#the struggle of the layer count being over 250...

[metropolitankei]

New Cookie Obtained!

Man, trying to replicate the Cookie Run Kingdom gacha art style for this was a big task, but it paid off!

[chimcess]

Waterlog || pjm (6)

Pairing: Jimin x Reader Other tags: Olympic Swimmer!Jimin, Ex Olympic Swimmer! Reader, Swim Coach!Reader Genre: Strangers to Friends to Lovers!AU, Coach!AU, Swimming!AU, HEAVY Angst, Slow Burn, Mutual Pining, fluff, eventual smut, I'm so soft for these two it's crazy. Word Count: 9.4K+ Synopsis: After a car accident ends her athletic career, Y/N has slowly started rebuilding her life again as a high school swim coach. That’s until she gets a request from an old friend and finds herself back in the spotlight as the new coach of Olympic swimmer, Park Jimin. Warnings: ANGST, crying, mental health issues, talking about mental health, I'm so soft for them it's actually wild, angst, trauma, panic attacks, kissing, ableism, mention of past alcohol abuse, talk of previous sexual encounters, talks of bullying, probably poor swimming terminology, I also have no idea how swim events work so might be wrong about that too, talks of possible inappropriate coach-athlete relationship, lots of insecurities, survivor's guilt, lots of guilt and shame actually, reader needs to be kinder to herself, we all deserve a Jimin, he's still best boyfriend, SMUT, smut warnings under the cut...

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Smut Warnings: virgin!Jimin, both of them are inexperienced, bad past sexual experiences, vaginal fingering, praise, public sexual contact, denied orgasm (unintentional), very vanilla and tame all things considered

Jimin stood a few feet away, his hands tangled in his hair as he smeared a thick layer of gelatin through the strands. The sight of him working so meticulously brought a smile to my face. It was a familiar scene for synchronized swimmers, their hair slicked down with the sticky goo to ward off chlorine’s wrath. But I knew a few racers who swore by it too. Jimin had never bothered before I pointed out how his hair was looking increasingly parched from our relentless days in the pool. I had shown him how to do it a few weeks ago, and now it was a daily ritual for him.

“How are you feeling?” I asked, fighting the urge to reach out and trace my fingers over the smooth expanse of his back. The phases of the moon inked down his spine were an irresistible temptation; I longed to press my lips against the artwork.

The event had been a last-minute switcheroo—originally slated for solo swimmers covering 250 yards (10 laps in this community pool), but changed when the organizers realized the length of the meet would be an endurance test in itself. Now, competitors were grouped into teams of five, each swimmer tackling two laps. Jimin was content with his team but jittery about being assigned breaststroke, his weakest stroke. Yet, I had no doubts. After months of grueling practice, his team wasn’t about to falter.

“It is what it is,” he muttered, rinsing the gelatin from his hands. “I’m more bummed about having to redirect our donations, but at least it’s still going to cancer research. Can’t complain too much.”

“Just have fun,” I offered. “Trey got to pick the charity because he pulled in the most personal donations from your team. Just do your thing and it’ll be great.”

I fiddled with the collar of my polo shirt, still struggling to accept the coach’s uniform of polo and jeans. It seemed every other coach in the pool wore it, but I felt more like a middle-aged man at a barbecue than a swim coach. The Sketchers I wore didn’t help. Jimin had picked the dark blue color for me, which was comfy enough, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that I looked ridiculous.

“You look great,” Jimin said, catching my eye in the mirror.

I snorted, rolling my eyes. He’d been saying that all day, but I struggled to take him seriously. My reflection told a different story—frumpy and awkward. At least the bit of makeup I’d applied managed to make me look somewhat alive.

“I’m serious,” he insisted, adjusting his swim cap. “You look nice in that color. I even like the eyeliner thing you did. You look pretty. You always look pretty.”

I smiled, wanting desperately to kiss him but feeling too on edge. We’d sworn to keep our relationship under wraps. This year was bound to be chaotic, and the last thing we needed was reporters sniffing around if the word got out. We were confident we could manage it, but as I let my eyes roam over his mostly naked body, and with the thrill of his compliment still fresh, I wasn’t so sure.

How was I supposed to keep my hands to myself when he looked like that? His presence was almost a tangible force, and the temptation was just too great. 

“Thanks,” I said, trying to mask the tension in my voice. “Are you almost ready to join the others? William seemed really excited to work with you.”

He shook his head, a pout forming on his lips, and the sight of it made my heart race. 

“Socializing is important,” I teased, reaching out to touch his arm. “What would people think if you spent all your time locked up in your changing room with your coach?”

A mischievous grin spread across his face before he leaned in and stole a quick kiss. I gave him a warning look, though the smile I couldn't suppress gave away my true feelings. 

“I think they’d take one look at you and understand.”

I giggled, “Such a flirt.”

Jimin wrapped an arm around my waist and pulled me close. The heat of his bare skin against mine sent shivers down my spine. It had never really occurred to me that he might be doing this on purpose. Hoseok’s words still echoed in my mind. Right now, Jimin seemed at ease with physical intimacy, but I knew better. If I tried to take things further, he would retreat and change the subject. 

This was something we’d have to address when we got home. For now, I wanted to see how far we could push things. If he wanted to stop, we would. But I didn’t mind being the guinea pig for this exploration.

I hopped onto the bathroom sink, wrapping my legs around one of his. We had taken over the family restroom at the event center, Jimin having convinced the others he needed solitude to get “in the zone” before his swim. I trailed behind him dutifully, my sunglasses barely hiding my excitement.

Jimin’s hands traced down my sides as I wrapped my arms around his neck. He fit against me like a perfect puzzle piece. When his fingers slid under my shirt to grip my waist, I couldn’t help but grind my hips against his thigh. The jeans dulled the sensation, but I sighed in pleasure. Jimin froze.

“Sorry,” I murmured, nuzzling into his neck, mortified. “Got carried away.”

“It’s okay,” he replied, his voice deep and rugged, stirring something primal within me. I bit back the more selfish, needy side of me and just held him. If he couldn’t see my face, maybe he wouldn’t know how desperate I was. “Do you want to do it again?”

I leaned back to look at him. His shyness was evident, but he wasn’t scared. I needed to be sure before getting excited.

“Do you want me to?”

He nodded, “Yes.”

“Are you sure? We can talk about it later if you want.”

Jimin shook his head, his grip on my waist tightening. The sensation was almost too much to bear. I suppressed the intense arousal for his sake. I wasn’t going to get off on his thigh, especially with these jeans on, but I was willing to go along if it meant something to him.

“I want to make you feel good,” he said softly, as though confessing a secret. “I just don’t know if I’ll be good at it.”

“Baby,” I cooed, gently caressing his face. He avoided eye contact. “Hey, look at me.”

He did.

“Don’t worry about that stuff,” I whispered, kissing the tip of his nose. “Whatever we do together is going to feel good because we’re together.”

He shook his head, resting his forehead against mine. He seemed anxious, almost sad. I wished he’d open up more; it might ease his burden.

“I’m such a fucking idiot,” he groaned. “I want you so bad but I get nervous.”

I nodded. “That’s okay. You make me nervous too.”

We stood there, both caught in our tangled emotions. We had arrived early so Jimin could scout and time his warm-up routine before the event. I felt conflicted—my body was slick with desire, and despite knowing he was upset, I still wanted him to touch me. The fact that I was even keeping track of time for a quickie was almost criminal.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“Chim,” I breathed, kissing his cheek. “I don’t know if this is a good idea.”

“Is it because you don’t want to or because you’re worried about me?”

I didn’t have a good answer. I didn’t want to make him feel guilty, but I was so afraid of hurting him that I struggled to articulate what I wanted. My fear of rejection was overshadowed by concern for him.

“Can I touch you?” he asked.

I nodded, “Of course you can. I’m just worried about you right now. You seem upset.”

His hands slowly traveled up my shirt. I leaned back slightly, granting him better access. His hands ventured higher, and he admitted, “I’m not very experienced. It makes me feel insecure.”

His hands stopped just below my bra. “I know you’re older and have been with more people.”

I nodded, understanding his hesitation. I didn’t need the whole story to grasp what he was trying to tell me.

“I’ve only been with one person,” I confessed. “You don’t have a reason to be insecure. It’s just me. Just us.”

He kissed me, and my fingernails dug into his shoulders. He pulled away, and I nearly cried out in frustration. He was driving me insane.

“It was one for me too,” he said, his hands tracing down my back. “It couldn’t… perform.”

The pieces fell into place. He was a virgin. It all made sense now.

“Did you ever…?” I asked, kissing up his neck.

“No. She told a bunch of her friends, and I got picked on for a while. I never tried again. Swimming took up so much of my time that it never came up.”

My heart broke for him. I wanted to know who had hurt my beautiful boy. I took a moment to calm myself, planting gentle kisses on his skin to soothe him.

“Fuck her,” I said softly.

He chuckled, his hands moving back to my stomach, then lower. I bit his ear playfully, and he moaned, slipping his hand into my pants. I could barely contain my pleasure. 

“We’re not having sex here,” I said, trying to ease the pressure. “I won’t touch you unless you want me to.”

He nodded, his gaze focused on my lap. He was still touching me over my panties, and the sensation was almost unbearable. I was almost ashamed of how wet I was, but after months of frustration, it felt almost justified.

“What time is it?” he asked.

I lifted my wrist. “We have twenty minutes before warm-ups.”

He nodded, slipping a finger into my panties. I jolted at the cold touch. He leaned in and kissed my cheek.

“Do you want to stop?”

I shook my head, “Not if you don’t want to.”

He looked into my eyes as his finger gently traced up and down my folds. I sighed in relief, letting my eyes slip shut, focusing on the pleasure he was giving me. 

His finger pressed against my entrance, and when he felt no resistance, he pushed it in all the way. I moaned, opening my legs wider. His movements were tentative at first, but soon became more confident, his strokes deep and deliberate. My body was on fire with need.

“Right there,” I choked out, leaning back into the mirror.

His fingers hit the same spot again, and I shuddered, trying to muffle my cries. Jimin’s touches were more assured now, making my toes curl.

“Yeah?” he cooed, adding another finger. My eyes rolled back in ecstasy. “You’re so perfect.”

I could feel myself shaking, my hands gripping his arm for support. I was so close, and my muffled moans were becoming harder to control.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

My eyes flew open. I looked at Jimin, then the door, and back to him. His pupils were almost entirely dilated, and he was flushed a pretty pink. His fingers were still deep inside me.

“Tara?” a voice called out. “Are you in there?”

“Wrong bathroom,” Jimin called out, fingers still moving. I watched him, biting my lip to keep quiet. “Sorry.”

“Oh! My bad.”

The man’s footsteps faded away.

“Time?” he asked.

I checked my watch and sighed. Jimin slowly withdrew his fingers, and I almost choked on my own breath when he put them in his mouth. 

“Later,” he promised.

It was a promise that weighed heavily. I fought between being his girlfriend and his coach. The girlfriend wanted to forget everything else and keep him here. The coach knew better and that I would regret keeping him from something so important to him. 

“Let’s go kick some ass,” I said, kissing him one last time before sliding off the counter. “You leave first. I’ll be out in a few minutes.”

He scoffed and took my hand. “I’m not leaving you after what we just did.”

“Such a gentleman,” I giggled, leaning into his side. “Make sure no one’s around, and we’ll leave together.”

We were the first ones at the pool, a handful of reporters already lurking around the bleachers, eager to catch the first glimpse of the swimmers. Jimin and I had let go of each other before entering the pool room, our roles as coach and trainee now firmly back in place. My steps slowed as I turned to him.

“I’ll hang back,” I said, my weariness of the press still gripping me. No one seemed to recognize me yet, and Jimin was an effective buffer. “Go and play nice.”

He flashed me a grin. “I’m an American sweetheart, angel. The people love me.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, sweetheart, you better start talking. We’ve got warm-ups to do. Unless you want to cramp up and lose. If that’s your plan, be my guest.”

As Jimin charmed the cameras, I mentally reviewed our plan for the day. Regardless of the outcome, we were hitting the town for food and drinks. It was a perfect way to build rapport and expand our network. The more connections we made, the more likely someone would pass our name to a sponsor.

It struck me as odd that Jimin wasn’t a sponsor or ambassador for any major brands despite his popularity. When I asked him about it, he mentioned Hamilton’s belief that endorsements would be a distraction. His mother thought Hamilton was just jealous of Jimin’s success. I had to side with Nayeon on this one.

I was already working on securing a deal with Nike or Adidas. Their sportswear was among the most recognized worldwide, and getting Jimin’s face out there would set him up nicely for life after the Olympics. He had at least one, maybe two, more Olympics before retirement, and sponsors could provide the financial cushion he needed while he focused on swimming.

I’d reached out to an old contact at Speedo, who was eager to get the endorsement process rolling. Miguel, the rep I’d always dealt with, was thrilled about the newest hot swimmer in town. A shipment of gear was on its way, and I was awaiting confirmation from advertising about a potential campaign. I hadn’t anticipated this, but Speedo seemed eager to be one of Jimin’s first endorsements. I planned to discuss it with him once the charity event was over.

“Ready?”

I jumped, Jimin’s laugh ringing in my ears. 

“Yeah, yeah,” I teased. “Laugh it up. Just take off your clothes and get in the water.”

Jimin stuck his tongue out at me, peeling off his jacket and tossing it on his gear bag. His flip-flops followed, and before long, he was in the water. I stood at the edge, watching him as he began his laps. This was more about stretching than training, and I reminded him to take it slow.

The pool began to fill with other swimmers practicing their strokes. Jimin and the others tagged each other in and out, getting used to the relay transitions. I watched with pride. His breaststroke was impressive. His progress was a testament to his hard work, and I felt honored to be part of his journey. Relationship aside, he was dedicated, and it was a pleasure to work with him.

“He looks good,” Coach Tyler Moore said, his gaze fixed on Jimin. “Better than when he was with that other guy. Kid’s a beast.”

“Good for a short guy,” Nicole, another coach, joked.

Jimin’s height was always a topic of discussion. His shorter stature seemed to be a disadvantage, especially against the taller Olympic swimmers. Most of the men in the category were at least six feet tall, and the women were often taller than Park, myself included.

“He’s a great swimmer,” I replied. “He’s fast and strong. Could probably bench-press a bear if he tried.”

Tyler chuckled. “Do you think he’ll place at the Olympics?”

I nodded. “Of course I do. I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“Girl’s a recluse,” a familiar dry voice drawled beside me.

I chuckled. Summer Lewis, an old friend from high school, had unexpectedly shown up. It was a welcome surprise that eased some of my nerves.

“Thought hell would freeze over before she was back in public,” Summer said. “Do you even leave the house?”

“Yes,” I said, trying to keep the smile on my face. “Obviously. I’m here right now.”

“How are you feeling?” she asked, glancing at me as the others dispersed to speak with reporters. “Leg holding up?”

“Yeah. I still get some pain, especially in the cold, but I’m managing. Alive, so I can’t complain too much.”

The same couldn’t be said for Namjoon. I pushed that thought aside. There was no room for survivor’s guilt today. I was happy. Everything was coming together. He would be happy for me. But he’s dead.

I took a deep breath, my anxiety escalating. The reporters were closing in, and the thought of interacting with them made me physically ill. My stomach churned, and I fought to keep the panic at bay. It was irrational, but I was sweating like a pig.

“Do you miss it?” Summer asked, gesturing toward the pool.

“All the time,” I admitted, a bead of sweat trickling down my neck. “Hey, I’m going to use the bathroom real quick. Let Park know if he starts looking for me.”

Summer nodded. “We’ll be starting in ten.”

“I’ll be back before then.”

Jimin looked my way as I glanced back at him. He gave me a thumbs-up, and I nodded in return, signaling that I’d be back shortly. He needed to stay focused on the water and his team.

I squeezed my hand into a fist, tucking my thumb underneath my index finger and popping it through the other side. I waved my wrist, signaling that I needed to use the restroom. He nodded, and I saw him relax a bit. Good. I just needed a few minutes to collect myself.

I splashed water on my face, my reflection in the bathroom mirror staring back at me. Today was overwhelming. My anxiety was through the roof, and the makeup on my face felt like a mask. It looked fine, as it always did, but it only made me feel more insecure. I looked like I was trying too hard, and everyone knew it. God, I was such an idiot.

And then there was Jimin.

I let a single tear slip. It was inappropriate and disrespectful. He was so nervous and scared, and I’d brushed off his vulnerability because of what? I hadn’t had any in a while? I was no better than the men I despised.

I gave myself two minutes to cry, letting the guilt and shame flow out. Once my watch beeped, I dabbed my face with tissues and fixed my hair. Whatever was going on with me would have to wait. Jimin was counting on me.

As I opened the bathroom door, I collided with a solid chest. I stumbled back, barely catching myself on the wall. The person I bumped into remained still.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, adjusting my clothes. “Are you okay?”

“Perfectly fine.”

The voice was unmistakable. 

Standing in front of me was Matthew Hamilton, his blonde hair starting to silver and slicked back with too much hairspray. His pale blue eyes, devoid of warmth, still unsettled me. He was built like an ox and as healthy as ever, but age was catching up.

“Good to see you, Otter,” he said, his tone dripping with boredom. “Seems like you got stuck with my leftovers.”

I was too furious to speak. How dare he speak about Jimin like that? I had to hold myself together before I lost control. I was already at my breaking point, and his condescending attitude was the last straw.

“Too bad they couldn’t find a swimmer up to your caliber,” he continued, seemingly oblivious to the offense. “Even with a limp, you deserve better than Park. Kid’s got no spirit, and don’t even get me started on the drinking.”

I scoffed. “Jimin doesn’t drink.”

“Not anymore, maybe,” Hamilton said casually, as if trying to make small talk. “He used to drink like a fish until his brother died. Working with him was a nightmare. Glad you’re not dealing with that shit with your bum leg.”

“There’s nothing wrong with my leg,” I snapped, at least making him look slightly chastised. “And for the record, that ‘nightmare’ you keep talking about beat your personal best in his last competition. So if you’ll excuse me, I have better things to do than listen to a has-been who doesn’t know when to shut up.”

I shoved past him, barely moving him an inch. My steps were heavy as I stalked down the hallway, my anger searing through me. I knew my face betrayed my emotions, and the cameras would catch every detail. It was almost enough to make me turn back and hide in the bathroom.

But I had someone counting on me, and he was far more important than protecting my pride.

Jimin was standing with the group when I returned, three minutes to spare. He clocked something was off right away, and so did Summer.

“What crawled up your ass?” she asked.

“Some dumb bitch,” I huffed, taking a few deep breaths to calm myself. “I bumped into an asshole on my way out of the bathroom.”

“Are you okay?” Nicole asked, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Do we need to tell security?”

I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. I think I gave him enough of an earful to keep him the hell away from me.”

I didn’t want to reveal who had bothered me. It would only cause unnecessary drama and upset Jimin. We had an event to focus on. 

“Let's go over the plan one more time.” 

Taking over as head coach, I directed the team. The others were happy to hand over the reins, and the boys took direction well. We reviewed the order of events, their best times, and their confidence levels. After a pep talk and some words of encouragement, it was time for the boys to swim.

Jimin was third in our group of four, and I watched him intensely. How well he performed today would set the tone for the rest of the season. He was signed up to compete in the breaststroke event at the Olympics, along with other solo swimming events. I knew just how skeptical people were about his chances. Today’s performance could reignite interest in him, which was crucial for securing sponsors.

Jimin took his place on the block, laser-focused and ready to dive in as soon as Trey tagged him. Trey was the fastest in the pool today, giving Jimin a head start before the others were halfway back across.

I held my breath. Jimin was a bullet in the water. Not as perfect as I wanted, but much improved. He reached the touchpad and pushed himself back across the pool. Team 3 was catching up, but Jimin would finish first. I watched as he gave one final push and tagged in D’Angelo.

Take that, you old bastard, I sneered internally. My anger surprised me; Hamilton deserved my contempt. No one gets to talk about Jimin like that. Ever.

D’Angelo butterflied us to victory. Our team hugged each other as the announcer declared our win to the cheering crowd. The bleachers were filled, the audience screaming their praise at the four men. They basked in the glory. All I could do was stare at my pretty boy’s smile in awe.

I really did love him.

Even if I didn’t tell him right now, I knew in my heart that I did. I went up against Matthew fucking Hamilton for him, came to this charity function, and kept it together. Now, I was going to talk to some news reporters, all because I loved him.

I love him, I love him, I love him…

“You’re a damn good coach, Y/N.”

I turned to smile at Summer. She was beautiful, her brown eyes warm and kind. She reminded me of Giselle, but her features were sharper, her nose broader. I remembered us cutting up after placing in nationals right after we turned 21. I hadn’t thought about her in so long I forgot what it was like to miss her.

“So are you. D’Angelo is one of the best I’ve seen for his age group. How old is he?”

“Sixteen. Turning seventeen next month. Hope he’ll be Olympics-ready next time, but I don’t know if he’ll stick with it.”

“He will. You can see it in his eyes.”

D’Angelo was talking to Jimin, the high schooler bubbly and starry-eyed. He had a slight stutter and kept apologizing about his tics. D’Angelo had Tourette’s and clicked his tongue and winked a lot. He attached himself to Jimin once they got comfortable, and my boyfriend told me he had followed the younger swimmer on social media.

“Where does he go to school?”

“Pioneer High,” she replied. “His family moved to Ann Arbor a few weeks ago. He was going to school out here in Allendale.”

What a small world.

“Does he need a new coach?” I asked. “I’m out in Saline. It’s only twenty minutes away from Ann Arbor.”

Summer seemed excited about the prospect of us working together. She said this was their last meet as coach and student, and she was sad to see him go since he was the only person serious about swimming professionally on their team. I gave her my contact information and asked her to pass it on to D’Angelo’s parents. I saw potential in him and wanted to keep that fire in his eyes.

“He’s going to be so excited.”

“Well, he’ll have to wait until after the Olympics,” I reminded her. “I’m up to my neck in work right now.”

“What about weekends?” she countered.

“Maybe Saturday,” I sighed. “We’ll see. I’m not sure if I want to commit to it right now. I’ll be in hell until July. Between Nationals and all the other competitions Hamilton signed him up for, we’re not getting any breaks.”

Summer hummed, eyeing the reporters. They had gone to speak with the boys, all of whom seemed eager to share their happiness about the win. St. Jude’s would be getting a hundred thousand dollars from today’s event. Reaching into my pocket, I asked Summer if she had recorded the race.

“Nicole did,” she told me. “She sent it to the group chat already.”

“Excellent,” I grinned. “Jimin’s mom wanted to see him swim. She was so disappointed she couldn’t come.”

I felt Summer watching me as I unlocked my phone. Watching the video, I was pleased at how well-shot it was. You could see all of our boys on full display. I thanked Nicole for the video and saved it. Pulling up Neyeon’s number, I sent the video and promised her to have Jimin call her as soon as he was available.

“You two together?”

I looked at Summer, keeping my face neutral.

“Sorry if I’m overstepping,” she laughed. “It’s just…you two seem very close.”

I raised an eyebrow. Lying wasn’t something I did often, and this felt wrong but necessary. I didn’t want anyone to know about us. It took one person saying the wrong thing, and we’d be up shit’s creek come July. Our relationship was frowned upon by SafeSport and would be considered imbalanced.

“We’re not.”

Summer did not look convinced.

“I’m not going to tell anyone, Y/N. You’re just a trainer while he’s still in Michigan. A stand-in until Bunch finds him a new coach. We all know that, and you’re not breaking the code of conduct.”

“I’m not a temp,” I sighed. “We haven’t disclosed anything yet. I wanted to wait until after the Olympics, but I’m afraid I’ll have to step down before that happens.”

Summer placed a hand on my shoulder. “He’ll be in Colorado in April, right? Tell Bunch your job as coach is over and you won’t have anything to worry about.”

“You don’t get it,” I shook my head. “Ozzie wants me to be his permanent coach. That’s been the expectation this entire time, and I know Jimin would want the same.”

“Well, he can’t have his cake and eat it too,” she said, glancing at the reporters. “Get him to understand the position you’d be in. I’m sure if you told him your romantic relationship would make you look bad, then he’d be more willing to get help elsewhere.”

“He wants to finish the season with me by his side. It was the only compromise he was willing to listen to.”

“Put your foot down. Find other options. Christmas is around the corner. Spring won’t be too long after that. You should step down before Oswald finds out. Don’t screw yourself over, babe. You’ve worked too hard for this to let some kid take it away from you.”

I snorted, “He’s not doing anything wrong.”

“No,” she argued. “He’s being selfish. You both are.”

I knew she was right. I should have waited until I was no longer attached to him in this way before starting anything. I knew it from the beginning, and I still allowed myself to be in this position. Summer had a point. Finding him a permanent coach before we went to Colorado in April was a good idea. If I was just a trainer, then nothing would be inappropriate, and I could still help him out in the gym.

“Are you looking for anything?” I joked.

Summer laughed. “Girl, I’d love to work with that boy, but I don’t think we’d line up this year. I have kids now. I can email you a few recommendations.”

“Thanks, Summer. I don’t know how big of a deal it’s going to be, but I’ll talk to Bunch about it.”

“Anytime, Otter. I’m just speaking from my experiences. He might tell you something different. Don’t spiral over it. I know you.”

I always hated that stupid nickname, but I had to put on a smile. Cameras were coming our way, and I needed to be sure I was on my best behavior. For Jimin’s sake.

The interview went better than I expected. I didn’t have to talk about myself a single time, and it didn’t look like any of the reporters here knew who I was. It wasn’t pleasant, but I couldn’t complain. We spoke for five minutes before they moved on to the others. Taking that as my cue, I went to collect my athlete.

We had a lot to talk about tonight.

Jimin smiled when I approached. The other three boys greeted me just as eagerly, and I was more than happy to hand out my praises. D’Angelo and Trey went to mingle with the losing teams. Paul went to find Nicole, leaving Jimin and me alone.

“You look upset,” he said, handing his duffle bag over when I held out my hand. “Something the matter?”

“No,” I shook my head and smiled. “Nothing’s wrong. I just need to talk to you later.”

“Is it bad?”

“Not bad,” I reassured him. “Something private. I don’t want to do it here.”

“Okay, Coach.”

That night, as I lay in bed, I thumbed through the email Summer had sent me earlier. Jimin had been invited out with the other boys, and I had pushed him to go. I told him I had paperwork and reports to handle, that he should enjoy his night off. He seemed reluctant but left anyway.

The truth was, I wasn't ready to have this conversation with him. Every time I tried to bring up our relationship, he brushed it off, saying he was fine with waiting until after the Olympics. But I knew better. It would look worse if we waited until he won a medal to disclose everything. I was his coach, temporary or otherwise, and it was my responsibility to make sure boundaries weren't crossed.

I should have never come here. Not when I knew exactly how I felt about him before I did. I was such an idiot.

Finally, ready to face the music, I called Ozzie. It was still early in Colorado, but I knew he'd answer. I never called him unless it was important. Maybe, if I was lucky, Whitney would pick up, and I could chat with her first. She always had a way of helping me get my head straight before unleashing my worries on Ozzie.

"Hello?" No such luck tonight.

"Hey, Oz," I greeted, the worry in my voice making me want to hang up. "How are you?"

"Fine. What's wrong, Otter?"

I sighed, "I fucked up."

"Tell me about it."

So I did. I spent half an hour unloading everything that had happened since I moved to Michigan. How attracted I was to Jimin, but how I pushed those feelings aside to coach him. The months of slowly building longing. Sushi night in Detroit. The date when I came back from visiting home. The kiss on his couch. The brief sexual encounter this morning (though I left out most of those details). I told him everything.

To his credit, Oswald just listened. He only spoke every so often to clarify something or ask about a small detail I left out. As my story came to a close, the pit in my stomach felt like someone was sitting on me. My hands began to tremble.

"I'm so sorry, Ozzie," I cried. "You trusted me, and I fucked it all up."

"You didn't do anything wrong," he finally said, his voice soft and gentle. "Summer was being dramatic earlier. What you two do is your business as long as you disclose it."

"But-"

"Katinka Hosszú and Shane Tusup are married. Coach-athlete relationship. They've disclosed it, and they're fine. You and Park are doing the same thing. I'll let everyone else know, and you'll be fine once the Olympics come around."

"I just don't want to be a bad person, Oz."

"You're not," he soothed. "You did the right thing by telling me. I'm happy for you, Y/N. You've been alone for too long, and that kid needs someone like you in his corner. He's been through a lot."

Wiping my face, his words brought back my encounter with Hamilton. The words he used to describe Jimin were so far from reality, but I still couldn't find it in me to not believe him. Matthew was a jerk, a stupid one at that, but he was sincere in his annoyance.

"I ran into Hamilton today. He said some shitty things about Jimin. Called him a drunk."

Ozzie cursed under his breath.

My heart rate sped up. So it was true? But that didn't make sense. Jimin didn't even drink. I had never heard of a drunk who didn't drink. Unless he was in recovery.

I thought about my dad. He'd been sober for five years now. It was one of the only compliments I could give his new wife. She kept him on the straight and narrow. Imagining Jimin in my childhood basement, too drunk to stand up, crying for a wife that wasn't coming back felt wrong. I could never put him in that position. That wasn't him at all.

"That's something you should talk to him about."

"But it's true?"

"To an extent," Ozzie admitted. "I wouldn't call him a drunk, but the kid can hold his liquor. He was worse a few years ago, but he's been great for a long time. Hamilton is just exaggerating."

But I had a gut feeling he wasn't.

"Thanks for talking to me, Oz."

"Anytime, Y/N," he chuckled. "And delete that damn email. He doesn't need a new coach. You're working magic on him."

"Night."

"Night."

Tossing my phone on the bed, I slammed my laptop shut and put it on the nightstand. Today had been a disaster. We came here and won, did exactly as well as I had hoped, but it felt hollow. I didn't know who to believe. Summer's concerns were valid from an academic coach's perspective, and I understood her worries. It was strange to me as well. Ozzie was a far more reliable source, but it felt too easy. Things were never that simple for me, and it was difficult to calm down enough to believe what he said.

Curling into a ball, I stared at the front door. He'd be back soon, and I'd have to explain my strange mood. I knew he'd be upset with me for sending him away after saying we needed to talk, but I hoped he'd forgive me once I explained why I needed space to think. So many decisions needed to be made, and I knew I would only hurt him if I tried to do anything before screwing my head back on.

For now, I decided to go by Ozzie's advice. If any issues came up, we'd deal with them together. As a team. Jimin would prefer it that way, and I could take some of the pressure off my shoulders.

A beep. A wiggle. Another beep. The door opened.

"Stupid keycard doesn't work right," Jimin grumbled to himself, slipping out of his shoes. "I knew there was a reason it was so cheap."

I slowly sat up and watched him. His hair was in his eyes, and his skin looked a little pale, but he seemed to be in a good mood. I couldn't smell alcohol either.

I wanted to punch myself in the face.

I wasn't ready for that conversation yet, but I knew avoiding it would only make things worse. If I let my mind wander, it would spin the worst story ever told, and I'd constantly be checking to make sure he wasn't drunk.

Jimin didn't drink, I told myself. Jimin's been doing great.

He went straight to the bathroom, giving me a few minutes to collect myself. I needed to be honest but cautious. If I told him word-for-word what Hamilton had said, it would only make him feel bad. Starting with the good news first might help. Maybe learning that we didn't have to hide our relationship status going forward would ease the sting of his old coach's words.

I would have to approach this delicately. The toilet flushed. The water ran. The bathroom door opened. It was showtime.

"Had fun?" I asked him, knees pressed against my chest.

He smiled at me, "They're all really nice. Wish you were there."

"Next time," I promised. "Want to put the TV on?"

Jimin shrugged, "Sure. Food Network?"

"Chopped might be on."

It was actually Iron Chef, but we both liked that show too, so we kept it on. I tried not to stare at Jimin as he got undressed. He only wore a shirt and boxers to sleep, so it was very distracting. I needed to be focused and ready for anything.

Climbing into bed, he wrapped an arm around my waist and buried his face into my side. I was still sitting up, cradling my legs, but Jimin's whining finally got me to relax. Sliding down, I wrapped my arms around his neck and let him throw the blanket over me.

This was my happy place.

"I missed you," he mumbled, fingers playing with my hair.

"I missed you too," I told him. "Sorry I've been weird."

"What's wrong, angel?"

I felt my eyes welling up. "Good or bad?"

"Good."

I took a deep breath.

"I told Coach Bunch about our relationship. He said we'll be fine, and he's going to put in a disclosure form with the board for us. We'll probably get an email to sign a few documents in a couple of days."

He kissed my forehead, a large, toothy grin overtaking his entire face. I couldn't help but smile back. I knew it would make him happy. Gripping my hair, he yanked my head forward for a kiss. He couldn't stop smiling even as our lips collided. His joy eased some of my anxiety about the conversation that was to come.

"I'm so happy right now," he giggled, kissing me again. "I can finally show you off like the pretty girl you are."

Relenting, I tightened my grip around him. I needed to focus on the good. Jimin wasn't going to get mad at me for being honest, and I had to hope Hamilton being a jerk wouldn't burst our perfectly formed bubble.

"I ran into Coach Hamilton today."

Jimin's smile dropped in sync with my heart.

"He said some things," I averted my gaze. "It upset me. That was my issue when I came back from the bathroom."

"What did he say?"

I shook my head, "It doesn't matter. He doesn't matter."

Jimin cupped my cheek.

"You were upset before you went. Why?"

I sighed, burying my face in his neck. It was easier to talk to him when I didn't feel his eyes on me. It never ended. The anxiety. The shame. The guilt.

"I just felt so bad about the bathroom thing. You told me to drop it, but it's still there. I don't want to make you feel pressured. I want you to feel loved when I touch you. I just want to make you feel good, Jimin."

"You do," he soothed, kissing my head. "You make me feel amazing. There's nothing wrong with the things we do. We're going to be okay."

I couldn't help but cry. I loved him so much. I could never, ever, let him go. He was everything I ever wanted. Perfect.

"And then, here comes this goddamn asshole," I cried, the words spilling out of me like a busted dam. I was past the point of no return, the fury and frustration rolling off me in waves. Any semblance of calm had fled, replaced by a raw, unfiltered torrent of emotion. 

"He kept yammering about my 'bum leg,' saying you were no good, calling you a drunk. I don't know what came over me, but I just snapped. I never lose it like that, but I did. And now, I feel like I've ruined everything—your meet, your moment. And to top it all off, I went behind your back and talked to Ozzie—"

"Stop." Jimin's hands were on my face, his grip firm but gentle, forcing me to meet his eyes. "Stop it. Please, don't hide from me. You didn't ruin anything, angel. I promise. I'm so happy we won, and you talking to Bunch is the best gift anyone’s ever given me."

I shook my head, unable to accept his words. The day had spiraled into a nightmare, and I felt responsible for every second of it. I couldn't celebrate with him, couldn't touch him, couldn't even look at him. I was a failure. I was a mistake. This whole thing was a mistake. I was going to ruin his career. His life. His—

"One," he took a deep breath. "Two," then another. "Three," he kissed my forehead. "Come on, angel girl. Breathe with me."

I blinked, following his lead. One deep breath in. One big exhale out. One breath in. One breath out. One, two, three, four; five. Ten, nine, eight, seven; six. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. 

"There you go," Jimin mumbled. "Just calm down. I'm not mad. I promise you I'm not mad."

I nodded, my breath catching up with me. With my head cleared, the weight of my earlier words hit me like a sledgehammer. So much for being gentle and kind. I wanted to punch myself in the face. God, I was a horrible girlfriend.

"I'm sorry," I murmured. "That was unnecessary. And selfish. And wrong. I promised myself I'd stay calm, and then I just freaked out on you."

Sitting up, I wiped my face roughly, angry at my tears. I was too old to act like this when I was upset. I needed to learn how to stay composed and communicate. No one wants to deal with a crybaby who explodes all the time.

"It's okay to be upset," he replied. "That's a lot to handle alone, and you did so well today. I want you to know you can have these moments with me. It's what I'm here for."

"But you shouldn’t have to."

"I want to," he said, grabbing my face again. I hadn’t realized I had looked away. "I want to because I love you."

Automatically, I laughed. My disbelief was so great I was positive Ashton Kutcher would jump out of the bathroom and tell me I was getting Punk’d. But this wasn’t 2003. It was 2024, and no one had thought about that blemish on MTV’s record in over a decade. This was just me and Jimin in our hotel room, and he was telling me something profound, and all I could do was laugh.

He cracked a smile. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I shook my head, almost giddy with joy. "Nothing. I don’t know why I can’t stop laughing."

His smile widened. Sitting up, he leaned in and kissed my cheek. I squeaked, giggled, and threw myself at him.

My mood swings had to be exhausting. I knew I had to be as well.

But he loved me. Jimin loved me. Even if I was the most exhausting girlfriend, he loved me.

"I love you," he repeated, his eyes soft and glowing with unmistakable fondness. "I don’t like it when you talk about yourself like that."

"I love you, too," I whispered back like a secret. "I’m sorry."

He shook his head. "Don’t feel bad for telling me these things. You’re not ruining anything for me. I’m just happy you’re giving me the privilege to hold you when you’re down. You’re a suffer-in-silence type."

I snorted. "Woe is me."

Jimin leaned back and took me with him. Laying across his chest, I got comfortable and stared at him. He was the prettiest man I had ever seen. He needed a haircut soon. It was past his ears and too hard for him to manage. I’d let him go early next week so he could fit in a trip to the barber.

"There’s nothing wrong with your leg, by the way."

I snickered. "I told him the same thing. May or may not have called him a has-been, too."

That made Jimin laugh. The sound was like music. I loved it when he was happy. I was worried he was putting his feelings aside to make me feel better, but I had to force myself to let him come to me on his own time. Whatever Jimin wanted was what I wanted, and if he wasn’t ready to tell me about his past yet, I would accept that.

Because I loved him. And he loved me. I smiled. He loves me.

"You have questions, right?"

"About the drunk comment? Sure, but you don’t have to say anything. You can talk to me or not, and I’ll still be here."

He regarded me for a moment before nodding. "Thank you."

I simpered. "You’re welcome."

"I love you."

"I love you, too."

Wanting to break the tension, I made a show of stretching my arms above my head. Yawning melodramatically, I curled up against his side. Jimin’s arms wrapped around my waist as if they were always meant to be there. As it turned out, a new episode of Chopped had come on.

Jimin was very pleased with this, and we lapsed into a comfortable silence as we watched the chefs open their baskets. We had gotten lucky enough to only miss the introductions. For their appetizer basket, they got mofongo (something I had never heard of before), English peas, sparkling cider, and catfish filets. I marveled at the ingredients. I would have been utterly clueless.

"What’s mofongo made of?" I asked Jimin.

"Mashed up fried plantains," he replied calmly. "They put garlic paste and chicharron in it. You’d usually eat it with beef broth, but it can change depending on the recipe. It’s a Puerto Rican dish. I only heard about it after swimming with Luis Rivera at Nationals. It’s really good."

"It sounds good. Summer? Her family is Nigerian, and if we were lucky, her mother would bring these massive pots of food to our training sessions when we were in the U.S. Olympic swimming team back in 2012. I dream about her jollof rice. And the soups? Don't even get me started."

I watched as one chef used the mofongo to create a marinade for his catfish and raised an eyebrow. Points off for lack of creativity. Another person had taken the mofongo and turned it into a thick gravy. Both seemed like safe choices, but at least they were using it. The other chef hadn’t even touched it. They were very focused on a pot of boiling potatoes and frying the fish.

"Boiling more potatoes seems pointless," I muttered.

"Let him cook."

I snorted. "Yes, sir."

Jimin was right, of course. A few moments later, the man was mixing the potatoes and mofongo together to make a hybrid of sorts. After that, he assembled his fish pie. He used the cider to make a base gravy for the fish and peas, added in a few other veggies for more flavor, and piled on the potatoes. I did not think I would like the flavor of fish with heaps of mash on them, but it looked delicious as he plated them. Far better than the other two’s strange and avant-garde style.

It just wasn’t something I would consider an appetizer.

"That’s an entire meal," Jimin scoffed. "He’s going home."

"Get out of my head, kid."

He kissed my cheek. "Make me."

"Punk."

"You love me."

"I do."

"Say it again," he giggled.

I rolled my eyes. "I love you."

"I love you, too," he sighed happily. "I’m so happy I can just say that now. You have no idea how hard it’s been to just... not say it."

I thought about the semi-panic attack I had in Hoseok’s car and laughed. He had no idea how much I understood where he was coming from.

"Say it as much as you want, love," I kissed the underside of his chin.

We had both been right. The judges thought the pie was too much to be an appetizer. 

The hiss of the shower jolted me awake, the sound slicing through the thick, restless silence of the early morning. I fumbled groggily for my phone. The screen lit up: 3:17 AM. The bed beside me was a cold, empty expanse, and a tight knot of worry coiled in my gut. I slipped out of bed, the chill of the floor biting at my feet, and crept toward the bathroom door.

“Chim?” I called softly, barely above a whisper, as if speaking louder might shatter the fragile night.

“Yeah?” His voice was close, too close to the door for him to be in the shower. 

“Can I come in?” 

The moment of silence that followed was heavy, like the air before a storm. Then came the soft click of the lock, and the door creaked open just enough for me to see him. As I’d feared, he was still fully clothed, slumped on the toilet with that distant, haunted look I’d hoped never to see again. It had been months since he’d looked this lost.

I slipped inside and closed the door behind me, the small space barely accommodating us. We were so close our knees touched, but I didn’t care. He needed me, and I wasn’t going anywhere.

“Do you want to talk about it?” I asked, my voice barely a breath.

He didn’t answer immediately, his gaze fixed on some dark chasm only he could see. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the steady drip of the showerhead. Eventually, he reached over and turned off the water. The steam billowed around us, wrapping us in a dense fog.

"Her name was Jackie," he said finally, his voice a whisper lost in the fog. "She was a friend of Annie’s. We were in college, and Annie practically forced us to go out so she could double date with Tom."

I hummed softly, encouraging him to continue. I didn’t understand why Jackie was surfacing now, but I had a sinking feeling she was the girl he’d mentioned earlier—the one who had made him feel small and worthless. Jackie. What a godawful name.

“She was one of those people who wore a mask around her friends and was someone else entirely when we were alone. I was 18, and she was pretty, so I let it slide. We had things in common, and we laughed a lot.”

He paused, drawing a shaky breath. “Her friends thought I was weird and didn’t want her with me. They’d been tight since middle school and still acted like high school mean girls. I didn’t care much for them either, but Jackie always said she didn’t care what they thought.”

My heart twisted in my chest. I had a gut-wrenching feeling where this was going, and it made me sick. My poor baby. I placed a hand on his knee in a futile attempt to comfort him.

“We’d been seeing each other for a few months, but we hadn’t done more than a few kisses and hugs. I was gearing up for my first professional championship swim meet, and she was buried in schoolwork. Double major or something, I don’t really remember.”

He took another deep breath. “Our clothes were off, and I was so nervous. She seemed okay with it. We just got dressed and watched a movie. We both knew that things weren’t going anywhere.”

“That’s normal, Jimin,” I murmured, trying to fill the void of silence. “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

He shook his head. “She told her friends, who told their friends, who then told everyone in my frat about what happened. Then she was too much of a coward to face me and acted like nothing had ever happened. I was humiliated, mortified. I just didn’t want to have sex anymore. The drinking started after, but that was more a side effect of being in a fraternity with undiagnosed depression.”

I was at a loss for words, so I stood up. Jimin watched me as I lowered myself onto his lap. I wrapped my arms around his neck and held him tight.

Even if it wasn’t some grotesque horror story, it was still a deep, festering wound. Trauma was trauma, regardless of its shape or size. This morning had uncovered more than either of us was willing to admit.

For Jimin, it was confronting his fears of rejection. For me, it was the struggle to finally move on from guilt and shame. Namjoon's face came to mind, and I had to make my brain stop itself from going there. He would want me to be happy. He would want me to live. I relaxed into him, hoping that we could both find a way to heal.

Jimin sucked in a few deep breaths before his arms enveloped my waist. He hiccuped once, then twice, and finally, he began to cry.

I buried my face in his hair, my own tears mingling with his. It was heart-wrenching to see him in such pain, but I felt deeply honored that he was finally allowing his walls to come down. For all my talk about suffering in silence, Jimin was far more adept at hiding his pain than I was.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “You didn’t deserve that.”

He cried harder and nodded. “I know,” he wailed.

I didn’t want to talk anymore. Holding him in my arms, this beautiful, broken boy, I wished I could keep him locked away in this bathroom forever, safe from the cruelties of the world. I didn’t care if my legs went numb from sitting or if the grip he had on my ribs was starting to hurt. Jimin cried, and I stayed in his lap, a silent promise to be there, come what may.

Taglist: @ownthesunshine @screamertannie @lovelytaes-blog @pernesianparapio @tae-with-some-suga @sumzysworld @chimmisbae

© chimcess, 2024. Do not copy or repost without permission.

[parisknyghts]

The Greats (a novella)

The Greats

"The greatest beings find out they must come together to fight evil or something ". Episode one

Chapter One - Piper 

Piper sat down just a second, having just finished her daily 250 mile jog, she felt she deserved a little bit of the rest as it were.

The first fist flew past her face fast, her reaction time always on the right key eller note she managed to not only stand up but dodge the heavy bladed weapon that was thrown at her back. It dug fourteen feet deep into the mostly innocent maple tree that provided many passersby a bit o shade... For a price.

Ten.

She counted 9 masked, armed and possibly underage assailants surrounding her person, it was ten but by the time she finished counting she had already dislodged the obsidian harpoon from the tree trunk and had returned it to the owner. The stabby way, like it landed into and through his coccyx parts. He screamed like a bitch and went down even more like a bitch or something.

Piper drove the outer edge of her forearm into the first approaching thug, a rather large fellow, she slowed his attempt at a tackle by shattering his upper windpipe.

Pushing him away with a thrust kick she used her pencak silat training to swifty turn and completely rip out the neck nerve of another.

"A ha!" She shouted mockingly.

For a brief second she switched to ledrit style to leap in the air, spin kick another fool before dropping the bone part of her knee onto the big guys back most neck gristle. It went kaputz.

"A ho!" She shouted from her foaming mouth.

American wrasslin was up next, the jog had driven Piper into a frenzy. 

She spun and dodged the next attacker before catching the masked woman by her waist and overhead belly to back suplexing her through a nearby hadron collider.

It exploded and the shrapnel flew all around, injuring two more attackers most important groin bones.

A saito suplex to another heavy one left his upper body meat and confidence and health a shambles.

As Piper yanked one of the assailants ribs from his back to use as a weapon on another goon he fell to his knees and begged off.

"Please! I beg you, it's only a telegram. Don't hurt me and me mates anymore..."

Piper slowly dug the rib bone into the man's left most eye.

She said, "A what?"

The man slowly and with Shakey hands reached deep down into the front of his mossy pants and produced a wet envelope. Fat shiny leeches swarmed the outer layer, they tasted funny.

"F... Fighting telegram ma'am. It's supposed to be all in good fun, a little row to get the juices going." He said like a chump.

They both had a good and hearty laugh as Piper took the telegram.

"Do you think I could remove this rib bone from my -"

"No, no leave it in. It suits you." Piper said as she walked away, the mechanics of opening the envelope proving to be quite befuddling. 

That's when the second chapter happened.

Chapter two - Bridewell 

Hock Bridewell was an Ill man, his cellmate Jug Illman however was pretty even keeled and unabashedly polite.

As Bridewell shaved his back, the sounds of the old man struggling underneath Jug began to get on his nerves. 

Bridewell could shave his own back because he had cool ass long arms, like he could scratch his ankles while standing straight up and shit. It was awesome. 

For a shaving instrument he preferred to use a baleen whale tooth he stole when he was aught 13 years old (adjusting for inflation of course). He stole it from a plug ugly pirates French maid, the cool of her last breath as he leapt upon her back over and over gave a nearby kitten a shiver.

Kittens are baby cats who come out of the cats cloaca after they dig a deep hole on a safe enough beach and shed their last skin.

Bridewell liked kittens but he did not like cats. When cats get too old their fur tastes too much like shit.

"I'll have that cigarette I owe you in a few years Bridewell me pal, I've finally secured myself a spot on the kitchen staff. Tis a working man now I am!" Jug said with a greasy grin. He quivered for a spell before grabbing his yummy belly.

"You alright there...?" Bridewell stared at his cellmate with great and deep concern in his autumn hued eyes. He had never seen the man so much as sneeze or cough or eat or sleep or drink or talk or breathe or blink or have a shadow or -

The sound of a man screaming in the distance was soon followed by the familiar roar of a drunk Minotaur. It sounded sexy.

Wayward but dapperly dressed Minotaurs were known to leave their salty hovels from time to time and enter Pleasureville prison from time to time through a door in the back that no one ever remembered to lock. 

They would get drunk off 10 day old pig wine and become well randy and quite talkative. 

Even rarer though it was still like everyday they would grab a man by his arms and legs and head and groin and pull the opposite direction. Merriment was had by all.

Another cool game the Minotaurs and prisoners liked to play was they would see how fast they could debone. The rules were kinda vague but basically the bones had to be removed one by one, and the wish bone was to be avoided. You didn't have to start with the feet but prisoners sometimes have more bones in their feet than other people. Last count it was like 650 (as reported by famed bone counter and astrophysicist Neil Degrasse Iron Mike Tyson chickens and peer reviewed.

Bridewell retrieved his trusty abacus from deep in the toilet and began to calculate the size of the Minotaur by the scale of it's bellow. 

As Jug violently shook on the cell floor, frothy blood squiring out of his ears in short burst and pooling around the feet of a passing turtle, Bridewell secured Gjölly to his back.

"Stay here Jug my friend. I'll return soon, I have business with this particular Minataor." Bridewell said with a wry upturn of his uppermost lip.

With a pep in his ass and step he sauntered out of the cell.

CHAPTER 3 - Bridewell 

GJÖLLY was the solid stone sledgehammer that belonged to Bridewell. It was a magnificent weapon and tool. Made from the rock that some giant wolf was pooping next to, Bridewell noticed it's strange dexterity and smell. 

The big ugly dog or wolf or whatever was tied to it by a very lazy owner. Bridewell took the stone and the chain and used them to forge his mighty weapon. He has yet to find anything that it cannot smash like a boss, ya heard me shorty? 

"Leslie, you cheap bastard! Time to pay the piper." Bridewell said as he stood on the gray cracked wall, directly above the shocked Minotaur (or Leslie as he was known to his chums and trivia night contemporaries).

Leslie set both duffle bags full of ear bones down and was obviously annoyed at having been startled.

"My word Bridewell, have you no manors. I swear you're going to give me a stroke one of these days. Sneaking about as you do." Leslie droned.

Bridewell hopped down from the wall and circled around Leslie with a smile.

Leslie was becoming perturbed. He said, "... Is everything kosher Hock? You seem a little, tense. You say you're working for Piper now.. the thing between she and I is personal. If she has anything she needs to say to me, she can pick up the phone or drop a telegram like a normal goddamn per-"

The sound of Leslie's collar bone snapping in five places as Bridewell leapt into the air and with great gusto and glee brought Gjölly down onto his person, was kinda cool.

Her erect vagina signaled the need for interest in Lickity Split as she observed the much bloody interaction. 

The mission of recruitment weighed heavier on what was left or right about her soul. 

Chapter 13

Wicked.. a taste of the morrow. Is the word. But then…

Paul was not an unpeculiar fellow. Some would say he had a knack for the abstract by way of "jack o tradeitis", the man knew just a little bit enough about almost everything but not a bit enough to make something of it.

He sat cross legged atop his banyan wood desk puffing away at a tobacco pipe full of lush brown brown and locally sourced cinnamon, pondering the small ownerless Pomeranian skulking past his pale green garden. He wondered what that hund smelled like.

With an awful crash the door to Paul's office splintered and buckled and just a shade later the whole piece of wood split and almost fell to the floor save hanging by a meager hinge.

Paul straightened his back and let out a puff of smoke in dismay as standing before him in the doorway, nearly breathless and disheveled was a man named Jack.

A large bodied, furrowed brow and damp with sweat his muscles had torn through the sections of his brooks brothers suit making the man look most ill fashioned.

He was holding a bent ax, the one a lumberjack might carry but well rusted and twisted at the center in what Paul presumed was some sort of chopping accident.

Paul spake "I say jack, we haven't seen you in at least a season! Since I believe the whole debacle with Mrs. Havershams stray gazelle.."

"Shut your fucking mouth you sick ... Fuck!" Jack worded.

Jack reached into his trousers and produced a thick and tattered paper cover novel of some type. He tossed it into Paul's face and raised his ax high into the air. Really high.

"Explain this!"

Paul took thirty short puffs from his pipe and retrieved the novel from the floor where it had landed after hitting him in the nose. The blood from which slowly dripped down his face.

Jack fumed and his buxom chest muscles heaved as he practiced an ancient art known to few as Patience fu. Taught to him no doubt by the great practitioner Hanzo Gruber of little Berlin in West Kyoto, Paul suspected.

Paul studied the tome with little more than a few grunts and slight eyebrow raises. Maybe a wry upturn of his lips or the turgidity of his left nipple betrayed his conclusions.

After a few terse moments he looked up at jack and said..

"...why did you throw this in my face? It's quite heavy and appears to have both semen and fecal matter on it."

Jack bristled, "that's my fecal matter you son of a bitch. Stop changing the subject. What's the meaning of this? Why did I find it locked up in your shoddy ass basement and why does it have the names and personal info of hundreds..."

He took a step forward crushing a few roaches and snatched the pipe from Paul's hand with great violent force, shattering one of the man's favorite fingers and scratching deep enough to expose white meat.

Paul was deeply offended and finally uncrossed his legs. Sternly he addressed his increasingly unwelcome guest.

Paul said, "I'm not as happy about knowing you as much as I was before, jack."

Jack spit in Paul's mouth just as the final venomous words were being spat from his part time lord and keep.

Jack bellowed, "Lies! This vile wretched ... Accursed thing! When I found it, I .. the madness! The flames.. heaving breast, flames licking my face -"

He began to pace in a semi counter clockwise concentric mobius strip. He muttered to himself at the top of his voice as Paul began to become annoyed at the loss of his pipe.

"Why.. why did it have hundreds.. maybe thousands of people's names, and addresses.. and..."

He stopped after stepping on another sweet roach and turned to Paul.

"....Paul. Yellow paper? And why are most of the people in your... Book. Why are they dead?"

Paul smiled, " and why the business listings and adverts jack? I don't know what -"

Jack swung the bottom most part of his leg high into the air and brought it down on Paul's scrotum bones with a crunch.

Jack whispered, "I visited those homes. Those people and those businesses too as well Paul. You know what I found in your sick wake?! Entire places called blockbuster left abandoned with nothing but rats and mostly used but still usable condoms! What did you do to those people?!"

"My nutsack hurts!" Paul chided.

Jack was becoming unnerved.

Chapter 10

Paul thought a lot. He liked thinking because being smart was what gave him boners. He liked getting boners since he could recall being a wee lad standing on the marmy shore, fish shit and sand between his toes as he watched the treacherous waves. 

"They come and they go boyboy... They come and they go. Like your aunty on a Sunday." The cracked out but still kinda hot in a nerdy kinda way bullet train hobo barked, his voice seemingly the result of him drinking a mixture of glass and coffee. 

It was times such as this that were around 5 am. Also, it was ass can open of whooping time as it so happened that the boy known as Paul "Falcon" Maltese had exactly one so called friend. 

"Grrrrreada ooooopar ficu fuck.." Jack screamed as his heavy blows rained down onto and collapsed the skull parts of the hobo. About the monkey blood stained man's middle torso and inner thigh meat Jack jumped up and also down. 

As the man's bitch ass screams became wheezing pleads of prayer or mercy Paul turned to gaze back out at the wet water. With his eyes. Which were also wet.

"Why hast those words... That that man had said... Why do they stick with me so." Paul purred.

A seagull with two heads swooped down and expertly pooped into the gaping mouth of a sunbathing maiden as she slumber. The Z's coming out of her huge boobs were sharp. Man. Her boobs were like, so huge.

The sound of her smile as she swallowed the umami guano brought Paul to his revelation. 

"I'm super smart and I should be a detective because I'm good at noticing things mon!" He said in a Jamaican accent.

Paul turned 72 cubits catercorner to Jack's left most knee. 

"I say, dear jack. I shall return. I'm going to go become a famous detective!"

Jack gave Paul a blood plasma covered handed high five and 6 before leaping 68 billion parsecs into the air, snatching the sexy seagull out of the sky with his bare dick.

Jack bellowed "I don't give a fuck what you do. Just don't ever be evil or I'll kill your whole body till it's wet and dirty!"

With a splat and perhaps half of a skasplooshka his nutsack snapped back into place and Paul was brought back to the hear and now. 

Then he realized he was past aggravated, ideally seeing a grave misunderstanding about to be birthed Paul raised a single elbow into the air.

"If I am who you think I am, and I deduce that if it weren't so then you would kommer ikke into my personal home and barraged me with these redundant and weak sauce ass queries! Now haste your genital blows. Away with your besotted and furthhence insipidus moral artillery, motherfucker! Disrepute and gelatinous gallons of spunk I spit uton your violent ways, especially when aimed towards my personal pieces! You have within your hot bod a flame of mystery.. and who else. Nay. Nah son. What else... Could possibly scratch your itchy ass gooch? I.. Paul Maltese!! Shall solve this most fatigued riddle for you. If you have money." Paul moaned seductively so loud that his throat parts began to a shimmy and a shake.

Jack looked his old comrade up and west before reaching into his pants roundabouts his crotch side and producing an eye juice and temple sinew laden dog leash for dogs. 

He said, " .... That piece of pussy clot was having his dog make fart solids on your lawn so I made his eyeballs into a pussy."

Paul produced an illegally sourced teak wood smoking pipe from his desk after fumbling around in his broken Fleshlight drawer for ten minutes before turning to jack.

"I will always have your back, too old friend. You are.. a good man." 

Paul poured a fathom of gin and black tar heroin into his pipe before picking up a local rat and squeezing its arse tendon juice into the exotic mixture. He struck a match and it called the cops. 

I know, right?

Chapter 7

Guiltee McKee hard a had life. Reading what was not good for his brain like. Sometimes math made him anal muscles feel itch and bad hurt!

He walk funny and look ugly so titty people with fancy hats and tight cloth cross the street or snicker like candy bars at Guiltee. 

"Him have soft dick for life style currently." He whispered in him crooked cranium.

Happen upon most prestigious government funded money laundry scheme. 

"B... Bunk. Bunk have papers trade for cheap ass."

Sudden Guiltee have wood in top penis. He hard AF.

"Guiltee who is me! Me Guiltee go put security fucker clitoris gristle in mouth and clomp!? When me have money for ass. Ill repute ass great for these me penis!" He sang as he skipped down the road.

Paul turned the volume of his pale gray Sony walkman down, the Ramones will have to wait. And they were famously known to hate waiting.

As he slowly but confidently climbed out of the rustic yet quaint city dumpster Paul readjusted his condom, keeping close watch on the piece of shit ugly bastard known as Guiltee "possibly up to something or a rapist I don't know he looks fucked up" McKee.

"Methinks this will be a fun ride." 

Paul drooled. The way he slurped up his own spit sounded like an angry gay elephant. 

Making sure to stay no less than 40.544 kilometers but no more than 6.988887 barleycorns within his mark Paul kept one wet eye on Guiltee (ugly ass piece of shit), and one dry eye on his surroundings.

Obviously observation serves tons of folk bro. On the middle left a toad's bits and crannies hung lazily on a mossy prostitute's back as she sat reverse cowgirl upon a poor excuse for a log. 

On the nearer left a jackal slunk about with a sway in it's tender gait indicting the iller effects of drug abuse, no doubt scavenging about behind Old Man McScabbies absinthe laden meat pie store. 

Guiltee turned his nasty looking body towards the street where other ugly people probably lived. If their bods were decent enough Paul might throw one of em a handful of his essence. 

Guiltee hunched over and took a bite out of the fallen ice cream stained pavement and began to chew.

Sharpening his crooked bicuspids.. Paul  surmised with his brain. He loaded a few .454 cassulls into his mateba autorevolver and checked his fanny pack to make sure his stash of rusty hypodermic needles were well stocked. They were.

Guiltee leaned heavily against a graffitied wall across from a thriving coxswain thrift depot and began massaging his own prostate while he chewed his gravel, surveying the land. 

Paul stopped by an ancient news-stand and took a long hardy piss on the intricately displayed candy selection so as to not draw suspicion to himself. 

"Hey! You can't urinate your piss on me knickknacks and wares ya bloody twat!" Shouted the owner seductively.

Paul tossed a few pence over the elderly lady's visage and as her greed distracted her Paul quickly scooped all his urine back into his penis and disappear down an alleyway.  

Chapter 80

"The art of deduction is for losers." Thought officer Growler. 

599 wet bodies lay stacked upon one another in a most ghastly and some would say gaudy fashion.

The local donut clowns were perplexed and full of vitriol, once again having been outwitted by the crime dude coined and perhaps dinar'd "bony ass robber guy". 

"Bony ass robber guy is number -135 on the most wanted list. My supervisor or general or whatever is pissed at me and keeps making me cry. I love him. Doesn't he see that? Am... Am I invisible?" Sergeant Growler was a wreck. Three thousand failed marriages. A smidgen of herp on his dick and a wagon he used to ride but fell off of due to his liquid porn addiction. The rookies shook their long heads behind open halls in plain sight and spit in his ear whenever and wherever he roamed.

Growler placed a single tongue on officer Bricksticks shoulder.

"Officer Bricksticks... I'm going to pass out. Tell my momma.. she had some tig ol' biddies.. and... I wish I coulda.. " Growler began to openly weep from the front of his pants and some of his eyes.

"A bit of curds and whey for lunch it is then, plus if I were you I'd get that dick problem checked out." Paul mimed. Catching the attention of Officer Growler from behind the rancid pile of cat bones stacked in the shape of a throne.

Officer Growler threw up in his own mouth and then swallowed it and then repeated the process for forty minutes as he slowly crawled on his shoulders and knees towards the gumshoe.

"E FUCKING gad Maltese. How do you do it? And what are you doing here? Last I heard you and your beastie got nicked for a few skull crushings and international peeping Tom Geneva violations down in middle Aberdeen." Growler spat.

Maltese shuddered and let out a small puff of smoke, "We escaped, Growler."

Growler spat, "You don't say".

"I studied under and inside many great escape artists the world over, plus as you are quite aware I am a master of over 40 deadly and arcane scientific fields. Banned and shunned by even the cruelest of philosophers and theoretical astrophysicist."

"Nope, I didn't know shit about that." Growler screamed.

"Not to mention I managed to procure the souls of several battle tacticians, Warfield assassin's and six buff Aussies."

"Oh fuck.. for real?"

Maltese smirked with his mouth and lips.

"I told you all this before, no doubt your low and pathetic level of intelligence has caused you some form of voluntary brain retard life."

".....ok. Why -"

"Allow me propose a bit of quo pro quid. I suggest that I help you with what is most presently perplexing you and your limp dick partner and in return you... Simply do me a small favor."

Officer Bricksticks approached scratching his chest hair through the rips in his uniform, "Wow, you really are a master detective Maltese. How did you know I was a limp dicked?"

Maltese grew slightly impatient. 

Stuffing his Triassic period amber dabbed maple wood pipe with two ounces of bath salt soaked hashish he took a deep pull, being offered a light by a passing broad with a nice hat and a wet smile.

"By the gait in her walk I can tell she is a fan of what is known colloquially as doggystyle, note the curve of her shadow as the ultraviolet rays bounce off her loose bunghole. Poorly concealed beneath a knock off gorilla skin hoop skirt most likely haggled in the purple light district. As evidenced by the burnt sheepskin condom stain on the nape of her shoulder." Maltese spun around six times and then faced the officers.

"You, Growler are super gayly in a tryst with your immediate supervisor and are in no doubt great pain in your penis knuckle as well as your soul. The knot in your cheap government issued tie is off by exactly tenteen atomic units which is a mistake you only make when you are under great physical and emotional stress. Exhibit A.. you will recall thrice regaling me with a long and boring tale of your school boy days. In which you cried yourself to sleep at night for ten years straight due to worrying that your parents would one day remember to care about you and in doing so would find out that you were only barely passing your classes. Also during which time a banded eyed racoon had taken up residence in your dorm room and would sexually hurt your body at night." Maltese screamed with a frothy mouth.

Growler amazed, "how did you -"

"I took the liberties of invading your mother's home and finding a photo of you from that time previous, your school uniform was off... By exactly tenteen atomic.. units. Stress. And you officer Bricksticks, a few of my larger mates took turns on your long missing sister and during which she revealed to them that for your entire life you've had precisely two tragedies and one phobia. Tragedy moja - when you were born the doctors left you on the floor while out on a well deserved smoke break, neglecting to cut your umbilical cord. Instead differing the task to the lice infested rats, albeit smart ones. One of whom would proceed to begin a several days long psuedosexual affair with your nasty mum. Until of course he broke her heart. Driving her to a most orgasmic and brutal suicide. Tragedy mbili, five years ago you were out walking your blind dog -"

"How did.. is my sister ok? -"

Maltese grinned from ear to ear, "No. She's dead. Now, Silence. Obviously the dander on your shoulder and mouth and fingers betray the swill you feed your mutt. Poor in quality and high in nitric molecules that over a very short amount of time lead to a dog's nuts falling off and wicked cool eye degradation."

"Well I make a most meager wage.."

Paul stomped down on the officer's hip with enough force to impress a disparate bloke.

"I demand you stop interrupting me as I haven't the minutes nor seconds. When you were walking your hunde it sniffed out some bone. Bones that had inexplicably been claimed by a giant marmalade cat. It was rat bone. They fought. You ran. They chased you, forming a bond over your cowardice. They forced you down and ripped your uniform and put the rat bones in your penis hole. They stalk you and every once in a while.. like today. As shown by your ripped uniform.. they repeat the assault. So now.. officer Bricksticks. With the trauma of the rat. The bones. The throne. All of these things have given you a phobia."

Maltese posed like hulk Hogan, gesturing towards the bone throne.

"With this, before you. Your phobia is triggered.. causing your very dick. To be quite currently and possibly forever... as they say… a limp."

The officers looked at each other, thought about kissing and then looked back at Maltese.

"...sorry to have doubted your genius deduction skills Maltese. We're sold. What do you need.... Master?" They groaned.

Maltese took a quick sixteen puffs..

"Gentleman.. if you and your badges will follow me."

Chapter 2

We were all arrows, long time ago..

The air was bitter and salty, scraping against Paul's face like so many shards of night.

"Do you believe the comets ever falter, young Falcon?" Queried the Akkadian mage, striking her volcanic thunder forged sasumata in a mnemonic pattern. 

Against the burning elk which shook alongside the earth, with each blow stoic embers danced like big booty freaks when the beat is bumpin'. Ya heard me?

Paul struggled to maintain his inner mantra, each inhale a harsh reminder that he had yet to transcend. 

"It's not up to us to judge the tenacity of the cosmos.. we cannot fathom the importance of their final destination.." Paul whispered as the sharp stone he balanced upon slowly dug into his fine ass foot palms.

The Mage turned a keen nestle milky eye quickly towards her apprentice. She said in a low growl, "..becoming a master of escape requires the blood and sacrifice of the weak. Word life."

Rising up from her perch, the mage with a swiftness of a coked up peregrine leaped towards Paul, swinging her weapon with such force that the air around it began to sizzle.

Paul spun on his blisters in time to dodge the blow but in doing so lost his balance and fell neck first onto a hissing cobra with an attitude.

It bit the shit out of his neck skin and back bacon meat. Paul didn't like this for some reason and writhed in pain as the mage rubbed her pert nips and cackled.

"Why... Like.... What the fuck for real tho?" Paul whinnied as the venom coursed through his veins like a grand prix.

The Mages teeth twinkled ever so suddenly as she nodded towards the snake. 

"Solstices ago, when the moon was still sat in the sky so close you felt you could reach out and fuck it.. I needed to borrow ten bucks. So I sold my essence to a passing serpent who told me he knew a guy. Yadda yadda, I needed to offer the taste of a fool to pay the vig. So.... Yeah." She mused as the snake winked at her and retrieved its auburn derby hat, it's business here no doubt reaching a most satisfying conclusion.

"Ok well fuck you and that bitch ass snake. I should -" 

Paul was yanked back to now as the nightmarish screams of several lethargic coxswains floated heavy on the flap of so many burning leaves. 

A near to pomegranate bonsai tree made a most curious birth, the expulsion thick with a tepid sweet eller metallic aroma that struck with a most furious yeet.

One coxswain proclaimed, "ohhhh shit. Ok. This isn't good. I don't like this."

Paul gyrated towards his center view of the situation, it was as thus. 

Two billion factory workers ran in hexagonal zag zigs as their flesh began to smell hella good. Similar to an Austin, Texas inspired seasoned mesquite sauce burnt on an onion laden brisket, coleslaw made of sweet earwax like big momma used to beat you for eating. A downtrodden depot behind them smoldering most river Styx like, stank ass brimstone waning near beauty.. their noice skulls displayed signs of hurt.

"Ok.... Ok. This is fucked. This fucked me. What the fuck?" Growler brayed as he emptied his twelfth to second clip into the jowls of the now 52 hay bale tall Guiltee McKee. 

The suave behemoth swallowed the bullets fired into his crooked mouth with a gulp before slowly removing his wet cotton fatigues. The scent of the newly formed cloud droppings took a most throbbing route as heated beads of innocent bystander marrow formed big black estuaries along the ripples of his officer meat filled tooths.

He said "Me stupid, and Iggy.. am so pain in blood pump organ, most ball blue in era. Most ball... Blue.." 

Paul placed his damp palms and fingers and knuckles into his last pocket as he approached a clearly unnerved officer Growler.

"Relax bro. Everything will be fine." Paul snickered as he gently eased growler to the soil.

"But... He ate bullets... Then he ate... He ate my partn... He ate... Oh shit.. my donuts... I left them in the shop... The police carshop I mean." Growler spat as he hissed.

Paul had little time to ascertain the situation, which had spun least heinously out of fubar. 

Chapter 54

Some people taste funny. Ain't nothin this ol' dirtball can throw that can break down a strong will. 

Maltese furiously scrolled through his vintage Asian porn collection located on his computer phone like device as he gathered his thoughts. His palms began to sweat as the terse temperature caused by the burning people running past became a nuisance, he enlarged the gif of a thick veiny vulva and meditated. 

Guiltee McKee was a query of a specimen. He was ugly. He smelled like a dusty wallabys taint, and his shoe game was lacking. Still, upon consumption of various forms of matter he would grow in size and strength, as well as developing a slightly indifferent cowlick. 

"Me are balls blue!!" The hulking brute autotuned as his rampage became exceedingly erratic. 

Reason. Craft. Achieve. Thought Paul as he finished adding his twelve thousand word long scathing review to the comment section of the bukaki video he was currently studying. 

"Bad form" would be a magnetic summary of his intrepid thoughts.

The detective sauntered over to the unattractive criminal, his soft but taut hips swaying side to side and up to down with a hateful riddim.

"I say... Oaf. May I bother you for a few picoseconds of your temporal proclivity." Maltese was in true form.

Guiltee turned to face Maltese with a look that said "bitch, please" and tossed aside the bowl of kneecaps he was munching.

"When you have words for Guiltee... Bu.. bunk hurt. No time for fake ones, mustard on the beat!"

Maltese checked the hours and seconds hands position on his flame retardant limited edition patek, the raw speckles of oort cloud asteroid mined diamond dust that coated the face impressed even the most frugal of bastards.

He said, "I am a man of great skills, intelligence and style. No doubt when you gaze at my person you feel pangs of jealousy and doubts concerning your manhood... Stop me when I'm lying."

Guiltee was taken aback, he clutched his pearls in abackness. 

"..........continue." he said as he choked a little bit on the eyeball juices of an elderly barkeep who happened to be in town for a high school reunion. Awkward.

Paul stepped ever so closer to the hulking brute, whose unattractive but muscular tendons glistened against a smoggy early winter backdrop. With each deep breath the beads of steaming perspiration evaporated into tiny altocumulus clouds that formed a breathless atmosphere of contempt and desire near the monster's buff ass chest. His buxom tongue hung damply from heaving lips, temptation unbound as a furtive damsel peered out of her sniper encampment for only two reasons. To kill the enemy. And to take peeks at the ugly ass hot dude eating people and gravel roundabouts the coxswain depot. 

Anyway. Paul licked the side of his rose petal infused Damascus pipe before inserting a pound of raw crushed Percocet, lighting it on the smoldering frontal lobe of a soon to be deceased boat barnacle collector, Paul took 7 long puffs and then 68 short hits before stepping ever so much closer to the now entranced galoot.

"Check it. I didn't do any research into your background but I can tell you're all fucked up bruh, from the cat jizz stain on your favorite aglet, one with a decent degree of learning can surmise that a cat jizzed on your shoe. It was a multiplier. Your mood already askew after having awakened from yet another lonely evening dry humping your previous landlord's ribcage sinew, procured by nefarious means no doubt." Paul puffed away as Guiltee slowly took a knee, the detective's mastery of deduction and weavery of alphabet math stuff was noice. Having a calming but moist effect on even the most astute of pervs, nuttas and wayward carny.

Maltese had sway.

"Me... Me feel getted. Me want more of brain man. Wicked boner me have." Guiltee whispered into his own armpit.

Paul stepped once again closer to the foolish beast, now within a breahes hair or less than 907 half hectares the detectives pungent crotch just barely grazed Guiltee McKees chin split.

"I and you are not that same Mr. McKee, if I may call you such..." Malteses keen eye spied officer Growler being a bitch. Also crawling towards his cruiser. Paul continued, "I get ass all the time. Because I'm awesome. I'm just keeping it real with you, you're whack. But with my expertise in flavor and clout chasing I can turn your paltry existence into something that benefits me and most likely grants you what you so desperately desire..."

"Hooker love!" Shouted Guiltee.

"Precisely. Now Guiltee, if you will.. so kindly dust yourself off. We can begin."

Maltese turned his back towards the front of officer Growler. 

"Belay that reload officer. I and the monster have come to a most amicable armistice. Isn't that right motherfucker?"

Guiltee nodded in agreement.

"Yup. We are peace now. Apologies for what eat people and destroy factory depot. Me shit. Me surrender." And with that guiltee began regurgitating all the irritating mark ass tricks he ate. 

The hulking behemoth, now only 8 feet tall and a svelte 500 leagues heavy, smiled and turned to face the detective.

"Me am.....-"

Seizing the opportunity, Maltese reach into his utility belt and grabbed a handful of hypodermic needles, which he then proceeded to toss into the criminal's face muscles. Guiltee screamed and wailed as the exotic drugs and poisons entered his body and burned. Causing mental and menstrual hallucinations as well as itchy aortic migraines. 

Maltese spit on a gray pigeon that flew too close before grabbing many more needles and slowly dropping them into Guiltee McKees back pants around the butt area. Expertly, Paul grinded the sharp interlopers into the criminal's anal situation. 

Guiltee bellowed and howled. Slippery warm tears pooled atop his musty upper lip as the buffoon wailed.

He sounded like a straight bitch. For real.

Chapter 22

Take your time sweet child, and then may the wicked come..

Officer Growler awoke with a start, ribs were damaged. Breathing laboured and shallow, wet. Metallic taste tainted the fruit of his lower mandible, his loins were a little achy but other than that he was alright, I guess. 

He strained to see past the stars hindering his vision, both of his eyes and his hefty belly button were swollen shut, a mighty knot swell up as if so many volcano on his top moist head. A single tuft of silky hair sat pon the lump, Fred Flintstone wouldst get a nominal boner from how awesome the lump looked.

"D.... Donuts .. need.... Don..." The officer stereotyped as thick human blood pooled in his throat. His blood.

Maltese was close by, but said fuck that and continued on his personal mission. He put his new Fleshlight away and stare deeply into the now fallen and quite lucid Guiltee McKees eye bits.

"Now... That I have successfully captured your attention, and before the fuzz no doubt place you into a deep dark guarded hole.. I require a bit of information." Maltese snatched a small sparrow from the ground and then spun it in a circle before launching it into the air. It flew... But not how people like sparrows to fly.

"B... Bunk .. me hurt.. drugs so potent... Me help them. Please.. cure our selves .." Guiltee spouted.

Paul pulled his pants back up around his waist fromst his ankles and took a comfortable seat on the pavement beside his bested foe. 

"You poor bastard.. succumbed to the vile violent. The wretched Desire. In the blink of a whores pink eye you fell asleep, and in your slumber you forgot who the fuck you was dealing with. Now tell me where I can find one associate of yours before I set the rabid dogs of justice loosed."

"Who you look at for?! Please.. me snitch... Me snitch so hard for you.. me snitch you long time." Guiltee said in a poor but serviceable eastern Sicilian affect.

Maltese got a boner from how good he was at his detective stuff.

Chapter 6

Average!? I beg to differ, and I aim to please.

Some people called her Hattie. Well, the pieces of shit that managed to survive her existence did anyway. She had many names.

Picture this. Backdrop, harsh drought circa west Lebanon. A poorly trained and fallable vagina physicist named Portsmouth soaped down and gloved up for a suicide mission, he was set to task as presently the finest molecular biologist this side of Istanbul got herself in a family way. 

She exhaled twelve thick clouds of pure krank from her multifaceted canary yellow tsavorite chalice while calculating pi to it's 630th sine integer, thus proving the nonexistent phenomenon known as "big dick energy" as she found great humor in the pain foreceding the baby making its way through her whole fancy cervix. 

Having trained in wombwu-chun since she first got on the rag the fantastic and bombastic maiden let out a deep and gutteral fart noise through her bottom entrance, the density of which caused much discord and confusion amongst the lesser informed hostel patrons. They were all like "ewww..."

It didn't stink that much. Hattie fumed, reminiscing about her mother as she observed the legal maladies taking place exactly 693.5 pascals from her well scouted hiding place where she was hiding.

She watched Maltese with a great fury. The huge palooka with the needles in the front of his face was spilling all the beautiful bean footage. Gesturing wildly and slightly over dramatic with his appendages and licking his lips in a whorish but inviting fashion.

"It would appear a new game is afoot my dear detective Maltese... My lady boner is big. And my mind boner is big too. Because of the challenge... " She cussed the heavens while shaking her fist in tepid apoplexy.

Chapter 11

Call it whatever you want, just don't touch it bro.

Realizing there was no time to haste Paul Maltese sped through town at a flimsy 545 mph, barely dodging most of the pedestrian traffic as he was shivering from the constant fire he felt in his immediate bottom. 

With an obstructive bleat the soggy vibrations rippled through his well defined belly and blatantly muscular intestinal tract, the big one. His guts aflutter, the world's most addictive detective pulled over with fervor, the screech of the well worn tires on his vintage red panda leather interior Subaru sounded something similar to your mom's.

"I.... Gotta take a shit." Said some weirdo who lay sprawled before the entrance, his penis and halve drunk bottle of spirits all askew. 

Paul ignored the bum ass dude as he stormed into the establishment, his sharpened turd well into berth. 

The information he has gleaned from Guiltee McKee had proven to be most furtive, ever closer to resolving his case he placed three thumbs deep into his booty guts to help alleviate the poopy pressure.

Approaching a fine ass freak behind the counter of a local vasectomy museum Paul licked most of his lips and said, "I... have poop coming out. Help me." 

His turgid words jolted her awake, a lazy day guarding the wares of ancient losers and mummified collectables made her a dull dame. 

Readjusting her patent vibranium strap on, the 9 foot tall vixen spit out three bloody teeth before loosening the tungsten wires on her chartreuse bustier, her plump breast meat was well seasoned. Smoked in burnt yak butter maplewood lotions for a lot of days and then soaked in salted peppercorn maxi pad scrapings.. she had it all. 

Paul relieved himself in his mock velvet Rolex trousers and wafted away the eye watering stench with his favorite hand while lighting a bit of makeshift broken crack pipe glass resin in his rustic pipe. With a Dana carvey impression he said, "You're sexy. I don't need to use the facilities anymore.. can I sex you. With my penis?" 

Chapter 88

Gods pray as well, but they too are met with painful silence..

Their sex business was poorly executed. Paul's dick top and center felt as if it were cascading against burly limestone, his partner was no help. Her dry gyrations against his impoverished member a lame brained attempt at nut busting. 

The long haired gimp watching from the latticed balcony lost her erotic fever. What was supposed to be a wild evening of jacking off like a boss had become a retrospective incursion into her flailing psyche.. remembrance of times past when she walked in on her mailman and milkman double teaming the vice principal (who looked most bored).

Paul finished with a grunt and spit on his own reflection as it mocked his performance in the mirror. His sperm exited with a beleaguered sounding gong.

She looked at him funny.

"So.... You said you needed to use the phone or laboratory or something?!" She screamed while choking herself.

"Oh yeah, the case. Thanks.. I almost forgot.". Paul did with his mouth.

She tossed thirteen million crinkled and most damp yen into the puddle accumulated nearest the fridge door. 

"Here. Next time don't be bad at sex, and also you made mess in the sheets. I don't like that anymore." She scatted.

Paul sat up on his tippy toes maintaining perfect balance on the water bed.

"Hmph." Was the sound his heart made.

"When we first met I anticipated your desire to grind uglies with a stranger as evidenced by the angle of your female clitoris dangle, known to harden and vary in texture.. and aroma.. when the female version of the grape ape was aroused. As you know, or maybe you don't now that I've been inside you and listened to you moan foolishly.. the grape flavored or rather hominus purpilious majori the third is our closest genetic relative."

Locusta the freak snatched her cockles deeply, the anger on her visage quite apparent.

"Obviously you're just a no pussy eating loser posing as some great detective and you're guessing your way through a sad career hanging out with lunatics and fool hardy sycophants." She cackled in a rough Irish brogue. 

Maltese bristled, "Funny enough you should say that shorty, tell me. This substance that I felt under our bodies and under my current toes is supposed to be... Water? Yes?" Maltese screamed as he ripped a piece of the bed frame from its position and raised it above his knees. 

With that Locusta snatched up her purse, her extensive but unimpressive CBL minor league card collection then made a quick ricotta cheese, hot prosciutto and garlic bread banh mi before leaping through the farthest window upper ankles first, her dexterity as she crashed onto a passing clerical tourist carrying a bevy of vintage Thracian currency was a sight to behold. 

Maltese watched as she rolled off of the holy man's mushed cranium spunk and performed a perfect 450 backflip over a sentient robot clearly disguised as what public transportation buffs refer to as a "sweet 24 wheeler hauling more hog tit tips than whatever's a lot of them". With a vikings crotch tuft worth of artillery to boot. She landed on her muscular earlobes before disappearing into an abandoned opium den owner's shoddy duplex. It wasn't that shoddy I guess. Sometimes I just get jealous.

Maltese opened his third pack of crushed steroid flavored edible undergarments and emptied them into a oblong collectible cereal killers serial bowl filled six thirds of the way with cheap distressed male emu milk water. 

"No doubt my false poor sexual performance will influence her travel.." he howled into the night. The pale gray wolves lapping at a muddy stream got so hard from how much they thought he was a chick wolf with huge wolf honkers.

Their crooked lupine members throbbed indiscriminately against the swollen winter gust, a big black and sweaty starlit comet grazed the pulsing hot atmosphere. Pumping slowly in and out of the dirty earths tight but deep gravitational pull. 

The canine emergency reaction hairs on the back of their muscular neck muscles harkened back to a nother time. Whenst their were less separation a mongst continents. 

Wooly mammoths roamed hapless plains blistering with pre mesozoic mushroom trees. 

Gallot, the alpha wolf laid his musty but cold nose on the nape of his gay wolf lovers belly.

It was going to be another harsh winter.. but hope was a yonder.

They heard what sounded like a female wolf. And they all got boners. 

Word.

Maltese checked his brand new solid uranium brick cell phone.

Thirteen thousand billion messages from his comrade Jack. No doubt concerning the mystery... Perhaps some physical threats. 

With a great explosion Paul's impotent bowels made short work of not only his trousers but also the Raphael forged equine robot deco that blanketed the perfectly vertical wall nearest the other room.

Chapter 35

Uh ohhh, spegettios sang the bells.

The next door tenants of the harsh foliage covered hostel were at the moment knee deep into a most rousing bout of playing the dozens when the serene boom interrupted their bitter proclivities. 

The entire building's brick and mortar structure quaked with a most venomous rattle against their gullible and tasty bones, the sweet marrow of which became humble and doubtful in integrity as the first, second and fifth elbow delivered to their countenance tripled in veracity and heat with each blow.

About two minutes ago Jack got tired of waiting for answers. His tolerance was the greatest and his patience was without compare - but c'mon bro. 

"C'mon bro!" Jack belched at the top of his lungs with a heated breath onto the face and neck of the elderly tramp making his way westward with nothing but his finger paint sammich and a ruck sack full of like ten million dollars worth of sexy exotic animals in his insulated backpack that was like a rucksack. 

The tramp was aghast and soon a ghost for he was in Jack's way, which is no Bueno. 

No bueno. 

Jack knew Paul Maltese was in one of these buildings, and he kinda wanted to know how long this mystery was going to take.

Take time, or anything from a good man and there was gonna be murders. Most wicked. 

There was a Convo, like this.

Jack: "it's yellow mmmm hey so!"

Then the now hurt person said, "..are we ok? You seem -"

A broken femur.

Jack snapped the thigh bone of one person. He broke it, so good. Let's know a bit about jack.  He's...

Chapter 16

 Wait.  This happened first.

Paul took a breath. His secretary and front desk receptionist was angry, she was used to rudeness but God damn.

A red haired vixen with hips to match sauntered into the detective agency carrying her teacup sized three headed komodo dragon in a mock turtleneck style Maserati handbag. 

"I say, I have a most intricate plot and or scheme that I ... Er.. I mean I need to hire a private slong. I heard the best one works hair after he got discharged from the seamen corps all over someone's face. My poor elderly but disgustingly wealthy husband has not only fallen ill, but he has been missing since the rebirth of slick. He's old like that. He's sick like that. He's probably cold like that. I worry about his bones like that. I would inquire at his nursing home. The owner, her names is Cleopatra Goldstein." She scatted.

Paul listened with his ears as the flustered commotion outside interrupted his daily god cussing session. Various gods in literature got dissed with scornful disdain and meaningful spite while Maltese stood over and before an altar he haphazardly stole from a drunk monk on a vacay that became a staycay.. in the ICU.. cuz o how hard Maltese bopped him about his well polished noggin bones.

Sekky, the secretary (as some lame losers might call her) was a staunch advocate for animal abuse. Even despite this her mad libbed mindset inferred a classically trained wit, betrayed only by her porn star shaped back and Marc Jacob glasses that held no lens's, only fancy frame. 

On her illegally uru mined desk sat fifty gallons of collectable erotica themed, wrestling superstar bobbleheads shoved into a ming era style mason jar. Pickling slowly in unholy juices. Also she had a few pictured frames but they were all factory setting laden, nothing personal. Just the original happy family porn you get when you procure the keepsake.

The red head punched a rabid fruit bat out of the air as it attempted to mate with her upper jaw, swooping down from aloft the long deceased canaries' human hair and used toothpick (haphazardly crafted in a faulty drug induced stupor from a confused blue swallows parasite residue) nest located on the third most bookshelves shelf that only had a few books on it. Cool pornographic books. With pictures of naked bodies in them.

Like ... As far as one of them. It's not like you can't find it on the internets or something but it's like, hot flower petals and shit side by side with mildly thick broads messiness. Plus there were ancient cartographers lame brained attempts at sketching many  short, hairy burly blokes, bangers and mash. Get me bruv. 

There was one that was nothing but wizard beard long pullouts featuring the best bleached taints of post mortem disavowed prophet's.. the eloquent poems accompanying each pimpled picture popped perfectly plike  pthe pletter p.

"Pwhat in the heavenly fuck are you staring at you big toothed botch?!" Sekky spoke with words towards the fire headed future client.

"... Harrumph. A most erroneous abrogation was interred on my person, I was fittin to fuck somebody up but my favorite show was on. I beseech your most famous detective services. Also I have no intentions of betraying his trust or using him for a grander scheme." The redhead said as she adjusted the glasses on her head by at least 23.14645zed7 kelvin.

Back in the back office, a torrent of orange light converged on Paul's pupils. A miniscule migraine migrated through his mental portions. It hurt. In his head.

Smashing through his office door head first and landing most unceremoniously afloat a nervous pot smokers spray tanned back Paul punched his way into that person's neck and recovered what appeared to be an audio recording device, bro.

Sekky was no slouch. She smirked as she had previously scouted the interloper entering the office looking all interlopy. 

"A listening device. I suspected as much ... Good show Mr. Maltese." Sekky grunted.

Maltese turned to sekky face first and laid both his feet on her desk with a jolt. 

"The flies encircling the decaying necromancer outside my chamber door began to vigorously mate in a self destructive manner. Mushing their junks together with wanton abandoned ment." He cajoled, his upper lips twitching and covered in carpet cocaine.

Sekky dug her nails into her own back as she smiled, "Which at this time of decade only occurs in temperatures suited for clandestine audio recording. Especially when said equipment is made by a -"

"-lighthouse keepers olive skinned midwife." They finished together. Hands in wet pockets.

INTERMISSION 

This dude walks out, and he's hot. Then like, this chick walks out.. she's totally hot too. She has breasts. Big ones. And her booty is tight. But sorta bouncy. You know what I mean.

So anyway. The dude, his boner is heated. NASA couldn't build a bigger rocket. He's practically getting his pants Prego cuz he so horny. And he don't wear boxers nor briefs. He Rambo. Dick scratching his zipper. Ykk.

So the chick is smart and funny and stuff. She's all like.. rubbing on whatever's down there in her underwear. And she's like.. "yo.. one time a gorilla was famous in a zoo. 

And butt it was lonely in its but. So the zoo dudes said to a crowd of dudes .."yo, our gorilla is lonely so can one of you keep it company and suck it's ball sinew and shit for 5000 dollars American?"

A bated hush came over the crowd. 

L

Ace space pilot Scout Bombardier raised his sturdy yet girthy fist.

"I shall do this horrible thing. Yet I have conditions and shit. Meet me behind or next to the closest disco teque. We make sexy time deal but only after you hear me say things."

The misconstrued but thick bottomed zoo lords met his stalwart request.

"What is it you seek?' they… said.

Scout emptied his buxom bowels on a familiar owl. 

"Firstly, I demand that there be no kissing of the mouth." He was lying, he was totally gonna kiss that gorilla.

"Secondly, I pray that my wife and ugly children no hear bout me banging ape ass!" He also said.

"And third!?" They beckoned.

"I require two solstices to sell off my assets to pay for the gorilla sex. I need time.. to raise money. For the sex I am mistakenly willing to pay for as opposed to being paid for.. for the sex. I'm going to have with the gorilla. Which will have kissing. I will give you money.".

End intermission 

Chapter One 

Maltese took a long proud and slightly racist breath, "Well done Sekky. Your training is coming along swimmingly. I noticed a few dollars missing from petty cash. Those are my dollars. Don't touch them or I'll fuck you up. Next week we shall begin your blind submerged cave river creature anti toxin rituals." 

"Please stop training me." She pleaded.

"No!" Maltese compromised before turning he's gaze towards the flame haired dame.

"And you... What can you do for me!" He exclaimed.

"My complaint is already explained." Plainly, she feigned. 

"But .. I'm willing to let you torture me for information. I just want answers." Bleated the mysterious client.

Paul extended one of his most famous hands.

"Do you know anyone who wants to make a lot of money selling drugs?" He mourned, his cold perspiration well past pronounced. 

The red head smirked before baring her sharp teeth. 

Chapter 16

Sitting aloft three satin soft yaks relaxed backs while they napped Maltese smiled before he set aflame ten long cigarettes, next he attained a well laid loin of wet pork and set it on the blackened floor before his long backed company. Yeah.

Forty mugs of thick hot barley mead set forth for the sake of thirst and boss ass merriment.

Ok

"Let me say, I am most displeased and aroused to here about your old ass husbands demise." Paul spake.

"I think you mean hear." The red head demurred as she bit off a huge chunk of the wet broiled beast. 

"....do you have money or drugs? Or perhaps I can touch you... I mean I'll take your case but I gots to get mines too." Paul chastised.

The red headed vixen reached deep into her grossly plumped boob fjord and produced a damp but well embroidered business card.

"I have all of that and more... If you can truly help me. You're gonna want to start hear, motherfucker."

Paul took the card deep into his warm hand, squeezing it and feeling every veiny inch of the letters. It read, "Gigi's Old People's Drop Off and Emporium" followed by most of an address, the rest partially burned off with something hot Maltese surmised. Maybe fire or something.

Maltese grinned as the unforgiving sol blazed through the toast brown stained office vinduet. Just outside, perched on the sill was a most curious looking ibex. Most curious looking indeed.

Chapter 26

Boney Scummspiser slowly removed the octagonal edge of his lower boot from the brune haired Constantinoplian oar makers only neck. He meant bizness.

At a famous 680 lbs the poor soul had a not good life. Born with a rarefied airborne disease known to only the darkest quantum theory cultists OL' bones as he was knowns suffered from Ohshityubonsfukdupedisis..

Or perhaps he didn't suffer, but instead prospered most heinous. With an inner skeleton dense enough to handle 856 ohms of gravitational air pressure, padded by 80 stone worth of frothy man meat and muscle.. his epidermis twas not skin. Rather a ghastly mixture of additional and multiplicationized razor sharp bone and cartilage that smelled like ancient fishmongers from eastern Carthage.

These things in addition to his morbid proficiency in Queensbury rules fist of cuffs and Emperorexhumed krav noob saibot breathing exercises exalted Boney a life sullied in the juices of excess crime profitability.

He relished in squeezing the local patriotic whore biz chroniclers, their semi hourly gazette rife with nascent articles concerning the sordid superfreak negotiations taking place twixt the heavy tongued Jerzeter fecal kings ( a gang heavy in firepower but low in your mom's) and thee Proper Yorkshire Purple Ribbon Youth Choir (a fairly recent and evenly taint skin thirsty crew of slothy religious artifact enthusiast who had lost their luster for peace). 

Um.. where was I . Oh.. Boney raised his right shoulder high into the air as his eyebrows twinkled against the autumn hued parking lot morning, leaning close to the oversalted eardrums of the oar fashioner Boney spoke in deep heavy whispers, "I... Need. You.... To 'splain something to me... Lucy..."

He brought all 68 of his cold slime dripping teeth nearer to his trembling victims cranium sound holes.

"You don't mind if I... Call you Lucy.. do you... I like to.. call 'em Lucy cuz ... He shuddered as the middle part of his tonsils came into close contact with the edge of "Lucy's" kneecaps.

"...cuz I... Cuz I'm getting the impression that you.. need to be a part of the show... But thats not where you ... Be... Long... Lucy... You

.. don't... Be... Long..."

The blood red clouds overhead hung low and heavy like well aged nuts, the air crisp and thick with the acrid plumes of torture. An environment abused by the sodium laden torrents spit down onto cracked pavement, a lone elderly badger bared what remained of it's broken teeth as it fought off rivals for a mere piece of a rotted bootleg vhs tape peddlers entrails. Entrails taste good.

Searing Madness rampaged through the very edge of ones nerves, a passerby sitting by his lonesome on a rickety trolley took notice. A low hum behind the guttural hymnals the driver sang made arm hairs stand on end. Some even stood on beginning.

Scraping the mental gray juice and bits from the top of his heels against the slovenly chest of a recently widowed meat dispensary financier, Boney realized from the insanity inducing heat.. from the rapid flashes of sickness and destructive depravity invading his thoughts...

That today must be Monday, which means it was time for a company pep talk. Plus if the one known as Carol was still alive she would most likely bring croissants and white chocolate bear claws, caramel dipping sauce with little bit of  

Chapter 49

Locusta uncorked her sawed off and checked the best by date on her bullet resistant maxi pads, now with wings. 

The exterior of the disjointed compound verged on the verb of "nah, bro/nahbruh". As in "yo, I was creating a Pythagorean riddim based riddle to stump my heavily implied lady lumped mate when I attempted to forego a std flavored condom and her demeanor was nahbruhed more than as per usual." 

Locusta spit on the earth and wished many a pox upon Daniel Webster and the devil's homesteads. Both of them. 

Her fallopian boners hast gotten the better of her yet agained. 

"I see great things in your future lassy, astounding victories and glory untold... Just avoid dudes with huge dongs." Her penpals half atheist chaplain wrote her one pre winter school break.

His mother quarter died from having visions of plucky cherubs holysplaining to her about how there was whyes being and know god... so finding a church where you didn't have to get all first name basis with everybody's body but still be able to meet a decent muscular fella with a healthy romantic nature who earned himself a decent wage was antisimple to locate.

She rest the middle left of her back against a long standing cats eye marble column. It's design intricately mundane within it's artistic simplicity. Opaqueness centered on the linear details within the thinly coloured grain.

"Oh man... My body feels like shit." She bellowed.

"That's.. is what someone's.. mother's achieves." Hummed Boney.  His stark but pert frequency related scale or pitch bordering on E major.

He startled and endeled Locusta's demeanor, she snatched a Prussian era fragment grenade from out of her most stinky body cavity, the pin deloosed by her main gooch muscle. Thirty picovolts away from tossing it into Boneys being... 

"You have a bad habit of sneaking up on me and also you don't pay attention to your female family members emotional states. Your sisters, your cousins and nieces... They want to get a nice poem or a compliment once in awhile. For Yahwez sake men just buy em a flower e'ry thn an na' ya pikish besterd.. twod be gran' te' av a fragrant flor or tew frem summon who aisn't a stranger or strummer." She sang in a vibrato.

"You reek.. of untitled urine and.. entitled mortality." Boney gestured loudly with sounds resonating from his throat and then, subsequently.. oral surfaces.

Repleted, Locusta layed down on a stiff bleak mattress. It's heyday long sequestered, but post modern in it's aboriginal attire inspired aestheticness. 

"Well, unlike you... I can find someone to love me. Even if just for a few fleeting grunts. A laymen could'st form my dreamt rivers, steamed water'd fall our entwined lust. 'enhaps a whored thast, clappin' unique in it's staunch H2O ache. Weren't thee recent a proud Jupiter, fuming failed star a long the wirn serpents dark jism? Hairy globes marked deep blue in thirst?! "

In a fiery gusto the Boney jerked.

"Better scissors than paper you rock headed bitch." He saideth gently.

"A child's fame reference from a child minded fool. Makes sense." She refracted.

"I only deal in dollars buster." He said with a swish and a switch in his hips reminiscent of pre world war two era bombshells. Like Boom. Pow. Boff! Zlonk!

The two heathens embraced comically as the room darkened.

Chapter 79

Twain.

Twain had arrived. And they were not pleased. In life, emotionally or otherwise. Fearful inwist their parse synapseses.

"Poor. Those who knows less, poor! Pour the liquid sentiments postly, port aged in the vigor of elden war. A sediment host, a taste of ale for the one who bleed, waged not for nation.. aside from gain or grain. We halfted our frozen foes.. chosen a gainst vaulted pain of olde, all-time no cap. We beastmode." They snarked as they crookedly entered the hidden parlor.

They were to be feared. They were called..

Twain.

Once splintered a moon half the size of Europa, almost as dense as your moms.

Born twice, once by curse.

One by way of sought after hate the one called Twain was both.

The deepest earth hath heat sicker than the sun, lesses gods quake as if so many tectonic shifts.

Twain.

A twice. More than. Extra dipping sauce. 

Existence made a fool, for how could there be another? Time and space never considered itself to be repeatable, but here we are again.

The same power, knowledge ripped through bloody warfare and dastardly experiment.

A them.

"Why hast we been summoned?! Sayment fromst your frothing jowels nower ye makeshifted molerat.." they spake.

Locusta stepped forward with her feet, her buxom head hung low.

".... I… I fear that I have failed you m'lords."

Twain was losing his buzz.

"Spake… we demand." 

Locusta furrowed her brow and let down her gaze, towards the long equator.

"Spake!! Heart fated til nothingly, words dabbled by falstastion!?" Twain was gonna fuck somebody up if they didn't get answers.

Boney bristled, "cure… cure for madness you eat. Been stolen. Locusta did her vagina wet with detective… he found liquid cure. Him penis good in girth and length but merely serviceable in aesthetic and.. of hard… only kiss vagina a … tepid a mount before rush to finger.. game. Kiss on neck but… no with emotions.."

"Oooooook… we are they. And us find displeasure in sordid details. So… Locusta lost the cure? How? We hidst that marginal ambrosia fairly troth!!" Twain was obviously aroused but they tried to hide it.

"Guiltee… was he who fucked up bro! He allowedst my existence… our existing existence to be known. I told you he was ugly and weak and ugly and stupid and ugly and weak!!" Locusta waxed poetically.

Twain slowly backed away…

"The madness we eat shall be in question.. we are not pleased."

"Uh oh… somebody fucked up." Boney smirked.

Chapter 43

At least give them a nod, those who failed to die for you…

Jack didn't give a fuck bro. He tossed these dudes inerts cross two football leagues of length before even measuring, it's like that.

It was good. His foot through the ass meat of a pretender, one time some bitch ass dude asked Jack for directions. Direct to his ass, went jacks fist finger edge knuckle parts. Through and through the pain made that dude sound like a loser.

Truth be told jack can and would and could figure anything out that he wanted to cuz of how cooler he is than everyone and smarter. 

But for what bitch? Jack will punch. That's how he gets answers. He's punching you, and if you know shit he punches it out of you. Or else. 

Plus he was decked out in wholly mammoth tusk armor, freshly procured from a recently deceased hemp textiles magnates favorite corporate assassin.

Jack stomped on the outer temple joint of a haggard mta employee, hard.

"I... Need answer. Yellow. Maltese... Yellow." Jack screeched. In a cool way.

Dead people with their heads crushed suck at answering stuff.

Chapter aught ten

When Twain was born it was on the same day at the same time during the same season.

The same nurses had the same name and the same stench of breathe and the same shoes. 

The same moon and the same sun banked on the similar set shore on the same beach where two same turtles deposited the same amount of eggs after fucking the same dude turtle who definitely wasn't planning on being a good father or paying child support, especially not twice.

On two planes of existence two twains flourished as twice the amount of anti and anto energies split to form the second but almost identical firmament

Twain.

Boney and Locusta knelt before them in monotonous revelry.

We will stay in the shadows for now… for Maltese is arrive.

Chapter 33

Sometimes… the love lost was just.

Leftenent Growler perused his files whilst on Ill gottenly procured hospice. 

Vacation days and overtime well in the red, his inner arm bone meat twas a slight or sight off kilter plus bruised, he needed a concerted effort to regale his eyes with the blotted ink jargon known as words.

WELL TONED BONES LEFT OUTSIDE ZONED HOMES

Read (or rather read) the headline on the local tree skin murder produced picayune. Previously and kinda famously known as a snuff nickelodeon inspired propaganda rag monikered eller tagged "Teen Newz n' Shitz", it's legend n' embarrassment of riches for the cuff pimpz, rather a cazcade ala tasteful bullshit that paraded the malted incompetence albeit intelligent care of the impotently important but rye law whores. 

Growler readjusted then writejusted the IV drip sharpened needle point located in his northernmost cock gristle, perturbed and almost melancholy he licked the edge of his dirty badge before inciting an ancient prayer to the deity of the fuzz..

"Ohhhhhhhhhh.... Hoolllllllllyyyyyy sweeeeeet. Doooooooooonnn...   Ohhhhhhhhhhnutt, mistress of theeeeeeeeeeee...." He barely matched in pitch from the original runic pork worshipper inspired tablet translatutions.

"Want to hair a joke Growler? What did the copper say to the detective.." 

Maltese was swift. Crawling from the underneath of Growlers hospital mattress fluff with gusto.

"Oh shit!! Not really in the mood for nasty riddles master .. but still well good to see you, ocular in a way o weight.. E'ry curd n den." Growler spat twice. Or maybe three times.

Maltese produced his dusty stained thirty tonnes of compressed painite encrusted quarter bent squat bulldog shaped pipe from the deepest nor hollowest part of his northwest pant hollow.

Allowing a modicum of disparity it were close to ten clicks of staggered witch hazel flavoured crank sprinkled and well mixed with elephant tranq dust, in the hug of one thumb and two middle fingers broken down for fiery inhalation consumption tossed into the smoking apparatus. 

Maltese took tenetyeleven or twelventeen deep pulls before he sat native American cross legged, ballzak Indian styled on the chilled floor.

"So.." Maltese belched 

"We have us a bit of a non starter.. a conundrum circa rubix."

Officer what's his name queefed deeply.. his intestines aloft of sudden non starter fecal improprieties. I know a lot of words. 

"You're suspect has been squeezing the local rag peddlers ya dig. They was Havin the shit slapped outta Dem wit a cool cats best pimp hand, bitch. Check it. The fool ass trick you seek is monikered Boney and I have deduced that he is part of a vast criminal network." Maltese bloviated like a gangsta.

"So you've helped me solve me case it is then?! Jolly right and gay times abound. Surely me cap will give me a promotion and a proper handy ta boot!? Oh gailee gala galoo!" Officer Growler found the second wind to hop out of his hospice bed and do a Russian dance. You know the one, where he's like low but like kicking out his legs like a loser.

"No... No that's not what's happening. I don't give a fuck about you or your ambitions bro. I'm taking this case personally. I got sex from one them earlier and I want more. So you'll have to wait until I'm done to talk to your cap. Or I'll hurt you. In your body. You know I'll do it. Test me. C'mon motherfucker!! Test me!!" Maltese calmly explained to a now nonplussed and openly weeping Growler. He was crying like a straight bitch cuz.

Chapter gg

You want to know the limits to the evil of man? Convince him that forgiveness exists.

Maltese once made a mistake. That's more than once enough, a snail can be too slow. Believe it. A reflex to fast... An ass too fat. However, impossible.

This freak was off kilter, making them ass chaks claps most proper. Like a beast on mode the frontal meat of her left glut made a most pleasant aroma.

Plus her tits were huge. Nips on fleek.

This old folks hostel were not the best. If someone was to have a job where they picked out the best old people dump places, they would be all like, "hi, I'm Mary. That's not my real name but I work here. Some of these older old guys have big dicks. I fuck them. I work here I think. I gets money. This place smells of the shit. It hast rats most bubonic in nature and crest. Like toothpaste!!"

The madness was spreading. Like your mom's cheeks. Man.... I used to hang outside your crib. She kept them curtains open, you just knew by the way she looked at you when you came over to play late hump day hardcore D&D...

The way she came downstairs into the basement accidentally wearing a see through night gown prom cut slutty hellboy themed hat made his boner squeak.

"You came here for our confidential mental records I reckon .. suga. I like slavery." She whispered like a jerk.

Her name was Grimple. Weird. But just. Maltese stalked his own veritable shadow as he paced fro und to about the bleak pastel themed office. 

"Most presently, in accordance with my several restraining orders.. I am disallowed to force you to cater to my inquisitive whims. Mind you though, I am and will always be Maltese. Therehence by the bevy of clout my name carries you are well aware of things that should persuade your compliance." He flowed in a voice similar to old school yet prime Dark Man X. His least sexually attractive but favorite lyrical mc.

"If I want it you got it all you gotta do is set it baybay.. ride or die. Arf arf..! " Quipped Maltese.

Grimple leapt across the room and produced a thick yet curved 90 centimeter long bladed weapon and placed it near enough to Maltese esophagus location to split a follicle sample in thrice.

Always on his boss shit, Maltese sidestepped vertically whilst maintaining perfect perception, his left most hand eight aught degrees catercorner to the opposite roof he blocked the sharp thing before delivering a healthy albeit slightly racist hapkido chop to her partially swollen clitoris vien.

It sounded like Kerplunk! 

Stunned and flabbergasted Grimple staggered expertly backwards before falling over the pile of used air conditioning units layered hastily against the chambermaids favorite bookcase. 

Novels and smut bibliographies laden pon the dusty tasting shelves bore much resemblance to centuries past when racoons were rampant and as tall as a crows gaze.

Like... One of the smut books. It has pictures or rather caveman style motifs of huge crooked phallic beasts. 

The hairs coloured faintly of yeastly wheat crops, leastly lapping at the peppered thigh meat sodden with delicious sweat.

Another one.. of those smut books. Had the suspenseful origins of the 

Grimple rose up from the ground and tulipped in a circle before attempting to kick the shit out of Maltese favorite face, unwavering he paused never while ducking and returning diagonally with a prime Mike Tyson uppercut type knee to her lowest mandible. 

"Enough!" She laughed as the blood like plasma squirting from her achy teeth nerves splashed the adjacent wall in a voltaire inspired political statement.  

"I give.. I thought I could kill you. But I was wrong. Unless!...? Nah... That won't work. I'm sorry... Wait! Maybe if I..... Oh... No. That will probably get me kicked in the fucking mouth again. I guess I give up. I can't think of a way to kill... Wait! I know. I'll try this!!"

Grimple was met with a tricep inspired downthrust among her middle neck before she could complete her attack, the force of which gave a nearby earthquake measuring worker and cigarette lobbyist the sternest sense of arousal. 

"Ow. That hurt. Ok. I give up. What do you want to know? I'll give you anything you want. Anything you need. Just name it. It's yours. Just love me. Fear me. Do as a say and I will be your slave. " She laid out as plainly as she could.

Maltese did a 630 degree tope suicida in mock approval of his success.

"I forgot what I came here for...." He worded.

"....." She didn't said.

"Oh yeah, I need access to your records room or something." 

"....oh. sure. cool." Okayed Grimple, gesturing vigorously towards the next partly lit corridor with the edge of her wet collarbone.

Maltese rubbed her cankles as a sign of mutual respect (not really) and thanks. He rubbed them hard, and aggressively.

With a sweet pep in his step the stalwart gumshoe ran towards the information thing room at full tilt. His tongue wagging dryly.

Paul was not only astonished by what he discovered in the hundred liter bale of documents and papers with covers on the front and back with words on and in them, but he was also astonished.

Chapter 5

Jack pissed in the eye pupil of a daunting gong farmers latest pupil, freshly clocked out and marginally dark in demeanor and having worked up an south Carolina sauce soaked slow smoked BBQ brisket cut perfectly from the sweetest lump of giraffe ass sinew perspiration scent.

Seasoned in the heavily scotch bonnet peppered regolith of whiskey barrel aged makeshift seasonings, the aroma was bullshit and he knew it. It made Jack tremble with unbridled rage, his tumescently muscular abdominals rippled justice desiring pain.

"Yellow! The book yellow!!" He screamed cooly as he pounded down on the mass group of bystanders heated skulls. They screamed, like weak ass banshees.

Sending the edge of his fist deep into the heart juice of an elderly midwife, her reaction was mild but dead. Cuz she died.

"We don't need that attitude Jack. We all know... You're a good man."

Maltese pleaded sarcastically from the bottom of his heart.

Jack bit off forty more pieces of a lame eyed strangers nose and sweet forehead inerts before slowly turning to see the salty detective. In Maltese hands a familiar site. 

"You brought that with you you sick sick shit shit fuck fuck! Jack made obvious his manly feelings with his people parts.

"No... Tis a copy. One of many my dear ally. It is a rendition of information most fowl. And foul. You see..."

Maltese masterly produced his least sturdy solid opium chalice and seductively inserted two fiftieths of dank ass Birchwood moss doused bath salts before taking a huge rip, the flame provided by the maybach inspired torchlight he kept on his person.

"...once a time ago the people of this land used to allow their local lords to print several editions of a book containing not only their names, but addresses and telephone digits. It was madness, no doubt the reason behind so many awesome home invasion dismemberment serials. Like raping brand crunch and strangle puffs. What we have here.. jack.. Goodman.. "

"Is called a phone book." Maltese chimed as he tossed the pile of papers at jacks dick.

"Oh." Jack screamed as he leapt away, bounding 500 leagues into the air no doubt on his way back to his residence to finish his Gilligan's island themed snuff films.

Maltese sat down on a fire hydrant before it went kaputz, the massive stream of hydrogen and oxygen sending him flying into and through a local rat peddlers marketplace window pane.

Chapter 999

From a distance of roundabouts sixty Pokemon arenas she watched.

"It was going to be quite the adventure." She thoughted.

Killing Maltese will have to wait.

.. readjusting her prism linked Navaja sword on her waist... 

Sekky smirked.

It was going to be quite the adventure indeed.

Chapter 04

Again with the grimace. There was once a time when you smiled…

"Oh shit, I hate this. Word to big bird my job is hard. Like my sexy parts." The captain of manager or whatever of the police place was perplexed. His caseload heavy with cases that were hard to solve. 

"Growler officer, I should hurt your feelings!" The admiral blatantly threatened.

Officer Growler hid his penis his worry, nonplussed he shuffled paperwork on his desk in a fashion that was sure to endanger the innocent lives of many people with dark colour to their skin of perhaps in possession of vaginas. Which is sometimes considered a problem.

Maltese drunkily tethered into the station, his form rare.

"Oh… so the words make sense.. Growler need not be emotionally raped this season, nor a different way of life produced. I have solved this query, motherfucker. You see…"

The thirsty leftenant sparked mad ism as he procured a half moistened breath, his dry lips dry like dry stuff.

"As you have previously been made aware my sex liquid marks a scent, trained in the most arcane of scientific and latent technological techniques I was thought the vein of my member mark the victim of my poor sexual confection. Needless to say I was able to find one old man. A wealthy old man."

"Damn, bribe me harder Maltese." The captain spewed.

"In an hour's time I will be at the forefront of a red headed broad, her wealthy mate shall be explained as having been succumbed to the madness. Which based on the pale dirt I found in his person after having dug up his wet body.. uh.. something. The one you seek called boney is rumoured to be taking up residence in the pissy smelling location I followed my one time paramour to. I was not able to arrive in time to see who they were meeting but boney is still there."

Maltese yelled.

"Round up the swat teams and secure the baton hatches! Belay the paddy wagons boyos we've a monster who's rights need violation!" The Major sang to his men as he slowly did a blood pumping striptease til he was wearing nothing but his heavily stained knickers. 

Maltese made short work of manners as he left. Disappearing through a large rat hole while the officers scrambled about.

Chapter 56

Maltese was well pleased. 

Having found the origins of the mysterious novel his best friend Jack would no doubt cease to threaten his life with violence. 

After having discovered the cure for the spreading madness located in the waterbed Paul was quick to hand out mostly placebos to the likes of the missing old man and sell the real thing on the black market for hella quap. 

Pulling out his vintage pyrenean ibex skull pipe and stuffing it with toromiro tree sap flavored LSD, Maltese took 58 long deep pulls before smiling to himself and nodding off to slumber.

A good day indeed.

It was a dark and stormy fucking night. 

Jack sat at his table. A rustic block made from the bones of polar bears foolish enough to fight back whenever he tried to take their recent kills. 

He downed a gallon of petrol before dusting of his bloody hands and grabbing his favorite book. He jerked off on it sometimes. 

"We'll Teach You To Be Special"

It was not a heavy tome, but quite jagged and acrid. It was written in jaguar blood mixed with arsenic and radioactive fentanyl. The spelling was atrocious because the writer was no pussy nor nerd. 

The writer was also unknown at least by name. Legends told by losers who don't have the guts to be sick fucks say that the pen was forged in the flames of a church, saked in the eyeball juices of a billion dragons. NO. Two billion dragons. 

They pull out their dicks and say things like 

"Im a piece of shit. And I heard the writer of this book be the one who bit a demi gods testes Twain."

Jack punched his fireplace back to life before taking a shit on the logs. He tore the cover off and glared at page one.

  - so you want to be special. Well let me tell you a little story. First a little background on me. I'm 9'16 in height and just shy of about 6,289 pounds. I work out as much as I can which is everyday all year for 24 hours. And I enjoy squeezing turtles till they pop. Which is what I was doing at the beginning of this story. There I was beneath the shade of an overfull mass grave eating rocks and squeezing Galapagos tortoises when I heard a a familiar sound. 

  - nearby a bag full of wizard hearts had fallen out of a nearby tree. Of course you know how they not only have value as currently but you could also shove them down the throat of gargoyles and make them shit themselves to death. 

  - now let me pause there. I tend to find affirmations a bit blase. But least we forget, just because something is a stupid piece of shit doesn't mean it can't be useful. Even you. 

Jack turned the page with the sharpened edge of his penises.

  - to be a winner. It requires practice. Dedication and some other things that don't matter. Because this is not about being a winner. It's more than that. I will teach you to be special. 

  - first some more background on me. I ate my first midwife when I was but a pup. She liked to bake pies and sing while she worked in the rain. A pale but buxom fiery redhead whose sweaty breast heaved as she yanked sabertooth tiger  babies from their mothers stomachs by the dozens, tossing them onto a steaming pile. 

  - she displays potential. This is obvious. The potential to be special. So I taught her. I first yanked three fistfulls of hair from her head and anus. She didn't like this and bristled to show her dissatisfaction.

  - Now to be an effective teacher one must apply pressure to the upper brain and hip area with enough force to crush the dreams of Mount Olympus. Without obstacles a person can become stagnant and gay. 

  Jack smirked a little as he heard the thunder raging outside. The motherfucking storm screamed like the destritis of hades as it got closer to his cabin. Jack grabbed a chainsaw made of dentist teeth and the tears of metal made live, tortured and strangled for ages, and used it to turn another page. 

  - a good rule of thumb is to always confide in your equals and loved ones. Seek them out when you find special people and enjoy their criticism as well as advice on how to teach them. When I wrote this manual I had full intentions of showing you how to teach the special. As I know you do or let's be honest you wouldn't have sold the souls of all you slaughtered to make this purchase of twelve easy payments $20,000,000,000,00,561,000,9999.99. 

  - You may be feeling a little overwhelmed by the pressure of being the one to teach the special. Lets take a breather and let me tell you a funny anecdotal. 

  - as I was one day staring out at the raging but yearnful tides of a new moon, I rolled up the ashes of a fellow I once new into a nice spliff and pondered. Where had I gone wrong? I have never failed per say but even during a windfall its good to stop and access, to go over it and discover what if anything could have been done better. More efficient. Did you enjoy the journey is an important question to ask oneself.

  - it was then that I heard the ninny of a passing unicorn. One unlike any I had either taught or molested. It was a magnificent beast with a huge dong and a horn that gleamed in the burning mist. I moved closer as it grazed on the pile of loose mammoth tongues I had tossed aside fifteen years ago. 

  - as I rained blows down upon its granite hard spine it bent in half where its arse touched its stomach, I remember the stench of its dying words, not the words. And that ladies and gentlemen, is what's known as a folly. I should have taken more time to break all the bones of that beautiful creature, rushed for time for no particular reason. And though not a fault, being time efficient can deflect from time enjoyment.

Last night's rain was a sporadic heavy shower mixed with lulls of tepid drizzle. Seagulls overhead pooped against the wind and the poop mixed with the wet weather and fell on people's heads and into their mouths. 

Jack used the timing of the thunderclaps to bite his way through the dead bolt, the flash of lightning was his chance to slip in like a shadow on crack. Good crack. 

The security system was easy to disable, several years ago Jack banged the maid's grandmother to death AND beyond and upon her last breath she say the password. 

It wasn't rosebud. 

A honestly barely registered creak on the teak wood floor caused the family goldfish to stir and exit its tiny castle in a fit ... 

The sound of the blade across the goldfish's throat, a slow and jagged drag - brought back memories of death and savagery. 

Sunsets blanketed by sinew and smoldering human fat running down his face after a pitched battle.

Jack struggled to contain the odor of his boner. 

This job was to pay like 20... Maybe even 23 dollars. Money Jack didn't need but a job is a job.

The family concubine was located in the foyer snacking greedily on rotted oyster shells. She was hot. And her booty was nice.

On the stroke of 3 hours past midnight Jack achieved a spinning back fist to the front of her ears, and then a running punt to her inner bits sent her flying into the fireplace. 

The crackle of her back against burning logs caused the father to stir.

He slowly spat into his wife's open mouth until she awoke and grabbed her least favorite cricket stick thing. 

"A wah da bombaclot a gwan?!" She patois'd. 

Running downstairs she met her fate something similar to a cornerstone stray cat, her smaller intestines and left biceps and right biceps torn from her person ala swift blade strikes.

Jack used to chop up butchers into premium shanks, filet and loin. Tender loin.

"A fuck did you see my next soul or give me something !!" Jack whispered as he made his was up the dusty steps fourteen at a time. 

The patriarch arrived at the top of the stairwell with a bag full of his pets and children and crusty unmentionables. 

He tossed a few of these things as he cackled.

Jack was undeterred, but also in a rush so he ripped all the supporting beams from the walls and used them as a whole whip to strike against most of the old man's sexy back.

Interpol was watching on cctv.. they were supposed to be taking notes.

Instead... They doodled penises and boobs onto notepads. Big ones. 

Chapter 4 - boat

 Capn' blog.. sea date 33.90

This is my fucking boat.

She goes down, so do I. Maybe going 69 on a rusty sea vessel twice saved from the scrap was poor decision making. It's a good thing I'm not in charge of anything but this boat, and these men who signed on to help me with that starboard thing. 

My first Nate Mate I mean my second mate Steve was the blackest dude I had ever seen in my life. His demeanor was solemn, almost a quickened way of sorrow. His boots charcoal and stained with stains. A deep shaded shark leather jacket adorned his 9 foot 8 tall personage, the pale parcel upon his sweaty hips filled to the brim with black licorice he never ate. Plus his skin was dark like those black people I seen one time in Madagascar.

The devil on my left shoulder told me to steer right towards the oncoming storm. 

"Go right through that storm you dandy ass puss!" They whispered into the hole where my leftest most ear used to be.

"Hunh?! A whazzat?" I drooled. I was drunk. I'm drunk.

"Jesus h. Chr... Go towards that storm! Now! You Hellen Keller ass -" the voice was a pause.

I too had a deafening boner. Maybe two. For the sight... The majesty...

It gave the entire ship pause. A crew of 3 billion smarmy cutthroats interbred with many, many krunk dancers who hast lost their way. A few billion dirtbags seeking the waves of forgiveness, that will never come.. like the frail whores I frequent.

Anyway. 

Back to the whores. Man they were good at whore stuff. I revisit soggy mouth filled memories of ports past. 

This one time, I was knee deep in a huge set of -

"There's a goddamn monster on the side of this ship that's not starboard or whatever!" Moaned the senior rowman. His buxom chest heaving.

I procured and supplied copious amounts of LSD and cocaine for my crew so I was ganske used to their nightmare fueled screams and threats of suicide in the middle of the night. 

This time was different. I felt their blood curdle, the cheap alcohol in their system also curdled.  This..

I stepped on ten children on my fervent dash from the bathroom, my pale palms still furry with the windy excrement residue I was busy giving birth to.

Third mate nate journal

Acts iv

Poseidon is a bitch

I howled into the nighttime moon at night. It was dark. Me cap'n was drunk again and oh so sexy. This one time I tried to rape him and he said no so I was all like.. ok. Fine then.

We parted ways and he continued with his wedding. His guest afoul of my behavior I received looks I didn't like all night. 

As I watched the treacherous waves of wet water smash gainst my sea mates scrotum. 

Twas born in a isle sorta shitty in berth. The coconuts tasted like my nuts. The sand was racist. One time, this huge frog used his legs to jump on my back while my father watched and it bit me so I set my father's face on fire while he was asleep and then I got in trouble motherfucker.

So.. I see this FUCKING whale. It's not cool. But I remember it. This one time, me and the cap was down by the local pizzeria by a moisty shore purchasing faux hotdogs with a newly minted whore monger. It was fun.

it was then that a woman named Piper, and a weirdo named Bridewell hopped aboard the vessel.

[driftingglass]

Your writing is absolutely stunning and I can't help but be amazed by it. I have read all your fic's and I love all of them. I love writing but I believe mine is average and I really want to improve. How can you write so beautifully? How long did it take you to write in such way? ( practicing I mean) 😊❤

First of all, thank you for taking the time to leave this comment in my inbox, and for providing such a thoughtful question to mull over. This is important for any writer to address, and I’m honored you’re seeking advice from a writer like me. I’m always insecure about my skills as a writer and learning how to continuously develop is difficult for anyone, no matter how experienced and well-rehearsed.

There are a few simple rules that I’ll share with you that I practice myself, and other personal beliefs that keep the process moving. 

I don’t have a specific timeline set out because I can’t remember a time where I didn’t write. I was horrible at it, understandably, at first, like most everyone. Still sinking into this new “skin,” so to speak, that I understood was the eventual layer of writing I wanted to reach and hold onto.

Unfortunately, I can’t provide a “step by step” process to achieve a certain kind of style. That, ultimately, is up to you. But we’ll get more into that later.

For one thing, it’s essential to know how much you love writing. 

And clearly, you seem to care quite a lot about it, hence that you love it but you believe it’s “average” and you want to improve. I’m not going to say that average writers don’t exist, because they do. People who tell you that every writer is “good in their own way” are wrong. 

Not every writer is good. Of course, this can be subjective to a point, but the fact remains that there are degrees of separation. And there is, at least in my experience and journey, a main difference between great writers, average writers, and, yes, terrible writers. 

I want to make it clear that I don’t consider myself to be a great writer by any means. Like every creative, we’re always pushing ourselves to be better and hone our craft, and this is no different for me. It’s an endless scope of a process that requires discipline and evolution, and both your own critical eye and that of another. 

One of the most important aspects of being a writer is understanding the amount of time and commitment you will need to carve out for your craft. “Good” and “average” writers only write and read every other day. Terrible writers don’t put in the time at all. 

But you don’t want to be good or average, do you? I doubt you even want to consider yourself “great” at one point. You want to be solid, and the best you can be. Maybe even the best. 

And what I want to share with you is what separates the average from the best.

In order to become that level, or at least improve, you must make the time to read and write every single day. It could be as little as 250 words or as many as 10,000 when it comes to writing. And reading? Well, reading is accomplished no matter what, but reading essays, articles, nonfiction, fiction, it all counts towards something.

It’s important to take the time to both consume from other influences, genres, sentence structures, ideas, plot developmental strategies, etc. just by reading other works. Invest in your favorite genre of fiction or whatever you’re interested in practicing yourself, and watch as even your subconscious works to help you grow. 

My average wordcount per day is 4,000 to 5,000 words. I also tend to overwrite quite a bit, and cut away the unnecessary fat later. My heaviest wordcount taken in one day caps off at 11,000 words. 

I get up early in the morning, go to the gym or run outside to get the blood flowing, write for a solid hour, then leave for work that same morning. It requires a lot of discipline and no, it’s not easy, but it’s worth it. And after work I write as well until I reach my goal for that day. 

Although I might also be a wee bit insane. So take that into account when asking for advice from someone who cares way more about writing than pretty much anything else, save for… coffee, some animals, and a handful of friends.

Regardless, this is something every great writer does. They make the time.

Start small, and grow from there. See how many words you can accomplish in one busy day. Create a routine for yourself. Let the ideas flow and grow into something that even surprises you. 

There are countless writing prompts, exercises and more to draw influence from. With my own ideas I just think of them on the spot, but in college I tended to look for prompts for short story concepts that didn’t require more than one ginormous chapter to set up a plot.

I’m hesitant to give advice about critiquing because I’m ware of how much this is a problem for me personally. I’m very harsh about my writing and can be obsessive about the turnout, leading to an ironic series of burnouts and even stalling. 

However, I can say that being critical, while sometimes dismissed by friends and colleagues, is absolutely necessary for you to improve. If you notice something off about your sentence structure, or if you realize that a character you’ve created definitely would not say “that line,” then feel free to erase it.

One of the best things about writing is that you are in control of your own imagination, and what you put down.

Just remember that it’s normal to feel burned out. 

Writing, like any passion, takes a lot of practice, time and commitment to make into something grand and beautiful. Your style will grow into itself and you’ll find a reflection of you in what you create. I never planned to have a certain style. 

The moment you try to replicate every other writer instead of accepting the type of writer you are meant to be, is one of many mistakes a first-time writer makes. Take it from someone who struggled with this for years before finding the courage to understand that writing is a process. 

Writing is rewriting. Remember this too.

It’s easy to forget how not everything you craft will be perfect. Writing is always imperfect. Even the best writers are far from perfect. Because perfection is, well, impossible to achieve. 

All that you can control is how hard you work at it, what you choose to focus on to improve your craft, and how you choose to approach your inevitable mistakes. 

The fear of failure is one of the biggest reasons great minds stop before they go through with what they want to accomplish. Sometimes it’s truly the only difference separating a published work from an unpublished work. 

Believe me, these upcoming aspects will tie together. I don’t intend to leave you hanging.

J.K. Rowling was rejected twelve times for Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (and probably even more). Pierce Brown faced rejection from over 120 agents before he was able to sell Red Rising. Stephen King, Neil Gaiman, J.R.R. Tolkien, William Golding, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Rudyard Kipling–and so many more, have all faced rejection.

But rejection is inevitable for anyone who dreams. In fact, let’s move away from just writers for a moment. Would you believe that Walt Disney himself was turned down from his plans of financing the Walt Disney Company over 300 times? 

Success never falls into laps. Real success is made by actions taken. The choice to take those steps and keep moving forward, and never giving up, is one of the most important things about being a writer (and person). 

If you remain in a comfort zone, you will forever be stagnant. Growth only comes to those who challenge themselves and push forward. If you struggle with adapting character, research and figure out ways to make them more personal. Do you struggle with dialogue? Read your phrases allowed, study the character more, and test out different clauses and details.

There are countless ways to approach improving writing. It takes a myriad of steps, and it all comes down to the all-around focus you want to have. 

You know you want to improve. You know that you love writing. And for some, that’s enough of a reason to throw yourself into it and see what happens.

As one last thing to close this off (I could go on and on about this for days), please remember that your style is unique to you. It is a part of who you are, not anyone else. Everyone has writing influences (dozens, even) but their style is meant to be that. An influence. Not a replication. 

It’s a difficult journey and extremely stressful and heartbreaking at times, but it’s so, so rewarding.  

Writing, while something that’s incredibly wonderful to share with the world, is ultimately about you. You should write for you, so write what you want to write, reshape it accordingly, and keep at it until you reach your goal… and then keep going. 

I wish you the best with your endeavors, Anon. Thank you. 

[itsfinancethings]

When international aid agency Doctors Without Borders took over management of the COVID-19 treatment center at a hospital in the Yemeni city of Aden on May 7, one of the immediate challenges was convincing cleaners, porters, and even some of the hospital’s doctors that the novel coronavirus existed, and could make them sick.

“After years of war, after years of having no proper services, people in general don’t trust what the media says, and they don’t trust the authorities,” the center’s deputy project co-ordinator Mohammed Abdulrahim told TIME by phone from Aden on May 24. “At the beginning, we had medical staff getting sick. They had direct contact with patients without taking precautions like putting on masks—they just treated it like a normal disease.”

Staff misperceptions of COVID-19 were just one of the obstacles Abdulrahim and his team faced. Before Doctors Without Borders (MSF) took over the al-Amal facility’s management there was no dedicated ambulance for coronavirus patients, and a political dispute meant Yemen’s government had stopped paying staff salaries, leading to a wave of resignations. Three weeks into its tenure, dire shortages of PPE and oxygen remain, and dozens of MSF staff are off sick in Aden.

The frontline medics at al-Amal are just a handful of the people struggling to prop up a healthcare system devastated by more than five years of war. After Saudi Arabia, the UAE and other Arab nations intervened to drive Iran-backed Houthi rebels from Yemen’s capital Sana’a in 2015, Yemen’s civil conflict has left more than 100,000 people dead, displaced millions, and led to what the U.N. calls the world’s worst man-made humanitarian crisis.

Now, the coronavirus is here and spreading silently through the country. Although testing is almost non-existent, doctors at the only dedicated COVID-19 treatment center in Yemen’s south say they are struggling to cope with a 40% mortality rate and a growing caseload of patients. “The team is under permanent stress with staff missing or not trained enough,” Marc Schakal, MSF’s deputy operations manager for Yemen tells TIME by phone from Dubai. “There are very difficult clinical decisions to take for the doctors to make: We are obliged to set admission criteria based on age and chances of survival at the end.”

As harrowing as conditions are inside the treatment center, MSF doctors believe they are seeing “just the tip of the iceberg,” Shakal says, “We are really worried about much older people who are not able to reach the center, and who are dying in the community.”

“We don’t have visibility on the epidemiological curve”

Yemen’s official coronavirus caseload, among the lowest in the Middle East, is almost certainly misleading. As of May 28, the World Health Organization had recorded only 253 confirmed cases and 50 deaths among a population of 28 million. In neighboring Oman, authorities have confirmed over 8,000 cases with a population one-sixth the size.

The country has a miniscule casecount only because of the near-total absence of testing. So far, authorities have performed fewer than 1,000 COVID-19 tests, or 31 per 1 million citizens. That’s a lower per capita figure than in northeast Syria, Chad, or Idlib.

The observations of doctors at al-Amal’s COVID treatment center cast further doubt on official figures. Between April 30 and May 24, the center admitted 228 patients suffering from coronavirus-like symptoms. Of those patients, 99 have died, or more than 40%. With the center permanently full, MSF is now expanding capacity to a total of 80 beds, up from 50 when it took over on May 7.

Facilities like this are desperately needed in a country with a barely functioning healthcare system. Half of the country’s hospitals and clinics have been destroyed or shut over the course of the war, and earlier this month, the Associated Press reported that 18% of Yemen’s 333 districts do not have a single doctor. The splintered country, which is controlled by various armed factions, is not anywhere close to being equipped to deal with an epidemic —according to a May 18 UNOCHA situation report, Yemen currently has fewer than 150 ventilators, about 500 ICU beds, and only five labs capable of conducting COVID-19 tests.

In Aden “some hospitals have closed because they’re worried about contamination, or because of lack of essential supplies that could protect the health of workers,” says MSF’s Schakal. Others have reportedly turned away patients who have sought help for breathing difficulties.

Although the MSF center still lacks sufficient staff numbers and PPE, oxygen is its most urgent need. Every day, the agency says, its COVID-19 center gets through 250 40-liter oxygen cylinders. Yemen has a total stockpile of under 12,000 cylinders for the entire country.

Al-Amal’s alarming death rate is in part due to patients arriving at a very late stage in COVID-19’s progression, MSF’s doctors say. But what is especially striking is that most of the dead are between 40 and 60 years old—considerably younger than the majority of those who have succumbed to the disease in European hospitals. While it’s possible that environmental stressors make Yemen’s population more vulnerable to COVID-19, doctors suspect the high death rate means many more people in Aden—particularly the elderly—are dying at home without seeking treatment.

It’s a hypothesis reflected in the city’s burial rates. On May 14, Save the Children reported that 380 people in the city had died of “coronavirus-like symptoms” in a single week. On the same date, the official fatality rate for the whole of Yemen was just 13. By late May, government burial statistics revealed that as many as 80 people were dying every day in Aden, compared to a pre-outbreak normal of 10.

“We don’t have visibility on the epidemiological curve, so we don’t really know when it stops,” Schakal tells TIME. “We don’t know if we are on the way up, at the top, or on the way down.”

Sickness during wartime

All of this is taking place against the backdrop of an ongoing war. Yemen’s conflict pits Houthi rebels, who control Sana’a and the country’s north, against a Saudi Arabia-led coalition that holds sway in the south and is fighting to restore the exiled internationally-recognized government. Saudi airstrikes—using U.S. and U.K. supplied munitions—have been responsible for the majority of the destruction of civilian infrastructure like hospitals.

A respite from the fighting might have come on April 8, when Saudi Arabia announced a two-week ceasefire in Yemen, which it extended for an additional month on April 24. But humanitarian groups say the truce—which was denounced as a media ploy by the Houthis—heralded an initial rise rather than a fall in violence. The Saudi Arabia-led coalition accused the Houthis of breaching its unilateral “ceasefire” 241 times in 48 hours. In the two weeks after it was announced “we definitely saw a spike in violence from both sides, there was an increase in the number of casualties, the number of displacements, and the number of airstrikes,” says International Rescue Committee’s Yemen director Tamuna Sabadze.

As of May 18, Houthi authorities had reported only four cases of COVID-19 and one death—all in Sana’a. But the Aden-based government in Yemen’s south has accused the rebels of covering up a larger outbreak. “It’s difficult to say how many have it,” the International Committee of the Red Cross’s (ICRC) Yemen director Franz Rauchenstein tells TIME from Sana’a. “We presume that there is a rather widespread transmission in the north.”

But it is not only the infected who are impacted. COVID-19 has contributed to increases in the price of basic food items and a drop in remittances from migrant workers—one of the country’s most important sources of income—since the pandemic began. That’s life-threatening in a country where even before the pandemic only 15% of children were eating the minimum acceptable diet for survival, growth, and development; and whose farms face the additional threat of massive locust swarms.

Doctors also fear that COVID-19 could inhibit Yemen’s ability to cope with other health crises. Recent flooding across the country has contributed to outbreaks of mosquito-borne malaria, dengue, and chikungunya. In the first six months of 2019, Save the Children recorded almost half a million suspected cholera cases. While Yemen has not experienced a major cholera outbreak this year, it remains a risk in a country where more than 80% of the population lacks access to clean drinking water.

Rather than a standalone problem, the global pandemic adds another layer to Yemen’s already complex crisis. “The tricky thing is that corona actually reduces the efficiency of humanitarian actors, and it reduces the efficiency of an economy,” says ICRC’s Rauchenstein. “These secondary effects of the coronavirus are weakening Yemen even more, and lowering its resilience.”

On May 24, Mohammed Abdulrahim and his wife, a pharmacist at the nearby MSF managed trauma unit, enjoyed a rare day off work for the Muslim holiday of Eid. Rather than visiting relatives according to tradition, they spent the day together at home.

But outside, Aden’s streets were as busy as usual. Despite authorities encouraging people to observe social distancing measures, men still visited markets to buy khat—a narcotic leaf chewed by many Yemenis—children went from house to house collecting candies, and families gathered in parks.

Yemenis’ resistance to social distancing is not only down to public skepticism over information authorities have put out, says Abdulrahim. Even if people believe official messaging, most of Aden’s population relies on daily work to feed their families. “Either people stay at home, where the electricity cuts out and they die because they’re starving, or they die because of corona,” he tells TIME. “Both ways, they are dead. So, they stop thinking and they just continue their life.”

[jpzarcher34244-blog]

Read Contents On Geography, Rocks, Volcanoes, Layer Tectonics, And All Factors In the world's.

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[theworldthroughanxietieseye-blog]

The world through my eyes

I don’t know if anyone will even bother reading this or care what i have to say but i think it’s time to speak up about some of my most personal thoughts, feelings and experiences i’ve had through the years. Why do i feel the need to do this? The answers simple, because i want to help others. There are a lot of people out there who go through and are/will go through the same struggles i have and i want to show anyone who may come across this blog that they’re not alone. Far from it in fact. If i could comfort even just one person who may feel alone and or is struggling to cope with the realities of life living with mental health then this will all be worth it.  I’ll start with a brief run down of my life over the past 10 years.  I’m 20 years old and it all started back in the autumn of 2008. I was barely 12, just started secondry school and was sitting in assembly at the end of my school day. What happened next seems so silly and insignificant but really it was a hallmark that changed my life forever.  It was like something went off in my brain. One minute i was normal (if there’s such a thing) care free and completely ignorant to many of the realities of life, the next.. well you’ll see.  It started off as a normal day, straightening my hair in the morning, putting on a thin layer of mascara and walking out the front door. The rest of the day was very typical for one at school. Lessons, Lunch, messing around with friends. We had assembly at the very end of the day which by this point i thought i was adjusting. It was a little daunting to say the least going from a school of just 250 students to almost 2,000. In assemblies there would be at least 400-500 people in one room. I was never really one bothered by crowds and was fairly laid back as a child but all that was about to change. I’d been sitting down for no more than 5 minutes in the hall when all of a sudden i had this terrifying thought that i hadn’t been for a pee all day and i was now BURSTING. When i say bursting, i mean i was squirming in my seat, squeezing my thighs together as hard as i could, my palms sweating profusely. What was about 15 minutes felt like an eternity. I really thought i was going to wet myself. Right there in front of 500 people. I experienced what i can only describe as my first panic attack that i had to control as much as possible (one of the hardest things i’ve ever done.) I swear the whole time i was so close to getting up and running out of the room. When it did finally come to an end after what i can only describe as torture i bolted out of the room past the students in front of me. I can still remember the feeling of the cool air hitting me and feeling a beautiful relief. As you could imagine i raced to the toilet as i thought that’s where i so desperately needed to go but when i got there the urge to go to the toilet completely went away leaving me dumb founded. I walked home shortly after in a bit of a daze and shock of what i’d just experienced. I couldn’t wrap my head around why i felt the way i did and why my urge to urinte just disappeared. Being a naive 11 year old i had no clue that i’d just experienced my first panic attack and just put it down to one fluke experience. I found it so hard to talk about any of these experiences or admit it to anyone for the longest time because i felt so embarrassed and silly.. the last thing i wanted was to be seen as pathetic, even though i now know i was anything but. It was a situation that i hoped i would never have to face again but unfortunately i did.. more times then i could count. It left me fearing assemblies to the point where i started to fear the days we had them and eventually the lessons right before. Needless to say it got to a point eventually where i just stopped going to school all together as the same feeling began to effect the whole day, but those details i’ll save for another day. Anyhow after reaching my limits with the stress school bought i didn’t attend school for 6 months. I only went back for a year after being pressured by just about everyone but it took a LOT of support and training, which was very gradual and ended up being pointless as once more i couldn’t handle the stress and dropped out of school at 14 for good. I started home schooling but eventually became too anxious for that too during which i started underage drinking and experimenting with drugs during my struggles with my new and very scary reality. I lost peoples respect for lack of understanding of my illness, (sadly mostly those closest to me.) I went through so much isolation and loneliness which after years led to a full blown breakdown where i went through the single most hardest and terrifying time of my life in which i suffered psychosis to the point i didn’t sleep for 2 months and came very close to ending my life. During that time i tried 5 different antidepressants and every sedative known to man which i don’t need to tell you gave me all kinds of side effects. It was only after taking Lorazapam along with the highest dose of my antidepressants that things finally started to calm down. Things started to go up from there thank god. I am now engaged to the most amazing man who helped turn a lot of things around for me but has mainly given me hope.  I hope to restore hope in those individuals who have experienced similar things to me and who feel like there’s little hope for them in the future like i once did. Things do get better. My journey is proof. Bit by bit i’ll share my darkest most personal moments with you and go into detail about different events in my life. It will include pain, heartbreak, change, growth, strength and tears but it’s a journey i know too many of us go through and not all of us come out of. All i have to say to you out there reading this who may have had similar experiences to me is don’t give up. I know it’s easy to forget about how beautiful life is when you’ve lived in the shadows for so long and sometimes the lack of beauty you see makes you give up hope but you have to remember that you control your own life. You have to be the one to help yourself get better.