid I might’ve tried to be a little too funny with Brandt’s and Luther’s back and forth, and there might be a little too much exposition, but I hope it worked out! Also, it’s touched upon lightly in the following fic, but Ethan x Ilsa is wonderful, and you all should expect a hefty helping of it in Pt. 2. Please let me know what y’all think in the comments! Thanks for reading!

On an unnamed island roughly 65 miles off the coast of Venezuela, a boat docks at a small pier, and a general debarks. He flashes a salute to the contractor holding the door open to the black car, his tie flapping in the wind. The general climbs in before it takes off towards the facility at the other end of the island.

The island is sparsely vegetated and entirely flat other than the large hill immediately next to the dock. The only other feature of note on the mile-long stretch of land in the middle of the Caribbean Sea is a heavily-guarded facility. Inside the car, with the partition up, the general fusses over his bushy mustache and rearranges his hat and glasses.

“I don’t know if I mentioned this before, but my Spanish is a little rusty,” whispered the general. “I’m fairly certain I’m mixing in quite a bit of Portuguese, as well.”

“You only mentioned it about a dozen times at the briefing Benji,” said Ethan. “And if you had wanted to infiltrate the facility by SCUBA, you should’ve said so.”

Ethan went back to working the torch on the grate, the fire oxidizing into bubbles that floated up, a variety of the more curious species of fish swimming around him.

“I’ve only had to fend off three barracudas so far,” added Ethan, the smile in his voice unmistakable.

“Barracudas you say?” said Benji. “Yeah, I think I’m okay in the car.”

“Are you sure?” chimed in Luther. “I’m pretty sure we could land this prop plane on the island, and we could switch. You can land a plane, right?”

Luther sat cramped in the back of a King Air 200 flying a mile away from the island, surrounded by monitors and electronic surveillance equipment, security footage and computer terminals rolling across the various screens.

“Yes, I can land a plane,” an exasperated Brandt crackled in over the comms. “They don’t just give licenses out to people that can’t actually fly.”

“A license you’ve had for a whole month. Why couldn’t I do this on a boat?”

“And I was the top trainee in the program, Luther! I don’t see what you’re upset about!”

“I’m sure Luther has full confidence in you, Brandt,” chimed in Ethan, slicing through another bar on the grate. “And besides, you can’t really outrun that storm in a fishing boat.”

The plane buffeted against the increasing winds, the tell-tale dark clouds of a tropical storm gathering off the plane’s starboard side.

“Yeah, Ethan, I meant to have a word with you about that,” said Brandt.

“Don’t worry, Will,” said Benji. “It’s not even a hurricane! Yet…”

“Yet? Benji, did you just say yet?” asked Luther.

On an island not too far north, a few old men sit in a bar, its shutters flapping in the wind and rain starting to come down. They watch an old TV as the weatherman talks about how Tropical Storm Marco is now officially a Category 1 Hurricane, with winds exceeding 75 miles per hour and shifting course quite unexpectedly towards a chain of uninhabited islands. The old men continue to drink their beers, unconcerned with the development.

“The storm is supposed to miss us by 50 miles,” continued Benji. “And I don’t know why anyone else is complaining. If my cover gets blown, the only person looking out for me is the rookie.”

“Rookie?” asked Brandt.

“Yeah, the rookie,” said Benji. “You know, the newbie, the greenhorn, the raw recruit still wet behind the ears.”

“I’m not sure I’d say any of those things,” said Luther.

“Oh, come on guys! What’s a little good-natured ribbing between colleagues?” said Benji, his smile skewing his mustache.

Ethan stopped his torch a few bars short, “Benji, do you really want to be ribbing the person sitting behind the high-powered rifle?”

On top of the hill next to the dock, nestled between a rock and some brush, Ilsa Faust lay perfectly still in a ghillie suit, practically invisible and cradling her sniper rifle, slowly tracking the car as it drove towards the facility through her scope.

“Right,” Benji said as he considered Ethan’s words. “Sorry about that, Ilsa. Have I mentioned how excited I am that MI6 so generously loaned you to the IMF?”

“A few times, Benji,” said Ilsa. “You might want to remember that I can take the hat off a man at three kilometers, though.”

Benji gulped and unconsciously took off his hat. A mile away, Ilsa smiled as she watched him through the scope.

“Three kilometers?” asked Benji, noticing his hat next to him and putting it back on. “I thought you said two?”

“The three-kilometer shot was unofficial,” said Ilsa. “Off the books. Now eyes up, Benji, you’re at the first guard post.”

“Just remember, Benji, the guards are South African, they probably don’t hear Spanish that much,” said Ethan as he sliced through the final bar, removing the grating.

“Or Portuguese-” interjected Benji.

“Or Portuguese,” said Ethan, swimming through the grate towards the facility. “They’re not even supposed to talk to you. General Santos is known to be a bit of a hot head, just give them a good glower, and you’ll be fine.”

“A glower?” asked Benji.

“You know, a glower,” said Luther, who proceeded to make a low-timbre guttural noise into comms.

“You sure this isn’t a glower?” asked Brandt, making a similar noise in a slightly different tone.

“Guys-”

“No, it’s gotta be lower than that,” said Luther, continuing to make low growls in the back of his throat.

“Guys, I think Benji can manage!” interjected Ethan. “Luther, I’m at the entrance point.”

“Wouldn’t want Ethan to fry down there, would we, Luther?” asked Brandt, at least somewhat pleased that he wasn’t the one potentially getting barbecued for once.

“Well, it would be more ‘cooked’ than ‘fried,’” said Benji, taking a brief moment to stare down the nearest guard in what he hoped was an intimidating manner. “There’re at least 3,000 milliamperes flowing through that tunnel. If it hits Ethan, his heart will seize up, his other organs will cook, and he’ll be covered in severe burns.”

“Benji,” said Ethan.

“Yes?”

“Shut up.”

“Right,” said Benji, looking up as his car came to a stop next to the entrance. “Good luck.”

“Let’s make sure that doesn’t happen, Luther,” said Ilsa, tracking a pair of guards moving to open the door for Benji. “Ethan still owes me a Manhattan.”

“Oh, a Manhattan?” asked Brandt, his flight control shaking as the wind from the storm picked up. “Do tell.”

“We were at dinner,” started Ethan.

“Eleven Madison Park, actually,” added Ilsa. “I had to call in a favor for that reservation.”

Luther whistled, not looking away from his computer and doing his best to ignore the rattles from the plane, “Eleven Madison Park? Fancy.”

“We were only at the first course when the Maître D’ brought a pair of reading glasses and asked if we wanted to look at the rare wines list,” finished Ilsa.

“You’re going to have to make that one up, Ethan,” said Brandt.

“Agreed,” said Ethan, still gripping the handle to the electrified tunnel. “Now, Luther, could you please -”

A mile away, Luther worked furiously at his keyboard, typing in commands and rerouting systems.

“Done,” said Luther, turning to a different monitor showing the feed from Benji’s glasses. “We’re reading you clear, Benji. You remember the layout?”

Benji almost growled as he walked past a pair of guards at a door emblazoned with warnings of ‘BIOHAZARD’ and gave a heavily accented, “Sí.”

At the same time, Ethan had made his way past the electrical conduits and up to a maintenance station, where he was stashing his SCUBA gear and taking stock of the drybag he had brought with him, mainly the explosives, before taking out the pistol and swinging the bag over his back.

At a security station three levels up, the feed for Ethan’s level shimmered as Luther executed more commands on his computer.

“We’ll have control of the security feed on your floor for the next 15 minutes, Ethan,” said Luther. “Anymore and they start looking into it.”

Ethan approached the door that led to the rest of the facility with characteristic quiet and waited while Luther scanned the undoctored security footage from the plane, waiting for a patrolling guard to pass.

“Now,” instructed Luther, watching as Ethan made his way to a corner down the hall. “Wait three seconds.”

Ethan waited precisely three seconds, his pistol at the ready, as the guard down the hall turned around and began pacing the other way. The IMF agent turned the corner, his gun trained on the guard as he quickly and silently made his way to the door and inserted a keycard with wires running to a mini-tablet. In 10 seconds, the locks on the door gave off a pop and Ethan slid into the room.

What met him were four large chambers, each marked ‘BIOHAZARD,’ with a variety of different liquids, syringes, and tubes in them. Ethan slung the bag from his back and went to work, placing the small explosives at crucial points of the machines and activating them.

“10 minutes and counting, Benji,” said Ethan.

“And only three more rooms to go, Ethan,” added Luther.

Ethan collected his bag of explosives and pistol and returned to the door.

“And… You’re clear,” said Luther, as Ethan slipped back into the hall, making his way to the next room filled with deadly bacterial agents.

Meanwhile, Benji, as General Santos, continued on his way to the big lab at the end of the wing, where a man in a white lab coat waited for him.

“General Santos,” said the scientist in English, the common language between the South African and the real General Santos. “The latest batch is very promising, we should be done at this facility in less than a week’s time once we’ve finished follow-up tests, but those are a mere formality.”

“Excellent,” said Benji, going maybe a little too heavy on the accent. “Please, show me this iteration.”

Within a mile of the facility, three IMF agents’ eyebrows arched up silently at the performance, the fourth was too busy to notice. Benji walked in behind the scientist, listening to his spiel as the man guided him toward the wall of test tubes, picking the last one from the lineup, it’s brilliant orange color shining in the light.

“We’ve already sent it on to our labs in Johannesburg, they’ll be able to duplicate it from there in quantities large enough for field use,” stated the scientist, oblivious to the slight shiver Benji had given off.

He continued talking about his benefactor’s plans before finishing, “There is another test that I think you would be very interested in, General. It’s at the lab in the east wing. Please, follow me, it’ll only be ten minutes of your time.”

He started walking for the door, missing Benji expertly lifting the test tube from its slot and sliding it into his jacket.

“Looks like you owe Benji that $20, Brandt,” said Luther, watching the footage like a hawk.

“No. He got it?” asked Brandt. “I’ll be damned.”

“Not even a second glance from our mad scientist friend,” said Luther, noting the unmistakable smirk from Benji on the security feed. “I wouldn’t be gloating too much just yet, Benji. You’ve got seven minutes to get out of there.”

The scientist led Benji along a different path, walking past a security station buzzing a little more than the IMF Agent was comfortable with. As he walked past, he looked inside giving Luther a clear look at a radar screen from his glasses, an ominous blip popping up roughly a mile from the station.

“Is that what I think it is?” asked Luther.

Meanwhile, Ilsa was clocking the different guards making their rotations around the walls of the facility, each shrugging on raincoats as the hurricane began bearing down on the island. As she was making adjustments to her scope to account for the increase in wind speed, Ilsa spotted several guards moving quickly around what looked like a large shed by the perimeter. They slid the doors open before rolling out what looked like-

“Guys, we might have trouble,” said Ilsa, tracking the two drones as they were wheeled out onto the courtyard. “Predators, two of them.”

“They have drones? Since when have they had drones?” asked a flummoxed Luther.

Ethan paused at the third door, “Brandt, can you handle it?”

“I think so,” said Brandt, taking stock of his controls and looking past the rain driving into his windshield.

“Alright, do what you have to do,” replied Ethan. “Plan stays the same for everyone else.”

“You think so?” said Luther, who leaned around a monitor to get a clear line of sight to his pilot. “Even if you were a real pilot, each drone can carry two missiles, and we only brought three flairs! That math does not add up!”

Luther held up corresponding fingers to punctuate the point.

“First off, I am a pilot. I’ve offered to show you my license several times, Luther,” started Brandt, who looked off his starboard wing at the encroaching hurricane. “Second, I’ve got a plan.”

[tracklist-fic]

Chapter Three TEASER

I know it's been a bit... Whoops but never fear we haven't forgotten about this fic! Here's a taste of what you're in for...

*************************

Jac's POV

I could see Dylan, his finger stabbing at the air in front of Robby. His face twisted with rage, his meticulously groomed hair was a disheveled mess from where he had ran his hand through it repeatedly. The veins in his neck and forehead were bulging as his face grew steadily redder. Robby had just stood there, his arms across his chest as he steadily got berated. It wasn't until Dylan went to make a step toward us did he finally move, his hand pressing against his chest. His other hand pointing to the door probably telling him if he didn't start moving that way, he'd be happy to assist him. I saw him lean around Robby’s large frame, staring directly at me, a sneer on his face.

“Are you fucking kidding me?” I could see the spit flying from his mouth as Robby held him back, “You went running to Rob? You two faced backstabbing bitch! Acting like you run the whole fucking bar. You think you're hot shit, don't you, having just a little bit of power.” He let out a dark chuckle, "Bitch you ain't shit. Nothing but drink pouring whore working for tips."

I heard Ed’s stool clatter to the ground as he flew up. My eyes left Dylan focusing on him now. There was something frightening about the calmness in his expression. His eyes had zeroed in on Dylan, an angry fierceness in them that I had never expected to see in those eyes. He reached out, picking his mug up off the bar, draining what was left in it. I breathed a sigh of relief when he placed it back on the bar. Everything seemed measured and thought out, strongly reminding me of the calm before the storm.

“I suggest you do what the man says mate.” his voice was calm, too calm for my liking. “Wouldn't want to cause a scene in front of the lady.”

Dylan focus shifted from me to Ed. His eyes narrowed, his lips turning up to a sneer. “Oh, you suggest I-? How bout you sit down and mind your own business carrot top.”

I heard Ed chuckle darkly, his head dropping down. The hat he was wearing shielded most of his face from my view. I could only see the bottom half of his face, which was wearing a dangerous looking grin. I could see him flexing his fingers, his head moving side to side, his shoulders squaring. He was preparing himself for a brawl. Suddenly I wasn't worried about him getting his ass handed to him. I was worried about what lurked just below the surface. Every part of me was screaming to keep him from unleashing that anger that was swirling just below the surface.

“Oh, when you start threatening innocent women it becomes my problem.” His voice still smooth but cold. This was him giving a warning. I didn't want to see what would happen if his warning wasn't heeded. Robby had began to herd him towards the door, sensing the tension that had steadily been building since Ed rose up.

“I can assure you, she’s far from innocent. She wasn't complaining when my tongue was buried in her cunt two days ago.” He was wearing a sickening grin on his face as the bar fell completely silent. I wanted to sink into the floor and disappear forever. I couldn't bare to look at Ed, my eyes focusing on the floor. My career was ending before it even began. “She used my feelings for her to get what she wanted, tossed me aside and then cried victim.” I could hear a twinge of pain in his voice and I prayed that Ed wouldn't fall for his victim act. "I just wanted you back Jac, I didn't deserve to get used." His voice cracked, a nice touch, that'll definitely sell the bit.

“I don’t care what she's done, it doesn't warrant your behavior towards her.” His voice has lost some of its edge, making me feel even worse. "You've been asked to leave. A decent person would have done so by now, not make a scene like a child."

“Come on man, time to go.” Robby said softly, “Take a couple days to cool off.”

I looked up to see Dylan turn on his heel and walk back out the door without another word, obviously satisfied at the scene he caused. I finally looked at Ed, his head was still tilted down so I couldn't see his face but I had a pretty good idea what it looked like. I go to reach out and grab his arm but he had turned away from me.

“Ed, listen…”

I didn't know how to finish that sentence. I only agreed because I was drunk and vulnerable? That was a lie. Dylan had told a half truth there. Feeling we're exploited, he knew deep down I still cared and he used it to his advantage. We were using each other. Funny how he left that little part of the narrative out of his little monologue. Of course that tarnished the victim character he played oh so well.

He had began fishing around in his pocket, his face still shielded from my view. I could only imagine what thoughts were going through his head right now. I could hear his keys jingling in his pocket, bringing the fact that he had rented me a car to the front of my mind. I guess I wasn't feeling guilty enough about everything, why not add some more to the pile. He finally withdrew his hand, clutching a wad of bills that he dropped on the bar without sparing me a glance.

“See you tomorrow Jac.” His voice completely flat and emotionless before he turned and left me standing alone at the bar. He still hadn't looked me in the eye. Not that I blamed him.

To be continued...

[roadtrip-2020]

Jackson Hole, WY.

Another favorite stop on our road trip was Jackson Hole. We were there in the shoulder season in late October, just a few weeks after most of the leaves had turned. While it was pretty cold, we had a wonderful time. 

Where we stayed

Anvil Hotel - Roadside motel recently renovated into a trendy midcentury hotel. 

What we liked:

Affordable

Great location, right in town

Decor is cute, beds are comfy

What we didn’t like:

Rooms are dark and almost all have windows that face directly into a parking lot. You have to keep the shades pulled down the whole time for privacy, so there isn’t much natural light. 

Overall, it felt a bit cheap. It was cheap, so I guess you get what you pay for. I’d recommend it if you’re on a budget, but otherwise would stay elsewhere. We loved the Rustic Inn, where we stayed our last night in Jackson.

Rustic Inn - I’ll admit, the branding does not impress (Anvil looks much cuter online), but the Rustic Inn is actually very nice! I would definitely recommend it, especially if you can get a creekside cabin/room.

What we liked:

Beautiful grounds complete with a creek, teepee, creekside outdoor bar, outdoor fireplaces, and a river walk.

Big cabin-like rooms or actual cabins

Our room had a fireplace and a porch

Breakfast was to-go due to COVID, but they were really good breakfast burritos!

Outdoor hot tub and pool area (we took advantage of the hot tub)

What we didn’t like:

We tried to make spa appointments day-of or day-prior (right after we checked in), but it was too late -- they were full. It wasn’t the hotel’s fault, really. We would have liked to stay there longer and leveraged the spa.

Location is towards the outskirts of downtown Jackson, it’s actually right as you’re driving out of town towards the Tetons or airport. It’s good, because it has lots of space, but not as walkable as, say, the Anvil. 

This photo was taken before we went to dinner at the creek right next to our hotel room at Rustic Inn...see, stunning!

What we did

We had so much fun in Jackson Hole and I love how much there is to see and do in the area! The Grand Tetons are absolutely stunning and are less than a 20 minute drive away...The proximity to Grand Teton National Park and even Yellowstone makes Jackson Hole one of my favorite destinations and a must for outdoor adventurers. 

Outdoor adventures:

Grand Teton National Park - Out of every National Park we visited, Grand Teton was probably our favorite and definitely the best run. Everything was very clearly marked, rangers were extremely helpful, and the trails were well kept with nice bathrooms/facilities and plenty of parking. Sounds superfluous but you notice these things after awhile!

Rockin’ M Ranch Trail Ride - BY FAR one of our favorite activities in Jackson and of our entire trip. Forgot how cathartic spending time with animals in nature is...Rockin’ M Ranch is in Alpine, about 45 minutes outside of Jackson. They were WONDERFUL. We did 3 hour ride with lunch included, which was really fun. I guess there are less little kids on the longer rides, which worked well for us. We had a great group of about 5 couples and a guide who was nice, funny, and helpful. We hiked along and THROUGH a river, up and down hills and ate lunch at this area that had a grill and picnic table. Many pictures below...

Things we did in Grand Teton National Park:

There are sooo many hikes and beautiful lakes to check out in the Tetons...what we did in our limited time below and then I’ll also link some other favs. These are great activities for summer/fall, but had we been there in the winter we would have skied Jackson Hole Mountain Resort. We will be back soon!

Hidden Falls Trail - The majority of this hike is pretty flat and wraps around the gorgeous Jenny Lake. We ended up hiking up past the falls up a step path to a few overlooks that had stunning views of the entire lake. Then, we heard about a Moose spotting from another hiker and set out to find it...and we did! I think these offshoots must have added some distance and elevation to our hike because I was exhausted by the end.

Mormon Row - OK so this is less a hike and more of a site to see, but it’s these old farm houses and barns with the most stunning background. They are located on the Antelope refuge and we saw tons of pronghorn grazing in the area. I didn’t know what that was, but pronghorn are in the antelope family and they are the fastest animal in North America and the 2nd fastest animal in the world!! 

Beautiful viewpoint on top of Signal Mountain -  Perhaps you can hike here, but we drove it. The views from the top are stunning. You can see the Teton range and Lake Jackson on one side and Jackson Hole Valley on the other!

Top 10 Hiking trails in Grand Teton National Park on AllTrails >>

Yellowstone National Park is also only about an hour away from Jackson, but I’ll cover that in my Montana post! :)

Views from top of Signal Mtn:

Mormon Row:

Hiking Jenny Lake:

Shopping:

I knew from the beginning that I wanted to get a Stetson hat in Jackson. And so I did! And there were SOOO many good ones to choose from. Chris got his second Stetson, too!

Hide Out Leathers - I got both my Stetson hat and suede fringe jacket here! They have such a good supply of leather goods, not as wide variety of hats, but they do have some.

Beaver Creek Hats and Leather - Chris got his hat here and they have a loooot of great hats. I was tempted to buy another hat here after getting mine at Hide Out, but I resisted. 

High Country Outfitters - They have fly fishing trips out of here and outdoor gear/apparel.

Pendleton Store - Pendleton stuff just says “the West” to me. So it makes sense they’d have a flagship store in Jackson. They have such cool blankets and even make custom ones at this store.

Breakfast / Lunch:

Persephone bakery - An adorable bakery and cafe. You order at the counter and then they bring you your food. Really cute outdoor dining, too! I got the croissant breakfast sandwich and it was so tasty!

Cafe Genevieve - Another wonderful little breakfast spot, right next to Persephone. More of a sit down and order kind of place. And more traditional breakfast food. I loved my waffles and chai latte.

Creekside Market - Great deli to get to-go sandwiches for a day of adventures!

Dinner:

We should have booked dinner reservations further in advance, because it was pretty tough to get reservations once we got there. 

Our first night there, we met up with some friends who have a place in Jackson Hole. We wanted to sit outside (COVID and we had a dog with us), so we got drinks and dinner at Cutty’s, a local dive bar. Very divey, but fun! A bit out of the town square so less touristy but also you need to drive to get there. Not really a “must-see”. 

Local restaurant & bar - This was our favorite dinner in Jackson. We both got really good steaks! They also had really great wine selection including many natural wines, which we loved. 

StillWest Brewery & grill - When we couldn’t get reservations in town, we called StillWest. Stillwest is still technically in town, but not right in the town square. It’s closer to the local ski mountain, Snow King. It’s a really fun brewery and restaurant with good food!

On our third night we went to dinner with friends in a nearby town, Wilson, and went to an old-school Italian restaurant: Calico. 

Recommendations

Because we had such a limited time there, I enlisted the help of my friend Kaelyn (a regular, and a local for a good chunk of COVID) to help me with all of her faves. So comments below are from her POV, which I trust, of course.

Restaurants:

Glorietta's - New-ish Italian spot. Literally everything I've had is next-level good, but Meatballs are a must. 

Persephone Bakery - Breakfast/lunch spot. The one in town is tiny and always insanely crowded, but a new one just opened in Wilson and is bigger/way less crowded. We went here, too...Linked above!

Cafe Genevieve - Southern comfort-ish food (lol we did our late night wedding food from here). We went here, too...Linked above!

Pinky G's - Best pizza in my opinion — you can dine in but we usually take out Get the Abe Froman with balsamic glaze! 

Snake River Grill - Fancy spot, probably best steak/bison place in town Make a reso NOW if you're going months from now haha 

Bin 22 - Mini liquor/wine + mart that's also a tapas/happy hour spot

Calico - especially in the summer! We went here, too...Linked above!

Hikes:

Hiking in the park

Delta Lake - ~7 miles with elevation gain (takes 3.5-4.5 hours to hike, roundtrip, plus ~1 hour at the lake)...I'd say moderate-to-difficult but worth it. The views are unreal (it's that gorgeous bright blue lake!) and it's never too too crowded.

Bradley and/or Taggart Lakes - A 5-mile loop, not hard at all. Bradley is less crowded if you want to pick one.

Phelps Lake - Scenic and easy, more of a walk than a hike. Has a massive boulder that people jump off of into the water (great photo op!) — kind of a "rite of passage," if you will.

For both of these hikes (Bradley/Taggart and Delta), you'll enter through the park, which driving through IS an adventure in and of itself; you can buy a park pass that'll last you seven days

Also I HIGHLY recommend to everyone visiting Jackson that they rent a car

Hiking in Teton Village:

You can hike to the top of the gondola (~1.5 hours) OR ride the gondola and hike one of the trails that starts toward the top of the mountain...there are TONS

Did the Cirque trail this summer and LOVED it...It summits Rendezvous (the main skiing mountain in the village) and there were basically no people doing it.

Hiking in town:

Snow King - This is a ski run in winter but a steep and quick trail in the summer. Super quick but tough! A great workout.

Hiking with a bit of a drive

Table Mountain - You actually drive through Victor and Driggs (Idaho), then back through Alta (Wyoming) to get to the trailhead. Hike takes 4-5 hours and the first part (~3 miles) is really freaking hard BUT then it gets easier. On a clear day, you can see the Tetons from the other side!

Other Activities:

Float/raft Snake River - We usually just float it and drink beer but you can also do a guided rafting excursion, there are tons to choose from (just Google). 

Get sloshies - Sloshies are alcoholic slushies that you can find at most of the gas stations in Jackson Hole. My favorite's at Hoback Market, but that's a bit south of town. They also have them Creekside Market (also has my favorite, most epic sandwiches), Basecamp (the gas station in Wilson), Albertson's and the liquor store attached to Aspens Market.

Visit Jackson Lake - Super scenic lake in the park. Kind of a hike to get to but if you devote a day, you can rent SUPs, walk around, etc. If you have a boat (or can rent one) you can boat around and water ski, etc. 

Drive the big loop in the park - You'll see wildlife, the Tetons, the Chapel of the Transfiguration. Before leaving, grab a drink at Dornan's.

Granite or Astoria Hot Springs - The "official" Astoria ones aren't open to us non-Wyoming resident peasants BUT there are natural hot springs (called "hippie" hot springs) before Astoria/the red bridge that goes to the Snake River Sporting Club. Just park by the other parked cars, and you'll find a path that leads to them! (Def bring sloshies)

Below:

Pic 1 - Chris and I in our new Stetsons out to dinner

Pic 2 - Chris with our delicious steak dinner at Local

[satireknight]

TMNT S02E02 - The Incredible Shrinking Turtles

They sound like some kind of circus act, don’t they?

So the story opens in Central Park (not named, but obvious), where Leonardo is busy ruining Raphael’s camouflage hat as a demonstration of why they need to be vigilant and train... only to get humiliated when Donatello disarms him while he’s talking.

There’s then a brief segment where Michelangelo plays a prank on them by dressing in a Shredder costume and dropping in on them, which just makes me wonder if the Turtles have the same myopic affliction as everyone else. Like, you can’t see that this person is the guy you’ve lived with all your lives?

Just then a spaceship crash-lands. I’m not kidding, that actually happens: a spaceship crash-lands in Central Park with a jet-engine sound, and nobody sees it except the Turtles. April must be cussing up a storm.

They immediately dive into the nearest pond to rescue the pilot, a withered-looking little alien in a nightgown who always sounds like he’s got really bad asthma.

Oh, and if you’re wondering where Shredder is... he’s hiding in a bush. That is what Krang has reduced the guy to, following the Turtles around in public and lurking in bushes like a perverted creeper.

Fun exchange:

“Quick, boil some water!”

“We’re not delivering a baby, dimbo!”

“I heard it in a movie.”

The alien quickly exposits that they have to find the three fragments of the Eye of Sarnath, which grants incredible power to anyone who has it. Naturally Shredder hears that part and practically salivates over it. So the alien gives Donatello a crystal tracking device that can take him to the fragments. Yay, we have an arc plot! Then he dies.

Krang is still telling Shredder to fuck off until he can do something right.

The Turtles follow the crystal tracker to the dockside, where garbage is being loaded onto a scow.

“We’re going to dive right into that garbage, no questions asked!”

Donatello whines a little about having to do this sort of shit all the time, before getting literally yanked into the garbage headfirst. He finds it in about two seconds flat... only for this to happen.

Maybe if you DIDN’T hold it up over your head like that.

In an interesting reversal of the usual, the Turtles kinda get their butts handed to them by Shredder. I’m not sure why, except that they seem pretty unaware of their surroundings, which maybe ties into the whole training sequence at the beginning of the episode?

And then the fragment gets all glowy.

It’s shiny. That means it must be important.

And if the title didn’t tip you off, the Turtles immediately start shrinking down to the size of not-very-large dolls.

Shredder kind of sucks at chasing them, since they are small, fast and there are four of them going in different directions. Of course, Donatello is carrying around an object larger and heavier than he is, so he tires out pretty quickly. Fortunately a really unsafe garbage truck driver scatters them, and they’re able to escape in the dust cloud.

Of course, they’re still so tiny that an alleycat could easily munch them down, and they have to get back to their normal size. Which is a problem when you have to get past pedestrians. And when Leonardo insists on telling them to cheer up because, hey, it can’t get worse.

Shaddup, Leonardo.

So they’re washed down a grate and somehow manage not to die from either the fall or the water, and make their way home. Splinter is obviously not pleased, because it means he’ll have to take over the action part of the episode, which rarely ends well for him.

So he calls April to drive him around, while she’s in the Orange Juice meeting. Seriously, every person is drinking OJ. You know, April O’Neil was decades ahead of the trend of having your cell phone go off at odd moments, thus annoying every person around you.

Krang is still telling Shredder to fuck off until he has a pile of dead bodies to show for it.

April is chauffeuring Splinter around (I think that’s the only reason he called her) when they get news that someone is shrinking the Empire State building, which in no way impacts the foundation or the plumbing.

And pretty soon Shredder has a whole terrarium of shrunken buildings, which Igor... I mean, Baxter seems FAR too impressed by.

April and Splinter end up in a traffic jam, in which nobody notices that the guy in the passenger seat is a giant rat. Meanwhile, the Turtles are eating a single slice of pizza, which is more than enough for any of them except Michelangelo.

Then the whole place floods. Like, not for any reason; water just starts pouring in. They all climb on a bar of soap, which... does soap float? In my personal experience, it tends to sink right to the bottom and land on my foot.

Then because the universe hates them, a snake shows up.

Fortunately it’s a very stupid snake that just eats anything thrown at it, so Leonardo gets it to fuck off by feeding it lumps of soap.

Krang tells Shredder to fuck off AGAIN, pointing out that he demanded the Turtles and not shrunken-down buildings, which Shredder was absolutely sure would impress him. Baxter has also created a device that will track down turtles... which would probably be more useful if things like pets didn’t exist.

Meanwhile, the soap is almost gone and everyone is trying to strangle Leonardo.

Or maybe that’s just what it looks like. Michelangelo looks like he’s spooning him.

They end up washing out to sea, which in itself doesn’t seem to be a big deal, since they’re able to comfortably hang out and talk underwater. Fun fact: Turtles in fact cannot breathe underwater, they’re just very good at holding their breath.

Then a piranha attacks.

Maybe Splinter should have put them in a terrarium before leaving the house, for their own good.

Then they’re rescued from the fish by Igor.

I think this might qualify as the worst day of their lives thus far. And one of those days involved listening to the Neutrinos.

Shredder uses them to prove to Krang that he does NOT suck, so there, and why won’t you love me back, Krang? Seriously, he seems to need so much validation.

Donatello tries to defend himself with cliched writing, much to the scorn of the others, and Shredder prepares to kill them with a crowbar. Well, he could have just put them in a jar with no airholes, and that would have probably turned out the same.

Just then the Turtle Van busts in the door (good thing Splinter’s funny feelings are completely trustworthy, or that might have gotten awkward) and Splinter springs out to fight Shredder.

In all the commotion, April decides to do something useful by finding the Turtles in their jar, which she... doesn’t open.

Instead she just sort of coos about how tiny and adorable they are. Donatello tells her to get the crystal and aim it at them, on the assumption that it probably works both ways.

Splinter, meanwhile, is not doing so well against Shredder.

“Quick, April, turn on the beam!” AND OPEN THE JAR. For reasons that become immediately obvious when they start growing, but are getting squished against the sides of the jar.

Fortunately when they literally explode out of the jar, because April couldn’t take two seconds to dump them out, Donatello’s staff goes flying and switches off the machine just before it was going to kill Splinter. And boy is he ever aware of that.

He knocks Shredder onto the floor next to the fragment and... wait, the floor? Where did April go? Did she figure, “Well, I’ve done my part” and just leave the building, dumping the dangerous crystal fragment on the floor as she went?

The Turtles are about to pursue him when Splinter stops them.

“It is useless to try.” The episode’s almost over, and you already got shrunk once already.

And... wait, since Shredder got away with the crystal fragment... what about the buildings? Is this episode literally going to end with multiple buildings, including the Empire State building, being permanently shrunken down to the size of action figures?! 

Verdict:

So this episode was much more enjoyable than the last one, and not just because it doesn’t focus on some random dolts in costumes. It’s a pretty decent version of the help-we’re-tiny-and-dealing-with-tiny-perils story that a lot of shows do (even ST:DS9, one time), as well as setting up a small story arc that will last for a few more episodes.

Perhaps the biggest problem is that the characters had some brain farts that were impossible not to notice, like Michelangelo literally stepping on a snare. Or, you know, April not letting them out of the jar.

But overall, it’s a pretty good episode that maintains some decent suspense, with the Turtles trying really hard not to get squashed, eaten or flushed away. And it gave Splinter something to do, rather than just lurking at home and waiting to see what problems they came home with.

Grade: B-

[tripstations]

Here’s All the Best Stuff to Do in Mykonos and Santorini

Very lame, but I’ve always been kinda afraid of traveling. It’s not a fear of flying, but more that I was born in another country and, as such, overseas travel means a dramatic family visit weighed down with stress, guilt, and 20+ hours on a plane to Asia (where even as a 9-year-old, I was already on some shit about compression socks).

All this to say I don’t feel anything when people quit their jobs to travel the world, and follow zero travel Instagrammers. I’ve gone my entire life without ~seeing the world~ (couldn’t afford to study abroad so my personality doesn’t hinge on four months I spent in Paris, sorry!) and honestly, I would’ve been fine with that forever.

But when I got an invite to tour Mykonos and Santorini on a hotel-hopping trip with Katikies Resorts and Clubs, even *I* was like, HOLYSHITYES. After all, Santorini has been called the “Instagram Island” and when one of the top ten most Instagrammable hotels in Greece (where even Justin Bieber has stayed) invites you on a dream summer vacay, you don’t ask how they got your e-mail—you just GO before they change their minds. Anyway, here are all the fun things that impressed me the most.

First up, don’t even think about leaving without the following:

Butterfly Dress

Reformation thereformation.com

$278.00

Wide Brim Straw Hat

Sensi Studio modaoperandi.com

$295.00

Ultra Jungle Cat-Eye Sunglasses

Crap Eyewear crapeyewear.com

$79.00

Face Crème Night Time/Anytime

Cece Top

Sommer Swim sommerswim.com

$69.00

Jane Bottom

Sommer Swim sommerswim.com

$69.00

Rosemead Dress

Reformation thereformation.com

$198.00

The Bigger Carry-On

Away awaytravel.com

$245.00

Alegra Slip

Sommer Swim sommerswim.com

$219.00

Biore UV Aqua Rich Sunscreen SPF 50+

Mavic 2 Pro

DJI Mavic 2 dji.com

$1,499.00

1. Party it up at all the Mykonos clubs before going to Santorini.

If you are like me two weeks ago and have no idea how to distinguish between different Greek islands, trust when I say you’re gonna wanna do Mykonos first and then Santorini. Why? Totally different vibes. Mykonos is club central—the energy there is extremely horny, and you’ll want to get hedonistic and loose there first before calming down and sightseeing in Santorini, where everyone is coupled up. Everyone is also super hot (still thinking about you, hot passport control guy, imy), friendly, and funny.

Book Now Katikies Mykonos

In the wedding party of my dreams, we rent a bunch of private villas in Mykonos, go to Elia beach, and lounge around our private pool (IDK what’s up with the pool industry in Greece, but it seems like even two-bedroom vacay villas have ones the size of McMansions) before hitting up the two main hot spots: Scorpios and Nammos. If you’re a night owl, you will THRIVE in Mykonos: Parties usually don’t “start” until 2 a.m., and they easily last until 6. Lindsay Lohan may or may not be there.

2. Go shopping in Mykonos town.

The long, winding streets of Mykonos town are filled with little shops and scenic nooks and crannies perfect for ’gramming. Take a day to explore by foot, and add in time for a leisurely lunch and dinner.

During lunch at Kazarma, our waiter mentioned that the historic building used to be owned by Mantos Mavrogenous, a bad bitch who kept a cache of weapons and cash in the building during the Greek War of Independence. Yes, she wound up dying alone, broke from spending all her money on the war effort (for which she was never repaid), and yes, we stan.

3. Take the ferry and bop over to Santorini.

The ferry takes around four hours (compared to the one-hour flight) but offers a much more scenic route. They usually stop to pick up passengers in Naxos, Paros, and Ios, and you can go on the deck to scope out the different cities. Didn’t have time to see any ruins on your trip? The Portara is easily visible from the ferry deck and dates back to 530 BC.

When it’s time to dock in Santorini, you’ll go down into the bowels of the ferry to collect your luggage before disembarking. It’s very much like you’re in Star Wars shipping off in the belly of a giant spacecraft before the gates open and SUN! SANTORINI! JK, you can’t see anything yet because you gotta go up the cliff and settle into a hotel for that Insta-famous Santorini view.

4. Stay in a traditional cave house and appreciate the architecture.

Fun fact: All those cave-like homes you see on Insta (hyposkapha, if you want to be legit about it) are because the islanders kept getting their shit rocked by pirates in the 16th century. As a result, they had to build upward on the most precipitous cliffs they could find.

Carina Hsieh

Book Now Kirini Santorini

This is why Santorini looks and feels so different from other warm would-be-beach towns. There’s no way of just walking from your hotel to the shore—all the resorts are on top of literal cliffs. I stayed in the Kirini Santorini (Carina at Kirini! LOL invite me back pls) and it was *chef’s kiss* in terms of views.

This drone video I bribed Konstantinos Sigalas, Katikies’ social media executive, to take will help you see what I mean.

5. Go on a caldera cruise.

I’m sorry to report that my stupid ass saw a bunch of photos of the ocean in Santorini and was like, “Oh, it’s definitely like a beach town.” Folks, it ain’t!

Few beaches are accessible by foot in Santorini, so the best way to take advantage of that crystal blue Aegean is by boat. We chartered a Riva yacht (v bougie) to take us around the island and stopped where the water looked the dreamiest to pop in for a swim.

On the boat, Sigalas shared this hot blogger tip for getting the best Insta eye-candy shot: Shoot video on your phone, scroll through the video to find the perfect still, and use a screenshot of THAT to get the perfect photo. Very important: you’ll need to go into “Settings —> Camera —>” and adjust “Record Video” to “4K at 60 FPS” for the most high-res stills.

Book Now Caldera Cruise, starting at $1,600/for two passengers

6. Go swimming in the hot springs.

During your caldera cruise you should also ask the captain to make a detour to the hot springs. You’ll know you’re there because the water goes from deep blue to turquoisey-green with orange sulfur on the rocks of the inlet.

Do: Bring a pool noodle. Sorry to everyone who got tired swimming into the inlet, but our captain immediately sized up our wine-drunk asses and was like, “You probs want these.” And we did!Don’t: Wear white in the hot springs. The sulfur will fuck this up. Don’t: Wear any jewelry in the hot springs. Again, sulfur.

A fact I tried very hard to contain during my trip is that I’m the world’s pickiest eater. My definition of seafood means fish sticks from those microwave meals with the penguin, and avoiding vegetables is a firm 1/16th of my personality. But Greece, where the produce and fish are so fresh, suddenly made me the biggest tomato stan on earth, and I would step into the ring for second helpings of whatever sea creature is placed in front of me.

It also helps when everything is deliciously cooked. The restaurants are so exclusive that you usually have to be a member of the Katikies Club to dine there—although this year they opened Mikrasia (with locations in Santorini and Mykonos) and DePaul Restaurant to the public. Santorini Mikrasia has only six tables and it’s generally recommended you book a spot a few weeks in advance. The Mykonos version has more tables but is also v fancy — resident chef Angelos Bakopoulos was on Greek Master Chef. Both restos also won the FNL awards in 2018 (the Greek equivalent to the Michelin Guide).

While a lot of Santorini is Greek Orthodox, Fira town (the capital) has a Catholic church and a monastery where the Vatican would store Greek wines to be shipped to the Pope. Recently, the monastery was bought and turned into Katikies Garden. It’s the most family-friendly of the Katikies clique because there aren’t as many steep stairs. (Seriously! That’s why Santorini doesn’t have a ton of kids running around! What if they fall!)

While everything else in Santorini feels exactly like you’d picture it from postcards and Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants (sun-drenched, everything bright white), the streets of Fira have a Venetian feel. Even the building’s colors reflect this: There’s a lot of beige and pink as well as rounded archways and courtyards that feel hella Italianate.

It’s all very subtle, but the best way I can describe it is like you suddenly look up and gaslight yourself into wondering if you’re still in Greece. You are!

I’m a pretty tough spa critic (I like my massages how I like my breakups: rough, hard, and with me begging for five more minutes). Yet no treatment has ever compared to the one I got from Nicole at A.Spa. No joke, I physically felt her clear my sinuses through my back at one point. Magic.

Stop by Venetsanos Winery for a tour of the first industrial winery on Santorini. If you’re the opposite of claustrophobic, you can squeeze your bod through one of the old underground wine storage tanks and finish off your day with a breathtaking view of the caldera as you sample a bunch of delicious wines.

Contemplate the meaning of life as you stare off into the Aegean and wonder when your husband will return from Greco-Persian war.

Then, consider taking a second mortgage on the house you do not own in order to stay in Greece forever. Or at least come back next year.

If you can’t make it to Greece just yet, here’s what to buy instead:

Three Cents Pink Grapefruit Soda

Three Cents thewhiskyexchange.com

£1.25

This is the status soda of Greece. Every bar/restaurant worth visiting is stocked up on this pink stuff, and it’s in all the delicious cocktails. I may not know food, but I know my carbonated bevs, and this is GOOD. 

Oia in Santorini by Kadio Kolymva

Armos amazon.com

Super thin and stocked with tons of fascinating tidbits about Oia and Santorini. If you don’t wanna bug the hotel staff with hundreds of iterations of, “Wait, explain how they carved out all these rooms out of rock without power tools again?” like I did, this book will sate you in the best way. 

Donkey Milk Face Serum

Body Farm Greece hercules-shop.com

€32.00

Thank me later when Donkey Milk becomes a Thing in the U.S. One of the women I traveled with picked up this serum on a whim, and for the rest of the trip everyone was fascinated by how great it was. Also, Cleopatra is said to have bathed in donkey milk, so there you go. 

Korres Pure Greek Olive Body Set

You may have heard of Korres here, but I’ve got news for you. There are secret Greece-exclusive products that are WAY better. One of the women on our trip was on a mission to restock her daughter’s collection of the Olive body lotion she’d picked up the previous year, and after trying it, MAN DO I UNDERSTAND THE URGENCY. 

Carina Hsieh Sex & Relationships Editor Carina Hsieh lives in NYC with her French Bulldog Bao Bao — follow her on Instagram and Twitter • Candace Bushnell once called her the Samantha Jones of Tinder • She enjoys hanging out in the candle aisle of TJ Maxx and getting lost in Amazon spirals. 

The post Here’s All the Best Stuff to Do in Mykonos and Santorini appeared first on Tripstations.

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[tglifestyle]

Travel Day

We departed for our trip on the evening of March 27th, flying from Atlanta to Paris, then switching planes to head to Venice.  I didn’t realize that in Paris we would have to go through customs and security, which took quite a while.  We had a one hour layover and nearly missed our connecting flight as it took over a half hour to get through security.  CDG Airport in Paris is kind of crazy – very busy and spread out.  I would advise getting a direct flight if possible, or connecting somewhere else (I’ve heard Berlin is a good connection city).  When we got to our “gate” to “board” it was actually a bus that then drove us out to the runway to climb aboard our plane. The flight from Paris to Venice is beautiful; we were awestruck as we flew over the Alps.

View on the flight from Paris to Venice

Landing in Venice There are several options for getting from the airport which is on the mainland, to the island of Venice.  The cheapest is taking a land bus for a few euros which will drop you off on the only road on the island – an area called Piazalle Roma.  Our hotel was actually right in this area, so the bus would have been very easy for us to take, but we wanted to take a water taxi instead.  A private water taxi is the most expensive way to go (100 euros) but really the nicest way to get there, allowing a scenic view of the city as your arrive via boat.  After so many hours of flying it was a very nice way to arrive at our destination. There are also water buses you can hop on that stop at specific places, and since they make multiple stops they can take a bit longer.  Depending on where you stay, you’ll need to make sure you get off the waterbus at the stop closest to your hotel.

Tip:  Choose a hotel that is very close to a water bus or water taxi stop, otherwise you’ll be hauling your luggage up and down steps, over bridges, and along narrow crowded sidewalks.

The Hotel

We stayed at the Santa Chiara hotel which is located on Piazalle Roma and faces the Grand Canal.  It’s a great location, as it is also very close to the train station.  Unfortunately, this also made it a little noisy.  Our room wasn’t ready, but the front desk staff checked our luggage and gave us a map, showing us things to go do and see while we waited.  The building is hundreds of years old, but you would never guess that by the ultra-modern rooms.  It was the most spacious room of all the hotels we stayed in during our trip.  Our room faced Piazalle Roma, not the Canal, so we didn’t have a great view – just lots of buses, taxis, and people, but to be honest, we were only in our room to sleep so that didn’t matter.  The bathroom was gorgeous, with a nice shower and great lighting.  There is a coffee maker and a refrigerator with a minibar (prices were reasonable).  They do serve breakfast each day until 10:30, but we weren’t up and out until 11:00 so we never tried it.  They do serve good coffee, though!

The Grand Canal behind Hotel Santa Chiara

Rialto Bridge

Morning coffee at our hotel

Exploring Venice

While we were waiting for our room to be ready, we went walking for about 2 hours. It was fun to wander along twisting, turning narrow sidewalks and bridges over canals throughout the city.  We were lucky to have absolutely beautiful weather, so we were able to enjoy the sights, pausing to take in the picturesque scenery.  Besides the canals and ancient buildings, there are stunning basilicas  and pretty squares scattered throughout Venice.  It’s easy to get lost, so having a paper map as well as using your phone (if you have an international data plan) is essential. The “touristy” areas are super crowded, so it’s fun to wander down quieter streets to look in the shop windows and explore.  We never felt unsafe during our self-guided tour of the city.

Exploring the streets of Venice

We eventually made it back to the hotel, where the gentleman from the front desk led us up to our room, where they had already delivered our luggage.  We napped for a bit, then dressed and found a place for dinner. We decided on Rio Novo Risorante, just a short walk from our hotel.  It is a rather small place, and as with most restaurants in Venice, the menu was in both Italian and English, and our server spoke English as well.  We did not have a reservation, but they were able to accommodate us.  We ordered the house wine – which, just about everywhere in Italy is very good – and some fresh bruschetta.  I had the seafood pasta which was a clean, simple dish of fresh pasta, shrimp, lobster, mussels and clams.  It was exactly what I wanted for my first meal in Venice.  My husband had  grilled fish with vegetables that was equally as good.  After dinner we strolled around Venice and ended the evening with some cocktails at a lovely little hotel.  I cannot remember the hotel name, but the manager, Frederico, sat with us and chatted for quite some time.  He was very funny and gave us some excellent tips when it came to dining in Venice (don’t eat anywhere that has photos of their food on their menu!) and also assured us that Italians so indeed like Americans, but they don’t like the French. Ha!

Tip:  Order the house wine at restaurants – you’re in Italy; the wine is good!

Must See Attractions

Day 2 in Venice had us exploring some of the “must see” attractions: St. Mark’s Basilica, Doge’s Palace (Palazzo Ducale), The Bridge of Sighs, and the Rialto Bridge.  It was about a 30 minute walk straight from our hotel to St. Mark’s, but we stopped at locations along the way.  First we ducked into a café for a quick espresso and sandwich, then meandered towards St. Marks, stopping to look at some beautiful squares and churches along the way. The closer we got to St. Mark’s Square, the more crowded it got – and I mean thousands of people everywhere.  There are lots of tour groups, which can get annoying, as do all of the people with selfie sticks, but if you can manage to ignore all that and just enjoy the beauty of where you are, you’ll have a more pleasant day.

Venice, Italy

Tip:  When at a café, a coffee is an espresso, and you drink it standing at the bar.  You can also enjoy a sandwich or slice of pizza, then pay before you leave.

I was more impressed with Doge’s Palace than St. Mark’s, to be completely honest.  St. Mark’s Square is beautiful, but I was less impressed with the inside (and you have to stand in line to see the inside). You cannot take pictures inside, because it is a holy place, and you must be appropriately dressed – no bare arms, not hats, not big backpacks, etc.  I thought the views from outside were more spectacular.  The wait to get into Doge’s palace was about 15-20 minutes, so I recommend buying ahead and skipping the line.  We bought just the basic ticket – they’ll try to upsell you on buying tickets to four different museums, but the basic ticket is really all you need; the palace is huge and there is plenty to see there.

We were in awe of the intricate art work throughout the palace, all of the rooms that seemed to never end, connected to each other.  The Armory was impressive, with all sorts of swords and other weapons, and the prison was pretty cool, too.  We walked across The Bridge of Sighs and took a picture from inside, looking out (most people stand on the bridge opposite and take a picture of the outside, but it’s pretty cool to actually be inside of it).  This is the bridge that prisoners had to pass over while walking from the interrogation room to their cells in the prison, and was named because prisoners would “sigh” at their final view of beautiful Venice.

St. Mark’s Square

After a good 3 hours at St. Mark’s and Doge’s Palace, we walked back towards the Grand Canal, stopping at a quiet little café for some pizza and spritz.  We sat in the courtyard and watched locals walking by, out of the way of the tourists and crowds.  I cannot remember the name of the place, but we also enjoyed a traditional Venetian fish appetizer that had 5 different fish, including calamari in a marinara sauce, and cod prepared three different ways, one of which was the traditional baccala montecato, a creamed dried cod served on white polenta.  We devoured it, and then decided we needed a pizza!  After lunch, we sat on the edge of the Grand Canal facing the Rialto Bridge and did some people watching and had some gelato.  The Rialto Bridge is beautiful, but I found myself frustrated while crossing over it due to the crowd of people trying to take selfies.

Looking out from inside the Bridge of Sighs

Tip:  When in Venice, try some of the “typical” Venetian dishes which are seafood based like baccala montecato (mentioned above) or cuttle fish (which I didn’t try).

Because we had “lunch” so late in the day, we weren’t really hungry enough for a meal, so instead we wandered out in search of a spritz (the Italian drink of prosecco and aperol that we consumed every day).  We found a lively little walk-up place where the gentleman behind the bar was pouring spritz non-stop for a crowd of college-aged people.  There were a few other “older” folks like us as well.  We then wandered down the road, drinks in hand, in the direction of some music and came across a couple of guys in front of another café, playing guitar and singing American and British songs in a mixture of Italian and English.  The small crowd that had gathered were lively, singing and dancing.  We stayed, and eventually made our way inside for a sandwich and another drink.  It was nice to be in a place filled with locals instead of tourists; we felt like we were getting a taste of the “real” Venice.

What We Missed

Of course, I had lots of things on my list and knew we wouldn’t get to them all.  We never ordered risotto, did not take a gondola ride, and never made it to the islands of Murano and Burano, all of which were on the list of to-do’s.  But I still feel like we had a terrific experience in Venice.

Click here for Part 2:  Padova

  Italy Vacation: Part 1: Venice Travel Day We departed for our trip on the evening of March 27th, flying from Atlanta to Paris, then switching planes to head to Venice. 

[poeticsandaliens]

A Pirate’s Life for Me (Ch. 2)

I would like to make a request that someone who is a good artist please draw this pirate Stella for me because I desperately want an actual visual of pirate Stella. I just wanna see Gillian Anderson as a pirate.

AO3 link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/11405793/chapters/25602801

Scully wound her way through the cracked cobblestone of Los Barriles, her right hand resting firmly on her father’s flintlock pistol. It was an exquisite weapon, hand-crafted in London and carved ornately into its handle handle a ship bested storm-ravaged seas. She would not call herself experience with a pistol, for she’d never had occasion to use one, but its presence at her hip comforted her, and—or so she liked to think—intimidated any would-be assailants.

After all, Los Barriles was not famed for its morals. The inlet town, built around a makeshift port only a few kilometers from Port Washington, attracted washed up sailors and buccaneers seeking to set their feet on dry land without running into the British Navy. Pirates were rumored to make port at Los Barriles on moonless nights, to fill their freshwater barrels in one of the area’s countless springs.

Pirates, Scully mused, were at once her greatest concern and the very reason she came here at this late hour. She’d had no encounters of her own with legendary scourges of the sea; all she knew of pirates came from Mulder’s legends and her father’s death. The Flying Dutchman lurked at the front of her mind, but she dispelled it—myths of the undead had no place in Mulder’s rescue.

Scully wrinkled her nose as she stepped over the threshold of the Blue Baron. The muggy tavern air smelled of salt and rum and decaying fish, clinging to her skin and sticking in her throat as she breathed. Three men stood off with rapiers on the second floor balcony. A rat scurried across the floor, and then a flurry of wings dropped into view and snatched it in glinting talons, carrying it to an empty table. A pale owl perched on a chair and promptly ripped off the rat’s head, its heart-shaped face staring curiously at Scully. Lingering in the doorway, she stared back, mesmerized—it was a fascinating creature, elegant and ruthless.

A sudden gunshot rang out behind her, and she stepped decidedly into the tavern. As she scanned for a safe seat, she brushed a smudge of dirt off her trousers—a practical item of clothing her upright mother had not been too thrilled that she’d purchased. Her mother always meant well, of course, and had been nothing if not the rock of her family, especially since her sister had passed and her brothers gone to sea.

Sitting down at the bar, she wondered if she’d ever see her mother or Bill or Charlie again. If she did find herself a ship and crew to chase down Mulder’s captors, would she live to lay eyes on Port Washington and the white cliffs upon which her home rested?

“Can I get you anything today, Miss?” The scraggly man behind the counter gave her a toothless smile.

“Pint, please,” she said, eyeing the murky, probably illicit bottles of rum and ale shared between the Blue Baron’s patrons.

“Of what?”

“Whatever’s closest.” She would need a little liquid courage to ask one of these sea-weathered men for help.

“Pint of rum, it is.” He slid it over the counter.

Scully took a couple gulps of the foul stuff. “Yo ho and a bottle or rum,” she muttered cynically, if only to disguise her apprehension. Drinking in Los Barriles at this time of night, she felt well on her way to becoming a pirate herself. Once, she’d vowed never to associate with the skull and crossbones—it had become a herald of death in her mind, ever since her father had been slain under its wrath. Desperate times called for desperate measures, of course, but she considered herself an upstanding (if proudly rebellious) woman. Even trifling with the sailors in the Blue Baron she would hold to her morals.

“So,” the raggedy barman leaned over the counter, and she could smell at least three types of whiskey on his lips. “What brings a young lass pretty as you to Los Barriles?”

“Actually,” she said, leaning away from his intruding features, “I’m looking for a pirate.”

He grinned, and his grey eyes swept the bar knowingly. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

“My friend—a man by the name of Fox Mulder—was aboard the Macbeth, which left Port Washington a fortnight past. Last I’ve heard, pirates sunk the vessel and took him as their prisoner.” She hardened her jaw and wrinkled her brow, stubborn purpose settling comfortably into her typically soft face. “I aim to bring him back.” She reached into the pocket of her trousers and brought out a handful of doubloons. “Three are for the pint; the other five are for anything you can tell me about who sunk the Macbeth.”

The bartender scratched the stubble on his neck, then scooped the coins off the counter. “I don’t think I could tell you who,” he confessed, “but I’ve heard of a ship.”

“By what name?”

“The Claudius. A man passed through this morning, said the Claudius had destroyed a British vessel and taken its navigator aboard. No negotiations, no parlay. They just took him—doesn’t happen too often.”

That sounded promising. Scully opened her mouth but found herself interrupted before she could respond.

“The Claudius, you said?” A woman’s voice, classy and weathered, piped up from the far corner of the room. There, a blonde woman in a red-feathered hat rested with her boots propped up on a small table. Shaded beneath the brim of her hat, her face was all cheekbones and weathered poise, calculating blue eyes fixed on Scully. Her pint of whiskey trembled as two men began to grapple on the tavern floor.

“And are you familiar with that ship?” Scully asked, ignoring her stutter as she stared down the imposing newcomer to her conversation.

“Aye, I am.”

“Last I heard, it was sailing toward an impossible island, seeking an impossible treasure,” said the bartender. He turned back to Scully. “Maybe that’s why they’ve got your navigator friend on board.”

It made sense—Mulder had brought dozens of maps with him, most of them limited to the confines of reality, but some supposedly leading to mythical treasures and islands of the dead. Mulder had a reputation for knowing (and believing) every sea legend he stumbled upon. Scully always considered it her duty to keep his feet on the ground.

“Do you know what they might be searching for?” Scully asked.

“I know what they seek,” the woman in the corner said gravely. She got to her feet and approached them with a slow swagger to her step—sea legs, possibly, or the confidence of the world-weary. She was dressed in trousers and black embroidered waistcoat belted at the waist with a hip holster. (It seemed Skinner was right.) She sat down beside Scully and leaned close, her aquiline profile made harsher in the pale candlelight. “They sail for the heart of Davy Jones.”

Intimidated as she was, Scully stifled a snort. She’d heard quite enough about Davy Jones and the Flying Dutchman from Commodore Skinner that morning. Were the circumstances not so grave, she might find it funny that Mulder’s favorite sailors’ tale would be the motivation for his capture.

“Davy Jones is only a story told to frighten would-be mutineers.” She chuckled grimly. “‘Take me orders or ye be sent to Davy Jones’s Locker’ and ‘the Flying Dutchman will scavenge your soul from the depths of the sea’ and so on.”  

The barman seemed slightly horrified—or perhaps offended—and the woman rather amused, the corners of her mouth lifted into the slightest smirk.

“Have you ever heard the story of Davy Jones?” the barman asked in a reverent hush.

Scully arched her eyebrows. “Only the part where he cuts his heart out and buries it on some God forsaken island.”

“Oh, there’s more to it than that, Missy.“ He lowered his voice and leaned close to the two women. ” Davy Jones was once a ruthless young pirate by the name of Captain Philip Padgett Jones. He sailed the Flying Dutchman over these very seas with a crew of human devils, and as tribute to his victories, Pagett cut out the hearts of the Lord and Lady of every port he raided and collected them in an iron chest. For his beastly cruelty, he earned himself the nickname Davy Jones—the Devil Jones. But evil as he was, Pagett was also a gifted poet, and for each poem he finished he would wrap it around a human heart and drown it in the sea.

“For ten years, he terrorized these waters. But one night, he found only a woman in Lord’s house, and when he cut out her heart she revealed herself as the goddess Athena. The goddess was furious that Captain Padgett had abused his talents and defiled the poetry she guarded so fiercely.

“Filled with grief and remorse at having angered the goddess he worshipped every time he wrote, Pagett cut his own heart from his body and placed it in the iron chest. But Athena wasn’t finished. She cursed Pagett for his crimes, dooming him to sail the Flying Dutchman with the tortured souls of his victims until the day someone put the same knife through his heart that he used to carve it out. He could only touch land once every ten years, a penance for the ten years he sailed the living ocean. Now, alone but for the dead, Pagett truly became Davy Jones.”

Scully listened, wide-eyed, as the barman finished his story. Even if it was an old wives’ tale, she couldn’t help her curiosity, and this grizzled old man certainly knew how to captivate his audience. “Did anyone pierce Davy Jones’ heart?”

The barman shrugged. “I don’t know who would. According to legend, he who stabs the heart must take its place, sailing the Dutchman for eternity with spirits for company.”

“I don’t know,” the blonde woman mused beside Scully, drumming her fingers on the counter. “It hardly seems like too awful a fate.” Scully gaped at her, but the lines in the woman’s face told of the many hardships which informed her opinion.

The barman shivered. “Terrible, if you ask me. Imagine watching your brothers and sisters, your wife and children, aging and dying without you.”

“If you have none of those, the grief is spared.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Scully interjected decisively. “Everything aside, it’s still just a ghost story.”

“One day,” said the mysterious woman airily, “the truth of these tales might surprise you.”

Scully crossed her arms. “Who are you?” she demanded, tired of the nonchalance with which this woman had inserted herself into Scully’s quest.

The woman cocked her eyebrow. “Captain Stella Gibson,” she said, holding out a hand. “Stella to you.”

Tentatively, Scully shook it. “Dana Scully. Just call me Scully.” It was what Mulder called her, and she’d grown accustomed to it.

“And your friend—Mulder, wasn’t it—is trapped aboard the Claudius.”

Scully dipped her chin in assent. “I believe so.”

“Well, I can tell you with no small amount of certainty that the Claudius’s captain doesn’t give a rat’s ass whether you believe in the Flying Dutchman. He wants the heart of Davy Jones, and he won’t let something like rationality get in his way.”

“It’s a good thing I don’t aim to negotiate with him, then,” Scully said calmly.

“I’m curious what you plan to do, Miss—Scully, was it? I don’t doubt your fortitude, but one person is hardly enough to man a sizable ship, much less send it to battle.” Stella leaned her chin on her hand, elbow digging into the counter. She slapped three coins on the table and slid them to the barman. He left to fetch her another pint.

“What would you suggest doing, then?” Scully challenged. It wasn’t as if she could concoct a detailed strategy from some pub in Los Barriles. If she were being honest, she had a mind to simply sneak on board the Claudius, free Mulder, and sail home, but realistically, she needed a better plan than that.

Stella cocked one eyebrow. “I have a ship.”

“How lovely for you.”

“You could sail with me. I aim to pursue the Claudius myself, and I know exactly where to find it.”

She’d mentioned that something of hers was aboard the hostile ship, and Scully suddenly found herself quite curious as to what that thing was.

“And why should I trust you?” She remembered something Mulder had told her years ago, reading two contradictory accounts of a Greek pirate. Trust no one, Scully, he had said. Everyone had a bias.

“I never told you to trust me,” said Stella flippantly. “I’m simply making you an offer—we leave tonight, find the Claudius; I fetch my lost items, and you fetch your imprisoned man. I could use your help, and you could certainly use mine.”

“Don’t you have a crew?”

She shrugged half-heartedly. “My crew can only do so much.”

“Why me?”

Another half-shrug. “You seem competent. You have your wits about you, and you carry a pistol. Do you know how to use it?”

“Not particularly well,” Scully admitted.

“A sword, then?”

“I can effectively fight with a sword, but I don’t have one.” Her father had taught her swordplay when she was young, in case she ever found herself in trouble. This probably wasn’t the situation he’d had in mind.

“Well that’s easy enough to find.”

The barman returned with her pint of ale. “Here you are, Miss.” He beckoned for Scully to lean closer and pointed to a wiry young man a table away from her. He looked beaten, despite his youthful face; his tri-corner hat had a patch on the brim, and his breeches were torn at the knee as if from a knife.

“See him?” asked the barman. “His name is John Jack.”

“Quite a name,” Scully muttered.

“Says he’s got a ship and a crew ready to leave the dock. All he needs is a direction, and he’ll bring your friend back for you within the month.”

“Well that’s not going to do.” Scully lifted her chin. “I have every intention of being on that ship myself to see things go as planned.”

But the barman only laughed. “You’ve some spirit, Miss, and I can’t fault you that. But it’s bad luck to have a woman aboard, and you’ll find no one here willing to bring that upon themselves.”

“Oh?” Beside Scully, Stella fixed the barman with a cold stare. “I wouldn’t necessarily say no one.”

He looked skeptical. “Captain Stella Gibson,” he tried her name on his tongue once; then his own aged eyes met hers. “How’d such a woman gain command of her own vessel, eh?”

“Gunpowder,” she responded with a quirk of her lips, “like an upstanding pirate.”

Scully swallowed a mouthful of musky air. Perhaps she was in over her head, if her only ally was a proud-grinning pirate. But what had she expected in Los Barriles? Everyone here committed treason for a living. They were all pirates; if nothing else, she’d happened upon a smart one, who dared not underestimate her sex.

“And Captain Gibson,” the barman urged, “are you plagued with rotten luck?”

Stella downed the last of her drink. “That depends on who you ask.”

The tavern door burst open to reveal a burly, red-bearded man with a scimitar, who ducked his head simply to fit in the doorway. The room fell silent as he marched across the floor, creaking its rotten wood with every step. Fist-fighting crewmates froze in their places, following him with their eyes, and men around the tavern had their hands on the hilts of their sabres in case of a scrabble. Even Stella, leaning calmly against the counter, kept her sword firmly in grip.

He stopped in the center of the tavern, swayed for a moment, and Scully noticed the wildness in his eyes. He was likely just drunken and angry. He took a swig from an empty bottle of rum and turned a circle around the room. All eyes were on him.

“It’s here,” he croaked in a voice like splitting rock. “I saw it, I tell ye. I was filling barrels at the spring, and I saw it.”

Stella narrowed her eyes and leaned forward. “Saw what?” she asked slowly.

“The ship of demons.”

Scully rolled her eyes. All this talk of demons and curses and women bearing sour luck; pirates were a superstitious lot, clearly, for she saw no more evidence to support their claims than she had Mulder’s.

But the red-bearded pirate seemed genuinely spooked. Perhaps the sea was playing tricks on him, as it often did on these foggy nights. He had the entire bar on edge, as well.

“What ship?” Stella asked again, more sharply this time.

His lips trembled as he said in a hush, “The Flying Dutchman.”

Immediately, chaos erupted once more in the tavern, but it wasn’t a rowdy, lively chaos as before. This chaos was perilous, as every patron raced for the door. Gunshots echoed in her ears as one man blew a hole in the window and leapt out. Scully leapt behind the counter and crouched beside the barman as a bottle flew over their heads, the back of her red ponytail pressing uncomfortably against the wall.

“What do they think they’re doing?” she hissed. “Risking their lives to escape a mythical ship.”

“S’not a matter of whether the Dutchman is real, Missy,” said the barman. “They’ve heard tales, each more horrible than the last.”

One man leapt the counter and snatched handful of money from the box of nightly earnings. He glanced sidelong at the barman. “Get out of here while you have a chance!” he urged before jumping out the shattered window. The barman didn’t try to stop him, only sighed.

“They’re taking what they can before they go—to their ships or the afterlife, only time will tell.”

“Do you believe the Flying Dutchman is really here?” She couldn’t help asking—Skinner’s words had stuck in her mind. Perhaps the Dutchman, for all the tall tales it spawned, was a living ship commanded by living men. After all, what was the old saying—dead men tell no tales.

“I can’t say,” he confessed, but she could hear the panic in his voice. “But I seen it myself, once, back when I was a seaman. I woke up one morning, and through the dawn mist, I could see a ship with the pirate colors flying high. I readied the cannons, but when it got closer I saw only one man aboard. And the ship, it had crabs on its flanks like it’d touched the ocean floor. I went to the crow’s nest for a better look, but when I opened my spyglass, it just sank. Thought I’d just watched a man drown, but then I looked to the water, and its silver sails passed me, just beneath the waves.”

He shivered. “Don’t y'dare tell me I dreamed it, Missy. The water’s a lot bigger than you think it is; just wait and see. Y’don’t know what’s out there.”

Scully didn’t know what to make of the barman. Compared to the rest of this place, he seemed reasonable. “I suppose I will have—”

A rapier poked through the barman’s chest. A little scream escaped her mouth, and she clapped her hand to her throat. She grabbed his limp shoulders and shook, but he didn’t stir. His dark eyes were already glassed over when she slapped his cheek. Good God, she hadn’t even learned his name.

A pair of rough hands seized her by the collar. She looked up to the bulging eyes of the same young pirate who’d offered her his services earlier—John Jack. “Sorry, pretty lady,” he growled, “but I’ve got to take my plunders and run.” He pulled her toward him, over the dead barman’s legs. Her hands scrabbled at the floor; she reached for her pistol but found the holster empty.

“Looking for this?” The man taunted, waving her pistol in his free hand. When he sneered, his gold earrings flashed. His breath smelled sour, a mixture of whiskey and aged grime. It was the jolt of reality Scully needed. Gritting her teeth, she kicked with all her might at his knees. They buckled, and he released his grip on her shirt-scruff, stumbling backwards into the fray.

Scully crawled away desperately, back over the barman’s corpse, and scrambled to her feet. She elbowed her way through the crowd, searching for an exit. The Blue Baron was an absolute wreck, with men plundering goods left and right, killing each other over gold pieces and running into the streets, presumably to set sail.

“Not so fast.” John Jack grabbed her ankle, tugging her down. He still had her pistol, but by this point she couldn’t care less—her only want was to escape the fray. “Yer coming with me, if I’ve got to drag ye the whole way.” She kicked at his face, but his bony arms held surprising strength.

She lost her balance and tumbled to the floor. As John Jack reached for her calf, a black boot crushed his wrist to the floor.

“I would let go if I were you,” said Stella Gibson, and if she’d been intimidating before, she sounded now like the first claps of thunder before a hurricane. Scully got up while she had the chance and backed away from the pair. No use fighting without a proper weapon.

John Jack didn’t seem to intimidated by Stella, though. He flashed her a charming smile. “Sorry about that,” he breathed, tugging at his smashed fist. Stella cocked her eyebrow like a loaded gun and let him to his feet.

“What are you doing?” Scully whispered through clenched teeth. Stella gave no answer, but she’d drawn her sword. The owl once munching on stray rodents rested peacefully on her shoulder. Its head swiveled around, and its coal black eyes met Scully’s in some strange form of reassurance. So the bird belonged to Stella. It was a strange companion, to be sure.

When John Jack stood, he was a full head taller than Stella. Scully backed away until her legs pressed against a table. Stella did nothing, and John Jack winked cruelly at Scully over her shoulder. He raised the gun, but Stella didn’t budge. Apparently no pirate shied away from a duel, no matter the situation.

He cocked the pistol and pulled the trigger, and the shot seemed to bounce off every wall in the Blue Baron. Those who were still pilfering whatever they could find stopped and looked up. Scully could feel her breathing go ragged, as if the bullet had pierced her own chest. She had no sound left to scream with.

John Jack grinned his wild, death-heralding grin. He made for Scully, but like lightning, Stella had her rapier blocking his path. Her coat fell open, revealing a white bell-sleeved shirt and a hollow bullet-wound that did not bleed.

“Don’t waste precious ammunition,” Stella advised with a twitch of her misaligned lips.

Scully saw his expression shift from satisfaction to confusion to horror. He shot her again. And again. Two more hollow holes, no blood. The tavern looked on in a haunted silence. Scully kept waiting, in agony, for her to die—a part of her desperately hoped that Stella was as ghostly as she appeared, but her mind wanted only for the scene before her to conform to reason. She waited what felt like minutes for Stella to crumble, but she never did.

“You better die fast,” John Jack said, his voice shaking. The pistol fell from his hands. “Or your soul will belong to Davy Jones.”

Stella took a step forward. She pulled down the hem of her dirtied shirt. A pale, distinctive scar sliced brutally across the right side of her chest. “I am Davy Jones.”

Scully choked.

“Now return that pistol to its owner or you’ll be steering the Flying Dutchman tonight. And don’t think we’d sail to Heaven—eternal righteousness is rather dull for women like me.”

He picked up the pistol and handed it to Scully. She holstered it immediately, holding the anxious bile down the back of her throat. Then he fled into the night. Stella turned to Scully.

“I apologize if I’ve frightened you, Scully. You’re still welcome aboard the Dutchman, alive and healthy as you are.” Her eyes had lost their fire; they seemed to hold genuine kindness. They were living again.

“You’re Pagett,” Scully whispered, horrified.

“Absolutely not.” She pursed her lips. “Only Davy Jones. And, of course, Stella Gibson, which it holds that you may call me if you choose to come aboard.”

Scully moved her lips, but no words came out.

“Well,” said Stella, “I must be off, then.” The bird on her shoulder hooted, and the crowd parted before her as she strode out the door, sword still in hand. Her coattails were the last thing to vanish.

Frozen in time, Scully thought of the barman’s stories, of Stella’s—or Davy Jones’s—offer, Stella saving her life despite no obvious motivation to do so, and the advantages of befriending a captain who couldn’t be slain. Wasn’t this what she came for? To find a ship that would take her to Mulder?

Trust no one, Mulder had told her. She was fairly certain he had only meant the living.

She gathered her wits and marched after Stella.

[foolsiwillshowthemall]

Farm Report:  A new friend in the sewers

First day of winter.  It's cold outside.  My wife is complaining, despite the roaring fire in the fireplace.

I probably won't get any more flute serenades while I work till the spring.  Not that I have much work to do on the farm right now.

I do have some planting to do.  During the fall I used the seed maker to produce Winter Seeds from winter roots.  Now I'll be planting these around the sprinklers, and growing some assorted winter forage plants.

It's only using up a tiny part of my usual farm area.  And I won't need to pay any attention to these till they're ready to harvest.

The animals have given me a good selection of eggs, but no wool or rabbit's feet today.

With my farm chores over before noon, it's time to plan the rest of the day.  Fishing, mines, or errands around the town?  I check with the spirits, and their mood is favorable.

I decide I'll try for the fish first, and then hit the mines if I have time.  The sturgeon can only be caught before 7pm, but I can stay at the mines as late as I want, so long as I get home on time.

Rumor has it that the sturgeon is most commonly found near the old sunken log.  I bait my rod, eat my Dish o' The Sea, and cast.

I wouldn't say it was easy, because it wasn't.  This was one of the hardest catches I've ever made.  Even with my iridium rod, trap bobber, high skill level and food buff, it nearly escaped from me several times.  But now it's caught, and with enough time to head for the mines and try for the next checkpoint.

Starting out from level 105.  Even with the favor of the spirits, this place is full of monsters.

I'm chugging salmonberries nearly constantly to keep my health up.  This is why I harvested so many in the spring.

Two of these little armored dudes at once!  And this is a monster-infested level, where the stairs down won't appear until every monster is dead.

Killing one of those shadow brutes.  They're not too hard, they don't have ranged weapons and don't move quickly.  You just have to let them walk up to you and then start madly swinging the sword at just the right moment.

Last monster dead, and I can proceed downward.

I rush down through several other levels, taking the ladder down as soon as it's revealed, and make it to level 110.  What will my reward for this level be?

Space Boots?  Hey, they match my wife's hair.  Nifty.

On the way back home, I stop at the community center to drop off the Sturgeon.

Once again, the little gumdrop spirits appear.  And once again, I appear to be completely surprised.  At this point I'm just faking it for their sake - I know what to expect, but they like to see me look amazed when they appear.

Awww.  I'm going to miss you, little gumdrop buddies.

And now they've repaired the fishtank.  I only have one room to complete, the bulletin board, and one item needed for that.  It's all up to my rabbits now.

Getting home quite late.  My wife is already long asleep by the time I get in.  I slip into bed quietly, trying not to disturb her.

As we sleep, the spirits are doing ... something ... near the bridge that leads to the mines.

I can craft a slime incubator now! I'm not sure if that's something I actually want to craft.

The next morning, I wake to the smell of cooking.  It's not breakfast, however.  Abby has made me a plate of fried mushrooms to take with me when I head to the caves.

This is great.  Fried mushrooms is one of the better foods to take into the mines.  It restores a lot of health and energy, and also grants a combat buff.  I've actually been making these and bringing them along with me to the mines for ages.  It's the perfect gift.  I love my adventurer wife so much.

The spirits are also pleased.  With the blessings of both the spirits and my wife, I'm heading to the mines.

Starting at the level 110 checkpoint I reached yesterday. Here we go.

Almost immediately in level 111, I see the red mist effect that indicates that a swarm of flying enemies is approaching.  Red bats, probably at least a dozen, from all different directions.

Bring it on bats!  I'm not scared of you!  I'm full of coffee and fried mushrooms and I know my wife loves me!

Bats defeated, end of level reached, and I have a backpack full of bat wings.

Level 112 has shadow brutes and slimes, but I power through it.

Level 113 is strange.  A small dungeon with a single, star-shaped room, lots of mushrooms and quartz, and quite a few monsters.  I grab the gems and mushrooms and then take the stairs.

I reach the level 115 checkpoint, and decide that's enough pressing my luck for today.  Time to head home.  I can do the last 5 levels some other day.

As I step outside, I see Willy looking puzzled at the cliff face.  Wasn't this spot previously blocked by a glittering boulder?

The river is flowing more freely now, and debris has been washed out of the mountain into the lake.

It's not just rock, there are nuggets of gold among the pebbles now.

It means another method of getting ore has been unlocked, reducing my reliance on the mines.

Willie gives me a spare pan he has, and instructs me on how to use it.

It's not much, and not available very often, but something else to do while I'm on my way to or from the mines.

My pal Linus wants a Red Snapper.  Of course I'm going to give him one, after all Linus sent me that Largemouth Bass that I used to make dinner for Jodi for.  I owe him, and besides, he's a great friend of mine.

It's funny, Jodi.  My great dream has been to build my own family and life here.  I've never been happier than when Abigail married me and moved in, and I'm very much looking forward to when we have a baby of our own.  Then again, your family includes Sam, and I can see how that would want to make anyone run away and live on their own.

One red mullet, good quality, that I caught while trying to catch that tilapia.  Linus will love this.

Delivered straight to him in his tent.  Linus, you are a good person, and you don't deserve the crap that people put you though in this town.  Anything you need, just ask.

Wednesday the 3rd, and my wife is inviting me to just stay home and cuddle.  I'm sorely tempted.

This will have to do for now.  I do have work to do.

Disappointed look at the rabbits.  Why for you guys no shed feet?  This is the last thing I need for the community center!

Though the rabbits may be slackers, I am getting a lot of eggs from my chickens and ducks.  In addition to using them in recipes, I can use them to may mayonnaise, which is also useful in recipes and sells for more than just the eggs do.

I'm putting it in my increasingly crowded food-processing shed.

I will not be going to the mines today, but I made enough progress over the last few days that I'm not in a rush.  I have errands to do anyway.

After processing some geodes, I'm having Clint upgrade my watering can to gold quality.  I really don't need it during the winter, and I have the money and gold bars to spare.

Elliott is really not in a good mood today.

He has really not taken my getting married well.  Honestly, I didn't even think he and I were all that close, but apparently he took my encouragement on his book as some kind of grand romantic gesture and feels all alone and betrayed now.

I'd say clothes are important in the winter, Haley.  It's kind of cold out right now.  But if you want to run around without clothes, there aren't many people who will object.

There is one more thing I can buy with my excess money:  a furniture catalogue!  This will allow me to instantly summon any piece of furniture at home for free.  It's not cheap, but once I have it, I can redecorate my home at will at any time.  I'll be poor again after this, but I don't expect that to last.

Thursday the 4th.  Abby is asking me to bring her something tasty back from the mines.  Aww, are you already getting tired of the amethysts from the crystalarium?  I suppose those would all start to taste the same after a while.

I won't be headed to the mines today, however.  Or at least, if I do, I'll stick to the easy levels.  I do have some other errands to do first anyway.

But when I step outside, someone I don't immediately recognize is standing in my way.

Oh, it's the museum guy.  I've only ever seen him behind the counter in the museum.  I didn't even know he had a backsprite.

He's really pleased with all the items I've dropped off at the museum.

And as recognition for what I've done, he's giving me a rusty old key that's been lying around for a century.  I think I know what that's for.  I remember, long ago, when I first came to this town, seeing two children standing outside a sewer grate and talking.  They said that it was locked, but speculated that a rusty key that the museum guy had with him could open it.  I dismissed it at the time, but maybe this is that key?  I figure it's worth a try.

The winter seeds are starting to sprout.  Each one will grow into a random winter forage plant.  I'm hoping for mostly crystal fruit, it can be made into valuable wine.

Speaking of valuable wine, another batch of pumpkin juice is ready.

On the way out, I stop at the hat mouse.  Yes, the hat mouse.  He's hanging out in this abandoned house, selling hats, and his stock has been increasing gradually as I unlock new hats by meeting various in-game achievements.

I'm trying on a 'watermelon band'.  It reminds me of the cute hair band that Abigail wears.  I'm not sure if it's really me.

It appears that the rusty key is indeed the one that unlocks this grate.

Ugh.  This is disgusting.  Why am I doing this?

There's not too much down here, it seems.

Around the corner, I spot one of those Shadow Brutes!  Here, outside of the mines?  I wasn't expecting this, but I do have my sword on me.  I had better take care of this.

The normal tactic for killing these is to wait for them to approach, and then slash them when they're just within range.  But this one doesn't seem to be approaching me.

Hello, sir?  Shouldn't you be trying to kill me now?

Oh.  You talk.  Well, don't I feel like an asshole now.  Uh, sorry for all the other shadows I've killed.  I hope they weren't friends of yours.  In my defense, they did try to kill me, but then again, I'm pretty sure I was invading their homes at the time.

He's a storekeeper!  An unusual one, far from the others of his kind.

He has a Stardrop for sale - I'll have to come back for that later - and the Return Scepter, one of the most expensive items in the game.  It allows you to teleport home from anywhere on the map, but it's absurdly expensive.

Conveniently, the sewers also have an exit in the middle of town, so I don't need to walk back from all the way in the middle of the woods.

A nice surprise when I get home:  eleven iridium-quality aged goat cheeses, all finished being processed in the casks in my basement.  These will sell well, for over a thousand gold each.

That night ... holy crap, we have a baby.

I AM NOT READY FOR THIS DECISION.

[mikethemod]

Mikethemod’s Brighton Marathon Prep.

Saturday was the highlight of my week. Our best friends Debbie and Andy Harris, AKA Bootleg Blondie, decided they were going to take Dawn and me, AKA mikethemod, on film location in Brighton. I didn’t have the heart to tell them about my potential hernia as I knew they were looking forward to our day out!

When we got up at 7am on Saturday it was raining so Dawn gave me grief about her hair going curly. And it was still raining when Deb and Andy arrived at 10am in the Bootleg Blondie Van. This is a real Rock n Roll van divided into two sections - half for band members to travel in (famous musicians have signed the interior walls) - and the other half to transport whatever.

It was then that we discovered the scooter wouldn’t fit in the back of the van. This wasn’t a good start. As I stood there looking helpless Andy came to the rescue by producing a large leather bag of tools from nowhere and sent me into my garage to search for some wing nuts. It was a scene that many real scooterists - including myself - have endured far too many times; we were both kneeling on the wet road in the pouring rain trying to undo bolts that were stuck fast.

Half an hour later we were sorted, phew, and the four of us, plus a dismantled leg-powered Lambretta, were finally en route to Brighton. Our first stop was Preston Park. This is where the masses start the Brighton Marathon race and is also the home of the famous Steve Ovett statue - or so I thought.

At this point I need to backtrack a little…. last year a PWR colleague told me he was on the Elite Start, at Withdean Park on the London Road, as he had run a good time in the Boston Marathon. I ran the Phoenix AC relays many years ago (Steve Ovett was on the same start line) – and I remembered that Withdean Park was flat. This appealed.

I wrote a polite email to the organisers telling them my best half-marathon time and asked if I could be on the Elite Start with my training friend. By the time I attended the Brighton Expo with Dawn to collect my number, I had been accepted on the Elite Start. Yes. We had a celebratory veggie lunch afterwards at Terre Terre.

Back to the present….. Andy skillfully manoeuvred his van along a narrow road up the side of Preston Park but I couldn’t see the statue of my hero Steve Ovett. A hasty Google informed us poor Steve had been cut down and stolen 10 years ago in 2007. Is nothing sacred?! Then we read that Steve had been remade (hurray!) and unveiled in 2012 on Madeira Drive by the Brighton Marathon Finish line - and the Volks Bar, home to any journeying Scooterist - double delight. Andy reset the Satnav and we soon got our first glimpse of the sea.

Our second stop was the loos on Madeira Drive. These are always well looked after but bloody freezing. Last time I was there I couldn’t climb off my scooter quick enough - after two hours spent clinging onto my 50 year old Lambretta I severely regretted wearing button fly Levis 501s.

Loo stop completed, our third stop was a parking bay where we deposited more coins than the Hatton Garden raiders lifted, to pay for just one hour’s parking. And there, in fine fettle and surveying the open sea, was my man Steve Ovett. His majestic running style was perfectly captured; big chest, arms barrelling round, hands soft and relaxed.

 Dawn and Debbie were our costume and film crew and Andy was our Director. Cue - photo of mikethemod in Parka and Tootal scarf with Steve, photo of mikethemod in Teenage Cancer Trust Mod-style cycling shirt with Steve, photo of mikethemod in Demelza Hospice Care for Children Mod-style cycling shirt with Steve. Action - film of mikethemod in Parka running up and down, film of mikethemod in Teenage Cancer Trust Mod-style cycling shirt, etc etc, …..you get the drift.

During filming a guy in a disability car drove along the road and gave us a wave. This was an opportunity too good miss. With the Director waving his arms around, Mikethemod sprung into action and a Benny Hill-style epic was in the bag. Oh yes.

 Our fourth stop was near the 7-mile point on the Brighton Marathon course, offering stunning views over the cliffs. With the sun glinting off the English Channel, Director Andy and I immediately had the same idea and Mikethemod - in his various  guises - was soon running east and west along the cliff edge with the wind blowing, the sea breaking below and the Who’s ‘I’ve had enough’ playing in our heads.

After all this emotion, mikethemod, the film crew and the Director were in need of a restorative cuppa. On the road leading back into Brighton we discovered a 50s-looking café above the Marina named the Roedean Café - what a jewel, our fifth stop. With fantastic views over Brighton Marina and some delicious-looking food being served to locals, we enjoyed three perfect latte coffees and one Earl Grey tea.

Sixth stop the beach. I just couldn’t help myself. Marching over the stones carrying my polystyrene Lambretta, I went right to the sea’s edge and sat down. Wrapped in my Parka, I was ‘Jimmy’. The film crew got to work and took some impressive shots with Brighton Pier as our backdrop. After a few more photos at the front of the pier and by two Blondie-esque red telephone boxes, we were back in the van heading to our seventh stop - the Grand Hotel.

Andy parked up on the seafront and I ran over to the hotel to explain that mikethemod was fundraising for Teenage Cancer Trust and Demelza and we would like to take some photos outside the Grand Hotel. The Concierge Team could not have been more helpful. They allowed us to park our van right on the hotel forecourt and their fantastically professional Concierge ‘Paf’ - complete with top hat and tailcoat - ensured we got some great pics. I did think it was funny that one of the team said he never knew why some people walked past the hotel shouting ‘Bell Boy’! I advised him to go straight home and watch Sting in Quadrophenia.

By now we were tired and hungry (mainly me) but we had two more stops to go. In fact we stumbled across our eighth stop while looking for a parking place in or around ‘The Lanes’. Andy stopped the van to let a car pass and beside me to my left was a tiny lane disappearing behind a shop. “That’s it” I said - East Street’s Alleyway where Jimmy ‘hid’ with Steph (Leslie Ash) as the fighting Mods and Rockers were chased by the police. Jimmy and Steph actually did a little bit more than just hiding in this alley.

Andy put the hazards on, Dawn guarded the van on a yellow line and we quickly ran down the alley. In a tiny corner there was a door covered in scooter club stickers and mod patches. Hilarious - someone had scrawled ‘mikethemod’ on the wall! I am a celeb you know. We had a laugh taking pics in various poses and then dashed back to the van.

Ninth stop - the Mod shop Jump The Gun in the North Lanes. I had been there some months before to tell them about my project but got short shrift. Unfortunately they weren’t enamoured to see us again and, despite mikethemod and his scooter drawing a small crowd outside their shop, all they could do was tell us we were in the way of the door.

Tenth and last stop - fish and chips. The Palm Court restaurant on Brighton Pier is one of the town’s quality food venues. A year ago I booked tables for 50 Petts Wood Runners after we ran the Brighton 10k and we were all impressed with the quality of the food served here.

With its location at the end of the pier offering fine views out to sea and along Brighton’s coast, you may expect the Palm Court to rest on its laurels and be an expensive low-quality tourist trap. It most definitely isn’t. Dawn had a perfectly-baked salmon Debbie and Andy chose tasty vegetarian lasagnas and I went for the ‘Big Fish’, a 12oz cod loin - fantastic. Our food was fresh and hot, the service was friendly and efficient and the restaurant was smart and clean.

Outside the sun was now setting on the horizon and we watched a huge black mass of starlings dance over the sea in liquid formation. Although we were full, we couldn’t resist the aroma coming from the doughnut kiosk so we bought a bag of four piping hot sugar-covered doughnuts (I am carbo-loading you know) and ate them on the way back to the van. A great day. Now home to find out what goodies were captured inside our collection of cameras.

[drtanstravels]

2020 is the year that a lot of my friends will turn 40 and the first on the list was Shane Worthington, the one I’ve known the longest. We’ve been close friends since we were five years old, were in pretty much every class through primary and high school together, and were best man at each other’s weddings. We spent all of our childhood and teen years hanging out together and, although we hardly get to see each other for years at a time due to me now living in Singapore and him in Canberra, ACT, when we do it’s like we only spoke yesterday. That’s why when he told me at the beginning of 2019 that he was planning a cruise to New Caledonia for his 40th birthday, I knew we had to go. Anna instantly loved the idea, but not everyone else invited was able to make it so in the end it was ultimately going to be an eight-day cruise aboard a ship carrying almost 2,000 passengers, 800 crew and staff, and Shane’s group that would consist of himself, his wife, Danii, their 18-month-old daughter, Evie, an older couple that he used to work with, Sam and Kerri, and Anna and myself. We were scheduled to board the cruise ship at 1:00pm in Sydney, Australia on January 8 and depart for New Caledonia, spending almost three days at sea, before reaching the islands of Noumé, Maré, and Lifou, spending a day on each before making the trek back to Sydney and arriving on January 16, Shane’s birthday. Let’s see how this worked out.

Monday, January 6, 2020 Anna had booked our flights months prior and the holiday period is the worst time of year to travel to Australia, because it’s so expensive! To put the prices in perspective, we’ve booked return flights to Los Angeles next month and Cape Town, South Africa in June and neither of those flights were as much as return 7.5-hour flight from Singapore to Sydney in the summer. Our tickets were over S$2,000 (US$1,486) each and depart after midnight so Anna later decided that, because we had paid so much for the seats, we may as well pay extra and upgrade to Business Class so we could at least sleep easier on the flight and feel remotely fresh when we arrived.

I woke up on Monday morning to a message from Shane, asking what our plans were:

That’s right, we had messed up the flight details. Anna was meticulous when first booking the flights, but she thinks she may have rushed it a little when she upgraded our seats, resulting in us being scheduled to arrive a day early. There was no way Anna could get the day off work, I could’ve gone that night, but she also gets nervous when I fly alone due to my track record for having seizures on overnight flights so she rescheduled the tickets for the same time the following night… for the small fee of S$3,600 (US$2,675). So, now we were over eight grand down and hadn’t even set foot on the ship.

Wednesday, January 8, 2020 We got to the airport with plenty of time to spare, but we were a little nervous for obvious reasons, the main one being that if there were delays of any kind we would more than likely miss the cruise. There was also the possibility that getting into Sydney could be difficult due to the bushfires ravaging nearby areas, but fortunately everything went smoothly and we touched down in Sydney at about 11:30am local time, actually a little ahead of schedule. Once through immigration we collected our luggage, took a shuttle to the port in Balmain, went through the entire immigration and customs process again like you would at an airport, and soon we were aboard the Pacific Explorer, later departing Sydney at 4:00pm. Once inside there were a few things that immediately struck us:

You don’t realise how big these ships are until you are onboard. It was so easy to get lost on this one.

Anything that wasn’t in the cruise package you had initially purchased was extremely expensive — AU$25.00 (US$17.20) to wear what in a hotel would be a complimentary robe and AU$15.00 (US$10.30) to use an umbrella is just unreasonable.

Contrary to popular belief, it’s not so much retirees that make up the majority of passengers on cruise ships. Maybe it was because it was school holidays, but there were a lot of families on this one. There were also a ton of people who must’ve just heard the words “complimentary buffet” as well, because some of the passengers were enormous!

We took our luggage to our rooms, had a look around the ship, and then went to the already crowded buffet for our first meal of the day. What I expected from the buffet was the crappy quality bain-marie stuff you get in public school canteens, but that wasn’t the case on this ship. There were separate stalls serving different dishes from around the globe, as well as salad bars, dessert cabinets, everything. We just went to the first stall we saw, which was the Mexican one, and the food was really good, but it wasn’t the most popular option there, that’s for sure. We would only eat at the buffet a few times on this trip, but what was truly mind-boggling was the sheer amount of french fries people would eat over the course of the cruise. The fish ‘n’ chips stall perpetually had a queue of at least 10 people, closely followed by the one selling hamburgers and chips, some people just getting basket after basket of fries from both stalls. It would be safe to say that the fish ‘n’chip stall fed around 10% of the passengers at any given meal, leading me to wonder how many tons of frozen chips must be stored in the galley of the Pacific Explorer to last an eight-day cruise with 2,000 passengers who have access to unlimited fries? I will get to the bottom of this matter one day, mark my words.

The rest of the day was spent quietly trying out the different bars and catching up with Shane and Danii for the first time in five years, as well as meeting Sam, Kerri, and baby Evie for the first time, with dinner at an Asian restaurant called Dragon Lady thrown into the mix and finishing up at The Blue Room. The good thing with the bulk of the onboard restaurants is that they are also complimentary unless you order one of the specials. This is what Wednesday looked like:

A little smokey approaching Sydney

Anna at the port

This cabin would be our home for the next eight days

Looking out towards our balcony

A portrait of Rear Admiral Bill Murray near the elevators

Looking down from our floor to other areas of the ship

And we’re off

Under the bridge

Passing the city

Goodbye Sydney

A small portion of the deck

Anna in front of the outdoor cinema screen

Me hanging out with a coffee

Panoramic view of a different area of the deck

The view over the stern

A portion of the deck at night

Inside The Blue Room

Thursday, January 9, 2020 The next couple of days aboard the ship en route to New Caledonia were just spent relaxing, it was really only the nights where anything truly happened. Shane was up early every morning to change nappies and hit the gym, Anna and I would go down to the cafe a few floors down for coffee and then come back up to the cabin and read while relaxing to the sound of the ocean. On Thursday we had a couple of drinks after that, Anna had an afternoon massage, and soon it was time for dinner, because due to there being six of us and a baby, we had to either book a table at 5:15pm or 7:30pm. The latter was too late for an 18-month-old so we would have had to go with the former, a time when very few people under the age of 85 eat. Instead, we had burgers and wings at an outdoor bar. Shane and Danii were rather tired, Sam and Kerri decided to go see Normie Rowe play so Anna and I went to a standup comedy show, on this occasion being Hung Le. In Australia Hung Le is probably most famous for playing the Vietnamese boss in the local film Fat Pizza. I have never seen the movie, but I remembered him from watching comedy festivals on TV as a teenager and had always found him funny back then, but I figured he must be a bit washed up now if he’s doing the cruise ship circuit, just like once legendary entertainers that now play nightly in Las Vegas. I couldn’t have been more wrong, he was absolutely hilarious. The show started at 10:30 and went for 45 minutes, but Anna was fading towards the end so we went back to the cabin afterward and had what we consider an early night.

The burgers there were great!

Friday, January 10, 2020 Friday followed a similar pattern to Thursday, but the problem was that Anna had a lot of work to complete before the cruise, preparing presentations for upcoming conferences, completing and submitting journal articles in time for publication, that type of thing, but I don’t think even she realised how exhausted she was. She woke up at 10:00am for a 45-minute acupuncture session and I was still asleep when she returned so Anna got back into bed. Now, we realised when we were in the Galapagos Islands a few years back that the gentle rocking of a boat makes it a lot easier to sleep, but I’m still not sure that the motion of the ocean is solely responsible for Anna sleeping again until almost 3:00pm. Once she was awake we went to get coffee and then meet the rest of our crew in one of the bars, on most occasions it was the Explorer Hotel, for a couple of beers before an early dinner. There were quite a few bar options on the ship, but some only opened at night or were hosting events. It was always really hot and sunny on the deck with kids running around and screaming so we cancelled those options out. The foyer in the middle had a bar, but there was almost constantly a guy by the name of Kingsley playing there, whom we went on to dub “Elton Joel.” Kingsley wore a gold, glittery, plastic hat and despite being a decent piano player, couldn’t sing if his life depended on it, yet he would spend hours at the piano playing covers, roughly a quarter of each were either by Elton John or Billy Joel, hence the nickname. Upstairs was the Ocean Bar, but it was kind of small for the seven of us and you could still hear Elton Joel in there so we went to the adjacent, but separate Explorer Hotel on most occasions. After a few drinks and a chat there was a dinner reservation waiting for us at an Italian restaurant onboard called Angelo’s and once again the food was great and their pepper grinder was hilariously large, but there was a bit of a problem with the way we were spending time on the boat; most days we would meet up before dinner and have a drink or two, then have dinner at 5:15pm due to how the reservations worked. Even if we sat at the table and had more drinks before ordering, by the time it was eight or nine o’clock in the evening it felt a lot later than what it actually was and, despite still being light at times, Anna would sometimes start to get tired again. This was one of those occasions so even though she had only been awake for six or seven hours, she went back to the cabin and checked in early, only about half an hour after the sun had set.

Most nights on this ship, besides the regular shows and entertainment, there were themed parties and the theme that night was Back to School. Everyone who attended was trying to look sexy or classy in their school uniforms, but Shane and I figured we could just go in what we were wearing because our school didn’t really have a uniform. The idea of a school party had us reminiscing about stupid things that had happened when we were in high school, such as setting a bucket of glue on fire, resulting in a student getting suspended for eating a cookie from our overweight principal’s desk. Or the time a football was kicked over the chainlink fence into the junior campus of the neighbouring Catholic school, but instead of climbing the fence or asking a student to kick it back, someone just got some bolt-cutters from the shed where automotive repair classes were taught and just cut a giant hole out of the fence to retrieve the ball. Then there was the time that there was a stabbing at our school in retaliation to something that happened to my friend, Owen. It sounds worse than it was, sure, a kid did get stabbed, but it was only in the side of the leg, painful, but not fatal. There was a banner at the Back to School party along the wall that could be signed so we added our little tidbit that you will see in the next bunch of photos.

The school party wasn’t really our thing and we had other plans anyway, namely to keep drinking until karaoke started and then take over. We were the fourth people to sing and we had a decent amount of liquid courage inside of us, plus we decided to play the sympathy card with a crowd that was more than likely assuming we were homosexual due to a combination of Shane’s shirt and the fact that we had chosen the song Maneater by Hall and Oates. “I’m Tim, this is Shane,” I said as I was handed the microphone. “Shane’s wife is stuck upstairs with the baby, mine’s passed out in bed so tonight we’re going to party,” and then we tore it up. Our rendition of Maneater was a crowd favourite that night, even when we got bored during a one-minute guitar solo and decided to give a botany lesson on the many plants surrounding the stage. We kept drinking and then later Shane wanted to do another song, Rapper’s Delight by The Sugarhill Gang. The initial idea was that my role would be the hype guy, kind of like what Flavor Flav is to Chuck D in Public Enemy, however, Shane knows this song like the back of his hand, not even needing to look up at the lyrics. Besides being able to get the occasional “Yeah Boy!” in when he was out of breath later in the song and at one point calling up a bunch of eight-year-old children onto the dance-floor, my role eventually left me relegated to sitting on the on-stage ledge with my beer, surrounded by ficus plants while Shane blew away everyone in the bar with his rendition of the old school hip hop classic. I’m just glad they only had the “short” six-and-a-half-minute version, not the 15-minute take, but regardless, he blew Maneater out of the water to the point where people would come up to us for the remainder of the cruise, some referring to me as “Goose,” an incorrect reference to the sidekick of the main pilot in Top Gun (I think they meant Jester). Once karaoke was done we went back to the Blue Room to see the end of a really good band’s set before the place filled up with attendees of the Back to School party. Danii and Anna still say that because there is no video evidence, they are skeptical about our karaoke dominance, but Anna’s also seen what happens when I get a microphone after a few drinks, be it karaoke or even if a band is playing. Just because I can’t sing, it doesn’t mean I wont. Still there are these pictures and a couple of other videos of Shane in the general vicinity of the dance floor:

Kerri getting some pepper in Angelo’s

Anna’s turn

Having a beer with Shane. I hope it’s just the perspective that’s making my legs look that long!

The banner at the beginning of the Back to School Party

Our contribution

School’s out

Saturday, January 11, 2020 One thing about spending two-and-a-half days on a cruise ship is it’s not long enough to get your sea-legs so any time you’re walking around it feels like you’re drunk but without the pleasure of the booze. Saturday was going to be an interesting day, because when we woke we were docked a short way off Nouméa:

Nouméa is the capital and largest city of the French special collectivity of New Caledonia. It is situated on a peninsula in the south of New Caledonia’s main island, Grande Terre, and is home to the majority of the island’s European, Polynesian (Wallisians, Futunians, Tahitians), Indonesian, and Vietnamese populations, as well as many Melanesians, Ni-Vanuatu and Kanaks who work in one of the South Pacific’s most industrialised cities. The city lies on a protected deepwater harbour that serves as the chief port for New Caledonia.

At the September 2019 census, there were 182,341 inhabitants in the metropolitan area of Greater Nouméa, 94,285 of whom lived in the city (commune) of Nouméa proper. 67.2% of the population of New Caledonia live in Greater Nouméa, which covers the communes of Nouméa, Le Mont-Dore, Dumbéa and Païta.

We were off the ship just before 8:00am, took a small boat to the island, and immediately went across the road to a nearby supermarket to get something to drink. We then walk around some of the main areas of the town, just exploring different parts like Coconut Palm Square and walking through Chinatown and the Latin Quarter while we waited for the crowd to subside so we could take the island tour in comfort. After an hour or so we took a tourist trolley around the city, taking in sites such as some canons installed by Australians at a fort at Ouen Toro, an old prison, the craft market, and a library with a dinosaur statue out the front. The trolley tour was a round trip so once we were done we decided to walk along the coast and find somewhere for lunch. We had our minds set on a restaurant out on the water called Le Roof, but when we arrived and saw the prices, also remembering how we had paid 2,700 F (US$25.00) on a latte each earlier, we figured this island is either obscenely expensive or they must just bump the prices up substantially when the tourists arrive, because we were looking at paying at least around S$45.00 (US$30.00) each for lunch. Instead we walked back down the road along the beach, passing one of the most rancid-smelling portable toilets along the way, and we found a reasonably priced restaurant that sold a bit of everything, but was predominantly Italian food. We ordered and were then brought a basket of bread to eat with a mixture of olive oil and an unmarked bottle of brown liquid that one would assume was balsamic vinegar, but it only took Danii one bite to realise that it was a little saltier than normal and not particularly tangy. That’s because it wasn’t balsamic vinegar, but soy sauce. Still, it wasn’t that bad. After lunch we started to make our way back to the boat and arrived at around 3:00pm. Shane and Danii decided to board then so Evie could have a nap, but we still had an hour before we were departing so Anna and I decided to pick up some supplies, including seeing sanitary pads for men which I should’ve bought for future trips to Myanmar, and have a look at some nearby shops that we hadn’t had a chance to earlier. This included visiting an awesome pinball store called Flipper Addict that was clearly set up by a guy who had come into some cash and started his dream parlour as a hobby, as well as servicing and supplying other machines, not that we saw a lot around. We had also been told on our tour that Coca Cola tastes better in New Caledonia because of the quality of the water used. We were both skeptical that Coke was even bottled there and neither of us has drunk any soft drink in years, but Anna wanted to try it and find out anyway. It just tasted the same as I remembered. It definitely was nice to spend a day back on solid ground again:

It was actually kind of difficult to stand properly when we first got back on the ground

Not sure what’s happening on that island

Looking up the coast

One of many rock formations jutting out of the water

Anna just standing around

Me doing the same

It honestly looks like Shane just found a baby

What we’d spend a bit of time being driven around on

The old prison

Where we had initially planned to eat

The local racetrack

Getting a bit stormy over the islands

Approaching the fort

One of the canons

Some background information

Looking back over the beach

Anna with her “special” coke

At the craft market

Should’ve bought this hat

A dinosaur guarding the library

It’s easy to relax here

‘Men Pads’ are a real thing her

The sign for the pinball parlour

When we were back aboard, Danii and Shane had decided to spend the rest of the night quietly, just a few drinks before dinner, which they had at the bogan-buffet. Sam and Kerri weren’t feeling so, resulting in us having dinner to ourselves so we went back to Dragon Lady for what turned into a kind of amusing evening. The two of us were led by the waitress to our table, one situated next to another table with two rather large women, one about twice as old as the other, from a small town located about 600km (372 miles) inland from Brisbane. They had ordered the same set menu as we were going to and had several nights prior, but when we sat down the younger of the women was dry-retching at the thought of eating even the tiniest bit of the squid skewer in front of her, even offering it to us. The older woman spent the entire time encouraging her to eat a piece and wasn’t taking “No” for an answer so after about 15 minutes the younger woman managed to summon up the courage to close her eyes and take a bite, tears welling up as she did. Once they saw how much we loved our skewers, the two women got talking to us, the younger one explaining that eating the squid would’ve been easier if it didn’t look so much like a squid. In fact, it turned out she had never even eaten pretty much anything that she was served and was apprehensive at all of them:

Squid skewers — “I was able to eat half an octopus ball once, couldn’t do the whole thing though.”

Marinated pork ribs — “I’ve never eaten ribs, I just feed them to my dog.”

Sautéed eggplant — “I don’t even know what it is.”

Curried beef — “That was probably my favourite out of everything.”

When the older woman heard that the younger one liked the curry, she tried to “educate” her on how curry is made, incorrectly telling her that it traditionally takes about five weeks just to make the paste, however, she could just by Ayam brand curry powder and do it in a slow-cooker. Apparently her niece had tried to make it herself, but it still took about five days to make the paste because she needed to blend spices from scratch. They later told us about their small town that consisted of a pub and one small store, the two of them both working in the store. They even needed to hire and train new staff so they could both come on this cruise. My guess is the younger one will be sticking to the fish ‘n’ chips at the buffet from now on.

Our entertainment for the evening was to be sitting in a live incantation of the Australian TV dating show, Perfect Match. There was no Greg Evans or Dexter, but what unfolded that night was trashy comedic gold. For the uninitiated, Perfect Match consisted of a male or female contestant listening to the answers of questions asked to three suitor’s of the opposite sex that he/she was unable to see and then choosing the one with which they would like to go on a date. On the first round of the ship’s version the questions were asked of four young women and as soon as the blindfolded male admitted that he recognised the name of one of the suitors because they had hooked up the previous night, followed by another female suitor yelling to someone down the back of the room to get her another drink and a bag of salt and vinegar chips, I knew I just had to get filming. Also, we were seated behind someone with a cornrow combover (below), but I can’t help but think that they missed the opportunity to braid the combover section across their head. It was even more shocking when said individual stood up and turned out to be a woman:

Anyway, it was a hilarious night, some of the female suitors were pretty trashy and the bulk of the male ones were as thick as pig shit so witness some of the Perfect Match train-wreck for yourself:

Sunday, January 12, 2020 We would be making landfall again, this time on the island of Maré for some sand, sea, and sunburn. We got up reasonably early, put on some sunscreen, grabbed our swimming gear, and jumped on a boat to ferry us over to Maré Island:

Maré Island or Nengone is the second-largest of the Loyalty Islands, in the archipelago of New Caledonia, an overseas territory of France in the Pacific Ocean. The island is part of the commune (municipality) of Maré, in the Loyalty Islands Province of New Caledonia.

The island is 42 km (26 mi) long and 16 to 33 km (10 to 20 miles) wide. It lies northeast of Grande Terre, New Caledonia’s mainland. Like its neighbor to the north Lifou, Maré is a raised coral atoll, a former atoll that has been lifted about 120 meters. The interior of the island is the former lagoon, surrounded by a rim of higher land that was the ring of reef islets. Its fossil coral rock is honeycombed with caves, pools, and pits of all sizes, whose sharp edges make for difficult walking. Because of the lifting, the current shoreline is relatively recent and supports only short sections of nearshore fringing reef, unlike the extensive barrier reef found on the main island of New Caledonia, Grande Terre. The narrow beaches of Maré are often backed by cliffs.

Shane, Danii, Evie, Anna, and myself all boarded our boat just after 10:00am for the short ride over some choppy water and we were soon back on the land. The first thing that struck me when we got off the boat was how clear the water was and how fearless the children living there were. A few of them were just blindly running up and jumping off cliffs into the lagoon below them, not a care in the world. We walked along the beach, passing some stray dogs that were sleeping on the sand, until we got to an area that wasn’t too crowded with our fellow tourists, planted our towels, and then Anna rented some old, mouldy snorkelling gear for the two of us. The others played with Evie in a shallow part while Anna and I slowly made our way out to a coral area to snorkel. I say slowly, because the water was a lot colder than over here in the tropics and, although it doesn’t bother Anna in the slightest, it takes me a long time to fully immerse myself in rather cold water, because I need to work up the courage to submerge the three areas that the temperature shocks the most; the back of the knees, followed by the testicles, and finally the nipples. Once in we snorkelled for a while and saw some colourful fish and areas of coral, but it wasn’t really anything special.

After swimming we just spent time walking along the beach, drinking cheap beers, and laughing at the Instagram influencers getting more and more annoyed while taking and retaking at least 10 photos to try and perfectly capture one sole representation of just how relaxed and hassle-free their island-hopping life is. There were several stalls selling coconuts and braiding hair so another activity that brought us all immense pleasure was listening to bogans outside of their natural environment. “Mum, can I get my mullet braided?” was one pearl of wisdom we heard out of a child, while an extremely overweight woman replied to a man offering her a coconut that, “Coconut is f__king gross!”, leading us to believe she had only ever had the desiccated type that comes on a lamington, but never the fresh variety. Shane at one stage tried to order a coconut from one of the stalls, but the two guys working there were so baked it took them a few seconds to realise he was even standing in front of them.

Soon we were back on the boat and we returned to the Explorer Hotel for a few drinks, followed by dinner, and back to the Explorer again to watch an Asian woman and an African-American guy do some fantastic covers, the dude able to make all the high notes when they did Prince tracks, particularly Kiss. When we first entered they were playing Wishing Well by Terence Trent D’Arby so I mentioned to Shane that he was in the bathroom while I was taking a leak. He thought it was cool that I got to meet D’Arby while having a piss and went on to tell me about the time he met one of the Australian cricket team in a public toilet, however, I was only referring to the guy out of the cover band we were watching at the time. There was the White Party that night where everyone wore white, however, Shane suggested that we all should’ve gone as Walter White from Breaking Bad, but we didn’t attend for the same reason as any of the other parties, it was just too crowded in a really small space. Instead, we watched a talent competition that was just glorified karaoke, everyone trying to get me to enter, but me declining on the grounds that I wasn’t drunk enough, before calling it a night. Looking back on Sunday:

Looking back at our ship

Approaching the island

I wasn’t kidding about the water

I was too scared to go off the 3-metre (10′) diving board at my local swimming pool at that age!

Dogs just laying around

Looking up the beach

And the other way

Towards some of the huts

Token panoramic shot

These guys were fried!

Our beer choices

Coconuts and braids

Another small hut

Walking around a cove

The five of us hanging out

Still walking around

Time to head back now

Especially when it’s coming over like this

The view on the way back

A similar view from our balcony that night

Monday, January 13, 2020 Monday would be our last trek onto land, albeit a shortened one, this time on Lifou Island:

Lifou Island or Drehu in the local language is the largest, most populous and most important island of the Loyalty Islands (Loyalty Islands Province), in the archipelago of New Caledonia, an overseas territory of France in the Pacific Ocean. With a total area of 1,207 square kilometers Lifou is located east of Australia

Irregular in shape, Lifou Island is 81 km (50 mi) long and 16 to 24 km (10 to 15 miles) wide. The island is flat with no hills or rivers, but has abundant vegetation, dense interior jungles, fertile soils, terraced cliffs and breath taking reefs and corals.

Lifou Island is a former coral atoll that was part of a submerged volcano. Nearly 2 million years ago, the island was uplifted to its present shape and elevation, today it sits at a mere 60m above sea level at its highest point. Since there are no rivers on Lifou, the water comes from rain that seeps through the calcareous soil and forms freshwater ponds.

The term Kanak is used for natives of the islands and their native language of the island is Drehu, with people descending from Melanesians and Polynesians. With a total of 19 different tribes inhabiting the three Loyalty Islands, six of which are on Lifou.

Anna was keen to swim again, but I had no intentions of taking my shirt off, because I didn’t want to add to the searing pain I was in from how sunburnt I had got the previous day while swimming. I had put sunscreen on my torso, legs, and lower arms and Anna had covered my back, but I missed my upper arms and shoulders which were now bright red. In fact, it was so bad you could map the way I had applied the sunscreen by simply examining the finger lines in the burnt areas! Seriously:

I obviously used my right hand to wipe down from my left shoulder

Anna’s tiny finger-lines on my shoulder

If not applying sunscreen correctly was my main regret from Sunday, wearing sneakers that I hadn’t worn since going to the gym back when we lived in New York years ago would be my regret for Monday as you will soon find out.

We boarded another small boat to take to Lifou and it was extremely windy while we were on our way to the island, but it wasn’t just at sea, the wind was strong on the land, too. We had a heavy bag with us so we planted that under a tree at the exact same time an elderly woman tripped over a tree root and slid down a small embankment, cutting her arm in the process, but she was okay so we went to explore our last stop in New Caledonia. We found ourselves walking past traditional grass huts beside the crystal clear ocean and we were only about 15 minutes into our trek when part of the sole of my shoe came off. I figured it was no big deal and kept walking when almost all of the entire sole of the same shoe immediately came unstuck. On the ship we had to use a swipe card to pay for things, as well as enter our rooms, and I had mine on an elastic band around my wrist so I took the band and wrapped it around my shoe in a futile attempt to keep the sole from coming more and more detached. The scenery was stunning and soon we were near an old cathedral on the island when the sole of the other shoe came right off. These things were just disintegrating and it was now time for me to make use of the band of Anna’s tag to keep that sole on so after a quick pitstop at the cathedral we were off again. The sole that had come fully detached shifted as I walked, something that wasn’t an immediate issue, but it could have disastrous consequences soon; our plan was to walk through some thick jungle and descend down a considerably steep path consisting solely of some extremely slippery rocks to reach an underground cave system so I would need all of the grip I could get, not soles attached to my shoes by elastic. Besides the constant need to shift and adjust the soles we made it down to the caves just fine. It was a bit of a squeeze getting there and I had to duck through some low hanging areas, resulting in some local kids coming to the conclusion that I must be a professional basketball player, one even asking if he could have my cap. Once inside the caves there were freshwater pools that were about four metres ( 13′) deep where you could swim, but they were also freezing cold. It may have been able to relieve my sunburn somewhat, but I’m not a fan of the cold, let alone swimming in it, so we just had a look around and then made our way back up the path to the surface. Once at the top I tore the remaining portions of the soles off both sneakers, the end result resembling a pair of cycling cleats. We continued walking around the island, me in my disfigured shoes, before heading back to the boat. Shane and Danii checked out a vanilla farm and saw some wild pigs while they were in Lifou, but this is what Anna and I saw:

Looking one way…

…and the other

A little gusty out here

A local family going about their day

One of the traditional huts

Looking through a hole to the ocean beneath

Hanging out on a pier

It’s ridiculously clear

A wooden carving

Inside one of the huts

I’d probably struggle to get in

The local cathedral

Imagine both shoes being held together with elastic like this

Just need to go down this path in my not-so-stable sneakers

Looking into the jungle

Anna and a tree

About halfway down

A portion of one of the pools inside the cave

Another area

This guy served as a lifeguard of sorts

Goodbye, sneakers. Oh well, they were ugly anyway

A group about to do a traditional ceremony (we never actually got to see it)

Heading back to the ship

A little rough

It was still extremely rough when we were back on the ship. In fact at one point when we were having a bit to eat in the buffet it felt like the ship dipped down and hit something, but it was nothing to really worry about, it was just a bit difficult walking around.

The rest of Monday and Tuesday were quite similar on the ship. We spent most of our time relaxing in the cabin, eating, drinking, and trying to avoid hearing Elton Joel. We saw more talent contests and karaoke that featured a young guy doing an over the top cover of Greased Lightnin’, hamming it up even more the following night in the final. We watched a band do a decent Amy Winehouse tribute show, Anna and Danii went to a stage show the next night while Shane and I just hung out, and we also went in a contest where the funniest answers to questions were read out, except when it came to ours, because we wrote down some messed up stuff that they refused to read. An ongoing theme on the ship was photographers asking to do glamour photos for you and then charge you extortionate prices for a printout, but Shane and Danii had paid for a photo package so they got some glamour shots done, dragging me into a couple with Shane. Also on the Tuesday night there was a 1920s themed ‘Gatsby’ party and Anna and I met an elderly couple from Liverpool, England (below) who had attended and got chatting to them afterward. He was telling me about how he grew up during the depression and had to steal pigs to feed his family, including his 11 siblings. He even taught me how to steal them. While we were having this conversation his wife was telling Anna that he also used to string guitars for the Beatles when they first came out and that he even played guitar for Cilla Black! He never even mentioned this until Anna told me and I asked him about it!

One of our horrendous glamour shots

With our slightly older drinking companions from Liverpool

Wednesday, January 15, 2020 It was the eve of Shane’s 40th birthday and our last day on the ship. Anna and myself went down to get coffee, passing Danii on the way who told us that there was a ton of fresh seafood available at the buffet today so once coffee was done we feasted on fresh prawns, mussels, and crabs. After lunch we went to the Explorer Hotel early to try to secure a seat for that afternoon’s trivia competition. It’s difficult to get a table for trivia, because the place fills up with people playing cards, mainly Uno, and they won’t move until the trivia competition has finished. We managed to get a seat, but many others missed out due to the card players, and we ended up absolutely blitzing most of the competition. As soon as trivia was over, the table of Uno players next to us packed up their stuff, smirked like the asshats they are, and left the bar, but we weren’t going anywhere for a while, instead sitting around listening to one of the great cover bands we had seen on a previous night. Once we did leave, it was up to 400 Gradi for Shane’s pizza birthday dinner which concluded with us filling out a feedback form with the request that they never let Kingsley, AKA Elton Joel back on the ship again, or at the very least to not allow him to have a microphone. Once done we dropped into the The Bonded Store so Sam could buy Shane a top-shelf whiskey and then it was back to the Explorer for more drinks, but Shane was getting a tad sleepy. We sat through more karaoke, the winner of the talent contest finally choosing a new tune! We were all relieved, I even turned to a complete stranger and said, “At least it’s not f__cking Greased Lightnin’!”, to which she laughed and agreed. I guess I spoke too soon, because only a few songs later he was back with an even more amped up version of Greased Lightnin’, acting out the entire dance from the movie as he went. Seriously, I think this guy must’ve had to play the role of Grease‘s Danny for his recent high school end-of-year concert, it was still fresh in his head, and he figured if he pulled it out enough times he might be able to score his very own Sandy. As it approached midnight I let the guy taking karaoke requests know that it was Shane’s birthday, grabbed a round of drinks for us, and welcomed in his fifth decade, Shane initially irritated at the thought that he was going to have to get up and sing, but I only got the karaoke guy to get the room to sing Happy Birthday. It all didn’t last much longer than that.

Thursday, January 16, 2020 It was time for us to all say our goodbyes when we got off the ship that morning; Sam and Kerri had to catch an early flight back to Brisbane, Shane, Danii, and Evie were soon going to be on the bus home to Canberra, and we would be flying back to Singapore later that night. However, we had the entire afternoon to wander around Sydney so we got the nearby train station to store our luggage and we took a train into town to have a look around. I’ve never really been a big fan of Sydney, but I did manage to buy something I’ve always wanted while we were there, a Manute Bol jersey from his rookie season with the then Washington Bullets:

All in all our first ever cruise was an absolute blast, far more fun than we had anticipated and we were expecting to be awesome anyway. I hope you had a great time for your 40th, Shane, it was cool to finally meet Evie and see Danii again, as well as hang out with Sam and Kerri, now you all need to come and visit us in Singapore!

A week on a cruise ship and hanging out on islands in the South Pacific for my friend's 40th birthday 2020 is the year that a lot of my friends will turn 40 and the first on the list was Shane Worthington, the one I've known the longest.

[qualiteadnd]

One Small Favor

— A WATERDEEP IRREGULARS ADVENTURE

While traveling the countryside, the party is implored by a strange wizard to check in on a bit of land purchased from an even stranger old friend.

The village of Longsaddle was the latest stop for Keros, Bonu, and Grumbar as they tried to figure out what to do now that their plans in Waterdeep had gone belly up. The village was welcoming enough and they chose to spend a night at the inn rather than push on.

While Grumbar drank through a tab with the bar, Keros and Bonu hit it off with a performer by the name of Audulio. He was looking to hit the road and so they offered him a spot in their company to which he readily agreed. Audulio was a free spirit, however, and had trouble sticking with one group for too long. But company, he said, was what made the travels exciting and inspired his tunes.

The next morning, they milled about the Longsaddle market, stocking up on supplies and useless trinkets — namely, a small wooden duck that Keros figured Bonu would appreciate. Just before they were to head out they heard a voice shout, “You there! Yes, you with the bows and axes, come here!”

The statue in the center of the village had animated, to the surprise of literally none of the villagers. Longsaddle, it appeared, was home to a family of eccentric wizards and one of them needed their assistance. Tristan Harpell, as the statue introduced himself, had a job that needed doing and the party of four seemed enough like a trustworthy sort — the wizards were known to be eccentric, not wise. If they could just pop down the way and check on an investment of his, a small favor really, he’d pay them each 200 gold. They all readily agreed.

But with wizards, they’d learn, it was best to read the fine print.

An enchanted piece of parchment that soared towards them from the direction of the Harpell tower and smacked into Grumbar’s face. It flopped into his hands and unfolded itself into an old looking map. Tristan’s scribbling script began to appear before their eyes with the details of their job. The village of Silverleaf that he wanted them to check in on seemed like a three day travel down the main road.

Simple enough, they gathered their things and began to head out when one more surprise came at them. Carter, as the map was called, could speak. And he was quite excited to be assisting the party in assisting his master. If they had any questions at all, he would be happy to help!

The journey was uneventful, but along the way Carter filled in the blanks Tristan had slacked on. Silverleaf was a small village with a strange magical orchard where all the trees had, correct, silver leaves. Tristan had purchased the deed to the land from an old girlfriend of sorts, Freya Doomstaff.

It wasn’t that Tristan didn’t trust Freya, it was just that the deal on the land seemed a little too good to be true and an assistant he’d sent to check on the property hadn’t returned in a week. “So really, it’s so nice of you to be helping Master Harpell like this!”

When they arrived at the village, everything seemed normal enough, even the glittering orchard in the distance. However, it was utterly abandoned.

Some poking around the homes, many of which were left open, led to a smell of rot that permeated from the kitchens. It appeared as though one day all of Silverleaf had simply vanished. A rummage through the kitchens also uncovered a bottle of elvish wine yet uncorked that Grumbar decided to “save” before it too went to waste. Deciding it was best to leave Grumbar to the bottle for the time being, Keros, Bonu, and Audulio pressed on towards the orchard.

Though a little unkempt and definitely more silver than most, the orchard seemed normal enough. That is, except for the weird sparks shooting up from the picnic table like a flare and a hat seemingly abandoned on the path. Keros pushed the gate open and the three went in to investigate.

They got maybe four steps in before being struck by a severe sense of vertigo. And when it cleared, everything was big. Everything except them. The abandoned hat on the orchard path was the size of a large cart and they couldn’t even see the picnic table through the forest of grass.

From beneath the hat, four shrunken bugbears lept at them and a scuffle ensued. Two were taken care of with ease. However, they were not so alone in the orchard and their magics caught the attention of a raven. Unaffected by whatever magic was in the orchard, the bird seemed to be the size of a dragon. They watched in horror and fascination as it grabbed one of the remaining bugbears and swallowed it whole.

“What are you doing out in the open? You’re going to get yourselves killed! Come here, quickly!” From the grass, a tiny elven woman beckoned to them and the trio quickly ran to her as the raven chased down the last of the bugbears.

Saorse, as the elf introduced herself, was glad to see the adventurers. She led them through the maze of grass to an abandoned picnic basket. A twine rope was lowered from the top at her knocking and the four of them climbed inside. The picnic basket had been turned into a sanctuary for shrunken elves, the missing inhabitants of Silverleaf.

The elves were distressed to hear that the entire village had been abandoned, as not everyone could be accounted for in the basket. “We’re farming folk, we care for the orchard, we’re not equipped to deal with this kind of magic. But if you three could find that damn wizard, I bet she could fix this. She was experimenting in the orchard when all of this started.”

After a quick rest with the elves, and hearing more of their complaints of their former-landlord Freya Doomstaff, the party set out again with some guidance from Saorse.

Along the way they found a normal sized ring embedded in the dirt, which they had Carter take note of for later, and avoided the brief rain shower that tried to drown them by diving into a rabbit hole. Refusing to fight the rather territorial mama rabbit within, Audulio cast Sleep on the creature and they huddled at the entrance to wait for the rain to pass before pressing on.

Some echoing singing caught their attention and they followed the source to a tipped over wine bottle. Inside, was a rather soggy and drunk looking human fellow by the name of Darrack Dunhill. “This is Master Harpell’s assistant!” Carter supplied eagerly.

To which Darrack quickly protested, “Oh no –hic– I quit. This is the –hic– last time he nearly gets me –hic– killed. I’m done. A bug tried to eat me last night. A –hic-ing bug!” Deciding the bottle was perhaps a safe place for Darrack for the time being, they quickly left him to his singing and moved on.

Carter’s navigational magic informed them the stream between them and the sparking picnic table had a few options for crossing: the bridge, open and clear, made them easy prey for any watching ravens; a branch precariously reaching across the stream; or they could try to brave the currents with a swim.

Keros, a triton with quite the affinity for water, decided on a fourth option. They found a good sturdy leaf to make a boat out of and he dumped his things in alongside Audulio and Bonu. Finding makeshift paddles, Bonu and Audulio helped to steer the leaf as Keros powered it with some good fish swimming. Two looming frogs tried to make a snack of them, but Keros politely asked the frogs to move along, as they were already having a rough day. The frogs did just that, honoring even a very tiny guardian of the depths.

Shaking off the water, Keros donned the rest of his gear and they proceeded to the picnic table where the white sparks continued to fly. At the top, they found a tiny frazzled, but cheerful wizard: Freya Doomstaff. “Did Tristan send you? I knew he’d get around to it eventually.”

When asked just what in the hells was happening here, she laughed, “It’s all really a very funny story.” Though she had indeed sold Tristan the land to Silverleaf with a clause that stated she would not remove the trees from the ground, she had intended to play a little prank. “I was going to just shrink the whole orchard, you see, and scoop the trees AND the ground right up. But there was a little mistake and well… If you lads could be dears and just go get my arcane focus from that cursed bird, everything will be right as rain.”

Pointing out a nest atop the nearest tree, she explained if they could simply break the orb the raven had stolen, the whole spell would come apart. Though she absolutely refused to go with them, she cast Spiderclimb on all three of them and sent them on their way.

Getting really tired of all this tiny nonsense, the three headed off once more, hoping to reach the nest before the spell wore off. Though they were attacked by a small swarm of wasps along the way, they managed to get by with only minor injuries and leaving a pile of broken wasp wings in their wake.

That left them with the big threat: the dragon sized raven. Deciding to split the party, Audulio and Keros would play distraction while Bonu took care of the orb. Simple, easy, but also likely to get one of them killed. The best kind of plan.

Using shattering magics and tiny, sparking, needle arrows, they managed to make room for Bonu to sprint past the bird and charge the orb. Though things looked a little spicy for a moment and the orb gave Bonu some trouble, he was able to shove it off just in time.

The moment the spell broke the orchard eruptted into chaos.

Audulio, Keros, and Bonu fell out of the tree in a pile and sent the raven screeching into the distance as they reverted to their proper sizes. Across the way, Freya sat giddily on her picnic table, Darrack sat wet and drunk in a tiny wine puddle, and a bunch of elves were in an ungraceful doggy pile, topped with wicker.

Glad to see they’d managed it without looking too worse for wear, Freya snapped her fingers and a silver leaf fluttered down from the canopy in front of each of them with the Doomstaff insignia emblazoned on it. “As a show of thanks, a favor from the Doomstaff family. If you ever need a wizard, look us up.”

And then she was promptly swarmed by enraged wood elves. Laughing still, she told them to take up their complaints with their landlord, Tristan Harpell, and vanished on the spot with little more than a “Toodles!”

Picking up the ring they’d found along the way, the party finally made their own way out of the orchard. They shook off both their drunks — Darrack and Grumbar — and made their way back to Longsaddle, grateful to not be two inches high. ( Having no idea what they were talking about, Grumbar asked if they’d found some wine along the way too. )

Though Tristan was less than pleased, but not surprised, with the news of Freya’s tricks on their return, he rewarded them as promised for their one small favor.

Audulio — Human. Glamour Bard. Played by Malfrost.

Many thanks to DMs Jansen-Parks & Black for crafting this adventure!

[erinelezabeth920]

Epilogue: Galapagos

Ha, thought you were done with me eh? In the spirit of epilogues, I’ll try to be brief, but hey it’s unlikely. This blog was really just an exercise in trying to document a crazy fast, once in a lifetime experience that could slip by in the blink of an eye. Tears in the rain, via Roy Batty via Blade Runner. The writing wasn’t stellar. There were typos and shitty internet. But hey. I did it. It’s there and that can never go away. And it really helped me to imagine (even if it was only imaginary) that there were people on the other side. So if you’ve made it this far, really. Really. Thank you.

***

I got picked up from Monica’s at 5:30 am. Chelsea, Mayra and I rode to the airport. After paying the Galapagos visa fee and some booking kerfuffles, I got on the flight first to Guayaquil, then Isla Baltra. Landing on the island was cool; windswept with cacti, surrounded by water. I had an issue paying the 100$ Parque entrance fee, as I didn’t know it couldn’t be card and the airport ATM was out of cash. The airport folks held on to my passport, saying to pick it up in the town when I had my money. Seemed questionable but what can you do.

I took a bus, boat and another bus from the airport to a crossing to another island, and down a windy road on that island to a town. We passed farms and mostly empty green space. Luckily the bus dropped me off right in front of my hostel. Cool.

The town was neat. A mix of locals and tourists with markets and ceviche places. I took a nap, found some ceviche, walked to the docks and watched a movie. I was dead tired. The next morning I rented a bike, went to the Darwin Research center, and tracked down my passport. I had dinner with my friend Jenna from the program who was also traveling.

The day after I slept late again, picked up my laundry and biked/ walked to a beach. I met Mayra and Chelsea there. We sat for a bit staring at the waves and discussing the program. We met later that night for dinner and ended up at the only bar in town chatting up locals. They reminded me of my friends from Orcas Island. When in Galapagos?

The next day I shelled out some of my dwindling money for a snorkeling trip. The seas were rough and it was cold, but we saw seals, sharks, fish, rays and the most beautiful sea turtles. The folks on the trip were funny too. Two german girls who were very sick convinced the recent college grad from UCLA to tell stories about his past 10 months in Ecuador the whole time as a distraction. Surprisingly it worked.

I grabbed dinner with Mayra and Chelsea again, but was too tired to stay out. I met them for lunch the next day, where they had talked up the waiter and were getting free drinks. #blondeprivelage

After that I caught a boat from the dock to another island, Isabella. I had left the majority of my stuff at the hostel as I’d be returning in three nights. The ride was bumpy, two hours long and terrible. I had to pay a 10$ “docking fee”, whatever that is.

I spent three nights on Isla Isabella. It was beautiful but kind of a tough time as I didn’t bring enough cash. As a result I was hungry a lot and kind of lonely, a little over traveling. Which is a crazy feeling to have in the Galapagos but travel is not all sexy photos and cool stuff, regardless where you are. I’d argue islands make you more lonely. Andy and Emily were off backpacking the Enchantments, one of the most beautiful places in Washington, and Andy was heading to a wedding on a lovely island outside of Seattle after. I was homesick and spent a lot of time waiting for instagram stories to load on the low quality internet.

There were highlights though. A hike to a volcanic crater where the guide (in Spanish) told us about growing up on the island, how the culture was changing with more tourism (white specifically) and less Spanish. I didn’t understand everything, but enough to figure out he conveniently left that part out to the English speaking Canadian contingency of the tour.

Another fun part was that my friends Jenna and Audrey from the program were around. We’d get dinner and talk about our days, other travels and all the things. I said bye to them Friday night. Mayra and Chelsea had left the day before from another island, so it was just me.

Another day I went kayaking and snorkeling. There was a beautiful German man paddling in a double with me who I was better than. My two German friends from the snorkeling trip were also there, looking much less sick. It was a blast. We saw penguins on the rocks, seals, a sharks and a turtle. I loved just sliding off the kayak right into the water. After that, I walked the length of the beach to the end, where a gravel road travelled up into some mangroves. At the end of the road was a cool rock wall waterfall thing but it was a ways and getting dark, so I climbed up a lookout instead. It was beautiful.

The next day I left Isabella at 3pm. I saw my German friends on the beach who were taking surf lessons and invited me, but I didn’t have the money. My phone charger and watch had also both died that day, and I kept having to ask strangers what time it was.

The ride back was 100x better, probably because of the sea sickness pill Jenna had given me. I checked back into the hostel, grabbed my things, and got some food. Seafood pasta which wasn’t that good. Should’ve gotten the ceviche and michelada, the always wise words of Erin forever in my head. Push that comfort zone.

The night was pretty. I said bye to the salt air and the ice cream and the seals sleeping on the bench, but I was tired and running out of money and pretty ready to go. The next morning I misunderstood the timing for the bus and had to take a 25$ taxi to the dock. It ended up being ok though because the driver was really nice, told me about living on a farm on the island and how he hates the rain (it was raining). Plus, on the side of the road, just munching on some leaves, I finally saw a tortoise in the wild.

So began my 24 hour journey from Galapagos to Boston with a taxi, boat, bus, plane, plane, plane, plane. There was another docking fee for the airport and I was so fed up with upcharges by that point, I only had 4$ cash and made them take it.

I saw my German friends at the airport again. Funny how traveling does that. Back in Quito I ate onion rings and a milkshake which made my stomach hurt, but my American self couldn’t resist. In Miami, I kept speaking Spanish because why not, until the baggage claim had issues and I thought I’d miss my flight to Boston through customs. I would’ve had an actual meltdown. I had very little left at that point. Luckily it was fixed and I got to the gate just in time, arriving in Boston at 10am. After confusing texts, because Boston is always confusing, I met Andy at the baggage claim. We went straight to Dunkin Donuts, as I’d barely eaten since Quito,and sat on a bench outside the airport in the hot muggy air, waiting for our Air Bnb to open up before we took the train into the city. I watched the Red Sox and Patriots hats go by, and held my iced coffee like a diamond. I talked and talked and talked, finally in person without the internet delay. And Andy smiled and listened and commented supportively. And occasionally hugged me to remember I was real, and we were happy.

We spent the next week with family and friends in Boston and Rockport Mass, and I was happy floating with comfort, family, good food, someone to sleep next to. I saw old friends in Boston, and a Seattle friend moving to Norway. My stomach didn’t hurt and my brother and his girlfriend came up from New York. We went sailing, drank wine with my aunts and uncles, did puzzles and played Euchre, ate lobster and it was maybe the happiest week of my life. Nothing like leaving to make you appreciate the things you love most.

Then, 5 days later we dropped off Colin, Lian and Andy at the airport and bus station in Boston in a rainstorm. My dad and dog and I drove back to Rochester. That’s where some of the post travel depression set in. In reverse culture shock phases there’s the honeymoon followed by the lull, the reaclimation. I didn’t sleep well, slept late in the mornings. I visited grandparents in nursing homes which is always hard when you never know which time is the last goodbye. Plus I think, regardless of travel or not, childhood homes as an adult are always hard, a strange mix of feelings.

On the plus side I had fresh peaches, good Italian food and cut all my hair off. I hung out with my parents, driving around looking at smaller houses they should move in to, knowing they’re happy where they are. The last night I went with my dad to race our sailboat on Lake Ontario. There was strong wind and I sat in the front, watching the sun set. We got first place, the same boat my grandparents raced 30 years before. I dove into the water and let it rock me, the original water as I spent the first two years of my life in a little house on Lake Ontario, carried in the waves in my mother’s arms before I could walk.

The sun set. The crescent moon rose. The crickets chirped. That heavy almost midwestern summer night. The men sat on the porch and talked about the race. I drank a Molson Canadian and flipped the sausages. I was flying out to Seattle in the morning. I took a breath and looked around, letting it seep in. This was home, deep and rooted as the heart on the sail of our boat. We can travel the world in wide circles, as far as we want but those strings, invisible strings will always ground us and root us to the earth, a small piece in the puzzle, branch of the tree of our family, ancestors and the bodily feel alignment, relaxing into your deepest, original self.

Until next time my friends.

Always in adventure,

Erin