#thinking about Telemachus with glasses

[midnight-drip]

i look into your eyes, and i

think back to a friend of mine

you're as old as he was

when we left for war

[little-cereal-draws]

whatever you do, don't think of Odysseus and Polites growing up together

don't think of them going on "quests" through the palace garden, waving sticks at imaginary monsters and saving the day

don't think of them watching the older boys spar and trying to mimic it, not sure of the proper form and ending up in a giggly heap every time

don't think of them getting a bit older and finally competing against each other with an intent to win, racing and wrestling their way through the countryside

don't think of Polites always letting Odysseus win because he likes seeing Odysseus’ triumphant smile

don't think of Odysseus assuring Polites that he's ok while he cries over his wound from the boar, wiping away his tears

don't think of them getting taller and finally being able to reach all the branches of the trees

don't think of Polites reassuring Odysseus when he worries that girls won’t like him because his princely status outweighs the fact that he's awkward and gangly

don’t think of Odysseus being jealous of Polites’ growth spurt and Polites teasing him about it

don't think of them going on short trips to neighboring kingdoms as they fill out, making allies and attending feasts

don't think of Odysseus gushing about how pretty and perfect Penelope is while Polites smiles knowingly

don't think of Polites helping Odysseus gather the courage to ask for her hand

don’t think of the wedding festivities lasting a whole week and Polites drunkenly crying about how happy he is for them

don’t think of Odysseus letting Polites hold baby Telemachus, hovering with the anxiety of a new parent, and watching as his friend gently brushes the soft baby curls out of his son's eyes

don't think Polites assuring Odysseus that the war is estimated to last only a few months, he'll be back home before he knows it

don't think of circumstance slowly pulling them apart as Odysseus spends more time with the kings, going on raids and ambushes, and Polites tries to avoid the battlefield as much as he can

don't think of Odysseus freezing after Polites flinches when he claps him on the shoulder after a raid, hands still wet with blood

don't think of Odysseus growing restless and pacing in Polites' tent, mourning the years he's lost with his family and venting his frustrations with the war

don't think of the Trojans breaching the Greek wall and Odysseus scrambling to find the glint of glasses in the chaos

don't think of him finally finding Polites with a spear in one hand, the other hand pressed over a wound in his side, apologizing as he stabs at his attacker

don't think of Polites sobbing as Odysseus stabs the Trojan from behind, splattering both of them with blood when he pulls the body off of his sword

don't think of them fighting back-to-back, Odysseus aiming to kill, Polites just trying to get them to stay back, as the camp burns around them

don't think of Odysseus trying to get Polites out of joining the ambush on Troy but the other kings aren't having it

don't think of Odysseus watching Polites wipe the blood and tears off his glasses as he says he's fine to go, he appreciates Odysseus trying his best

don't think of the fire and screaming in Troy

don't think of Odysseus collapsing into Polites as soon as the fighting is over and sobbing too hard to explain why he's so upset

don't think of Odysseus closing himself off as they prepare to go home, jealous and angry over how his friend remains as optimistic as ever while he's haunted

don't think of the sea breeze and the promise of home starting to ease things back to normal

until it doesn't

[theultimatenonbinarynerd]

Epic Fandom We Need To Talk! (An Open Letter)

As a former survivor of severe Cyberbullying and harrasment I can no longer stay silent anymore. You have forced my hand.

This has gone way too far and I am massively disappointed. All I ask is that you listen to what I have to say. This is no longer a joke as a survivor of Cyberbullying and harrasment I can say that a misunderstanding has turned into The Epic Fandom putting the livelihood and well being of artists in danger. I ask you to be respectful and understand I am speaking from old wounds and experience. Please don't twist my words, I don't support 🍇 or Antinous he is a horrible character.

Tw: Mentions of Cyberbullying, 🍇 and harassment

Dear Epic Fandom,

You are better then this, I know you are. Polites taught us to greet the world with open arms and accept when people make mistakes and stop holding onto are anger. The fandom is growing and we can't stop it but I'm really disappointed in the people letting hate win and turning the fandom venomous and toxic

We are all Epic Fans but behind the glass on your screen there's a person, a person with feelings who you know nothing about. You all don't know the real Melody typing this but your all probably gonna make assumptions based on what you dont know and that is the danger of being online. The person who posted fanart of Antinous and Telemachus you didn't like, they have real feelings. Complicated messy feelings that aren't able to be articulated enough online.

As a survivor of bullying myself my motto is block or scroll. I myself am very uncomfortable with a lot of the ao3 tags shipping Odysseus with Poseidon or Zeus but do I go angrily type on my keyboard? No I don't cos it's none of my damnn business. When I saw that art, I was confused and uncomfortable but instead of being reckless and sentimental I asked for clarification. Taking Polites advice I used open arms and talked about what was bothering me without attacking the artist. Instead of being like Polites you all became Poseidon. Ruthlessness Is Mercy is not the way to go, it's a toxic way to go about life. Did you all not listen to that Thunder Saga and see how it destroyed everything Odysseus had known for the past thirteen years.

You should all be absolutely ashamed of yourself. This is not what the Epic Fandom should be. You don't like someone's fan art ask for clarification and or block. There is no need to be Ruthless and cruel. The fact two genuine heartfelt Apologises have been made and you still can't let it go very much clearly shows your character. You are very much like Poseidon and Zeus and should be ashamed. In Ares words you are all sick cowards. Not only that but you are clearly projecting. I suggest you go to therapy if you think your time in the Epic the musical fandom should be spent bullying and harassing people then leave. The number one rule is that there is always a person behind the screen and that you should think before you type.

I'm still not over the fact how you have twisted and triggered someone's truama. I also can't believe hate is being given after the artist mentioned her experience. 🍇 is not a thing to weaponise. I feel like the Wisdom Saga has made you far too comfortable in how you handle and discuss 🍇. The artist forgot her trigger warnings and wasn't even trying to imply the twisted image you put on her. Also I pointed out she shouldn't have tagged it Epic and apologied. Jorge has made adaptations to The Odssey a piece of fiction. What Jorge has done with Antinous is his own creative liberties. If you can't have sensitive and respectful conversation about something that is still happening to people I don't know what to say. Accusing someone of supporting 🍇 is not okay at all. The artist wasn't attending that way and understands she shouldn't have done what she did but it goes both ways. Look for context before you slam. Judging someone based on an honest mistake and huge misunderstanding is dangerous and cruel. Do you not understand the dangers this could put the artist in in real life. Please have open arms and think before you type. This is a serious topic and not a joke.

Moving on I want to talk about why I think this blew up so bad. It's because Elian was commissioned to do an animatic for Jorge. Listen you all would have blocked if it wasn't for that. I read comments saying they idolised her and that is a really f**** dangerous thing to do. Idiolising someone because they've been noticed or hired by Jorge isn't healthy at all. At the end of the day we are all human beings. Elian is allowed to make mistakes and grow. Outside of Epic this is becoming a massive problem in genuine.

Worse I've seen and heard about Artists like Mirscy and AnniFlamma getting attacked just for defending their friend. I'm sorry are we not allowed to defend our friends now from bullying? I can't speak for them but if I saw my friend getting hated and harassed on I'd be angry too, it's like a natural emotion to feel. Then again you are the same fandom that mocks Eurylochus for sticking up for his crew so I'm not suprised. These artists are human beings and not God's because Jorge noticed and appreciated their work. Stop twisting these artists into people there not.

I'm not Tiresias but I can see Jorge stopping collaborating with artists on animatics if you keep this disgusting behaviour up. Constructive criticism is okay but falsely twisting the image of an artist is not okay at all by doing this you are dehumanising artists and doing exactly what Hollywood does. Jorge will have to stop commissioning people it you keep using the fact he noticed them against them when they make mistakes like all human beings do.

Please do better and stop being Poseidons. An 8 year grudge was unhealthy and got him nowhere. Be more like Polites and Greet The World with open arms. Not everything is black and white. Tik Tok built the Epic Fandom up and you hold all the power.

Stay kind and great the world the world with open arms.

Yours Sincerely,

Melody

They/Them

Ps: If you send me hate and twist my words be warned I have friends as well. One particular friend was there when a lot of my Cyberbullying truama happened and is aware why this has triggered me so badly and caused an episode.

Attack you will be blocked. I'll also remove reblogs.

Attack and you will be reported.

You don't scare me.

Be nice Epic Fandom and don't become The Monster. I'm willing to have civil conversations but that's it.

[randomciabatta724]

Some Polites headcanons because they're good for the soul.

Note: these are a mix of details from the musical I wanted to expand on, stuff I've read from other posts, and things I randomly came up with.

He was in the frontlines (or at least near them) during the Trojan war. Not because he wanted to fight, he just thought "if I have to join the battle, I'll at least shield those behind me". I took this from Survive, because he had to be pretty close to Polyphemus to be the first one hit by the club.

Self sacrificial. Very self sacrificial. Would die for the crew, especially for Odysseus and Eurylochus.

Loves dates. Either on their own or with honey. I don't know why, he just gives me the vibe.

Had night terrors both during and after the war. Either nightmares about the people he killed (let's face it, you don't come out of a 10 year war without getting blood on your hands) or his friends dying in battle. Never explicitly told anyone, but he would stay with his friends a little longer the morning after. Also picked a lot more night watch turns as a result, just to get his mind off of things.

Bruises/gets injured extremely easily, and doesn't notice/care. Especially if someone else is hurt too. "Are you alright?" asks Polites to another soldier while coughing up blood.

Also very durable, somehow. That's why Polyphemus had to hit him twice/j.

Myopic king. The glasses are a gift from Athena, because she was like "I think you're a soft-hearted fool, but I'll be damned if you embarrass my Warrior of the Mind because you can't see beyond the bridge of your nose".

The type of person to keep eating horrible/possibly poisoned food just to not offend the person who prepared it. Odysseus had to smack the lotus out of his hand because he would have still taken a bite to not make the lotus eaters upset (he brought some with him anyway, that's where Odysseus got the lotuses to put in the wine).

Many have already said this, he's the therapist friend before therapy was invented.

Gives the best hugs.

Taller than Odysseus but shorter than Eurylochus (Odysseus reaches Polites' chest, Polites reaches Eurylochus' nose).

Apologises when he bumps into furniture. It's a reflex, he doesn't notice he does it. It's a remnant of his pre-glasses days, when he couldn't distinguish a person from a vase.

The ancient Greek equivalent of a Godfather to Telemachus.

Extremely trusting, sometimes a little too much (fun fact: in the Odyssey he's like the first one to enter Circe's palace).

Very forgiving. He gives second, third, even fourth chances like it's nothing, no matter how badly someone hurts him. You have to be pretty forgiving to still think about greeting the world with open arms after being clubbed to death. (Note: this does not apply to his friends getting hurt).

When he takes off his bandana, his curls reach his shoulders and cover his left eye, and it gives him a whole different vibe. He still radiates warmth, but it's not the same. Kinda like the sun at noon and the sun at dusk. The second is still warm and welcoming, but dimmer, softer, maybe a little darker. People have mistaken him for someone else because of this.

Super heavy sleeper. One time when they were younger, Odysseus and Eurylochus decided to try and wake him up by making the most noise possible. They did not succeed.

His first kiss was Eurylochus while Odysseus was away in Sparta to court Penelope.

One time, someone tried to rob him. The guy was like "Give me your money!" and Polites was like "Oh dear, look at you, of course I'll give you my money, you look like you really need it. Also, why don't you come to my house so I can give you some food and clean clothes?". The thief was so ashamed of himself he ran away.

He befriended Charon in the Underworld.

You know the plague that Apollo sent during the Iliad? He may or may not have gotten it, I haven't decided yet.

Considering that in epic the sirens have the ability to shapeshift into loved ones, there was definitely a siren Polites somewhere during Suffering/Different Beast.

He's generally a very calm person, the only thing that really gets him angry is when his friends get hurt. And when he's angry, he's not someone to mess with. He can and will kick ass. And the thing that rubs salt in the wound is that if you get beat up by Polites, it's almost certainly your fault, because Polites isn't the kind of person that goes around randomly beating people up. And very few people wish to carry the title "The person who got beat up by Polites".

SPOILERS AHEAD!!!

The last headcanon is something I've also based a scenario on. Basically, after Odysseus kills the suitors, they go to the Underworld. Most of them are still shaken up by the whole thing, which is understandable, getting shot by an enemy you can't see while unarmed in the dark is not fun, but not Antinous. Antinous is pissed. And so he rallies up the other suitors, he gives a whole speech where he basically says they can get revenge on Odysseus once he joins them there and also reveals all the shit they did while he was gone. And Polites is like, talking to Eurylochus or something, when he overhears. And so he goes to give Antinous the beating of his life because you do **not** disrespect his best friend and his family like that. And the suitors+Eurylochus are watching from a corner, with the suitors getting even more scared.

That's it. Nothing more :)

I know Eurylochus is married to Ctimene but I SHIP HIM AND POLITES SO BAD AAAAAAAAHHHHHH

[dootznbootz]

YOOOO I LOVE THE HEADCANONS SO MUCH. Especially the one where the type of the water affectes the appearance, that's so so neat

Also,, what do you think happens to a naiad (or someone of naiad descent) when they stay out of water for too long? Do they get sick? Do they eventually die? Would only water heal them or could something else (eg. eating fish) at least "stabilize" them?

And how would rain affect them? Would they be able to spend more time out of water when it's raining? Or could they maybe even bend the rain to their will? Of course rain comes from the clouds/sky which is not in their domain,, but if the raindrops are low enough, could it work? :0

Sorry if this was too long, i just really liked the headcanons and they made me think hahahaha

sdlkfj Thank you!!! Don't ever be sorry, Niko! I'm happy you like them so much!!! And always feel free to chatter away with me!! :D I think a LOT about the Naiad dynamics as they're really fun!!!! And as someone who grew up with a lot of river stuff, it's really nice and fun!

It's part of the reason why Penelope's smaller and has straight black hair :D As she was born a month early, it caught Periboea by surprise and she just went into the nearest creak :D (probably was mostly alone too)

It was calm at first before suddenly the current got fast and Penelope was swept away. Obviously terrifying. To say the least, some ducks brought her back :P (I really love the duck myth. It's neat and to have Penelope be associated with ducks while Helen is kind of associated with swans itches my brain just right >:D (Swans are bigger than ducks as well. like how I think of Helen and Penelope!) I like the thought of Odysseus "always thanking the ducks" whenever he sees them even while away. He gives them peas to eat and just gets happy when they fly overhead :'D

Penelope is a bit self-conscious about being born from a creek while her mom and most of her other siblings are from the river. (she's also the youngest and smaller.) Penelope was actually really worried about this and even kind of tried to not say that her water broke and was just like "hey, let's go here! No reason! :'D " because she wanted to get to the "better source of water" to give birth to Telemachus.

Odysseus: I can't believe you did that! >:( Penelope: HEy! Me and our son are fine!! The contractions didn't even start yet and we still made it to the river!!! And he'll be so strong, Odysseus! :D

Honestly they'd kind of "dry" out and just... really uncomfortable. I can imagine they kind of shed scales and just feel sick and unwell. Probably if you gave them a glass of water they'd rather dump it over their head :P Would eventually die if they don't get enough :'D If you marry a naiad-born person and don't have what they need, then you're a shit spouse. It is basically common knowledge, even for non-naiad born. Leda, for example, with Tyndarius, makes sure he has his "dips" in the water if she notices it's been a while or that he starts itching his skin. (Odysseus makes damn well sure she has enough water. Not only did he carve her a "nest" as a wedding bed, but he also has a pool with a canal that could go to the caves if she needed that's basically right outside their chamber :D Where she and Telemachus go a lot (especially during the suitors). He thought of EVERYTHING. It's seeing the bed and the pool where she realizes that this man truly loves her and that she loves him as well. She knew before that "she would be happy with him" and did love him but this is where she was hit with "omfg this is like the tales poets sing about. holy shit." )

Oh boy the RAIN >:)

Yes they can do SOOO much with it. It's actually a very joyous and playful time for most naiads and basically, everyone leaves their spots of water to just run around and play and dance. (and Helen and Pollux :P but uh...they do make it "sparky" so they only run around where there's no big body of water.) And it's actually another thing that naiads have over nereids as rain has no salt :P

It also helps with yeah, Helen and Pollux, as when these two get pretty emotional the clouds start to form. Helen likes to mess with people by giving them a "static shock" as it's funny and "minor". And she loves doing it to Penelope as she likes her reactions. When it rains or they're near water, Penelope kind of gets her revenge >:D (They love each other, they're just cousins)

[i-will-change-this-someday]

I've been really into Epic: The Musical lately, so here are some of my thoughts:

I keep wondering why during "Puppeteer" there's not the rhyme of "wine" and "swine", because I think it was the wine specifically that turned them to pigs.

Was confused for a bit cause I thought Jorge also voiced Telemachus.

Cannot think of what, but the part in “Polyphemus” where it’s like “a gift from you and a gift from me” the tune(?, I know nothing about music) reminds me of something.

Half the plot wouldn’t have happened if they were just vegan.

As many have said, if I was Odysseus I would have gone on a murderous rampage after the crew opened the bag. He literally told them what was in it! Why would they do that? Especially like, 200 ft away from home?!

Also, Odysseus should have maybe hid the bag so he could sleep, or put it under his clothes or something. Maybe hug it like a body pillow if it’s really big.

Also, I don’t really think Polites is a pacifist exactly, but I also kinda wonder if he was more of a medic rather than a fighter. Cause I’m honestly a little surprised that he’s not Odysseus’s second-in-command. Although, I can also see that he might not be the best fit for that role.

Like, I definitely think Polites is a very skilled fighter, it would have been questioned more for just the two of them to go if not, but I also don’t think he enjoys almost any aspect of war.

Also I get really sad if I think about Polites too much, should have known that he would die, cause I immediately liked him.

Also get really sad for Odysseus too. (end of "Love in Paradise" gets me every time.)

I honestly don't feel that sad for Eurylochus, I understand where he's coming from and it is sad, but a lot of the bad things that happen to him is kinda his fault. I do still like him though.

I also keep wondering why the cyclops doesn’t just say that a human hurt him, why did he feel the need to use a name?

I had a dream where Odysseus decides not to kill the infant, and instead gave it to Polites to raise.

Also where did Polites’s headband come from? And the glasses? Cause I honestly was thinking he has really good eyesight, for some reason I imagine him using a bow and arrow, also he was the one to spot the island.

The music is truly top tier, literally every single one’s amazing.

I got really in to watching Jorge’s videos about the process.

[seductivejellyfish]

Musings

The first English translation of Homer’s Odyssey was completed in 1615, by classicist, dramatist, and poet George Chapman. He begins: 

The man, O Muse, inform, that many a way

Wound with his wisdom to his wished stay;

The first time I read the Odyssey was the summer before ninth grade. I had applied to a bougie private high school that I later chose not to attend, but as an acceptance gift they sent me a beautiful golden book, the Robert Fagles 1996 blank verse translation of the Odyssey. His first line: 

Sing to me of the man, Muse, the man of twists and turns

driven time and again off course, 

    At the time I had only the vaguest notion of the plot of the epic. I knew, or I thought I knew, that it was the story of Odysseus and his journey home, punctuated with an endless series of wild monsters and treacherous encounters. When I opened the book I was shocked to find that the Odyssey begins not with the adventure of the titular hero, but back home in Ithaca with his mopey abandoned son. My second shock came shortly after, when the goddess Athena descends to earth to inspire said mope, and does so in the form of Mentes, a man. 

    I reread the lines to make sure I hadn’t missed anything in the confusing clamor of ancient verse. Athena disguised as a man? Surely that couldn’t be right. But it was. Every single disguise of Athena, sans one, was a man. Not only that, there were multiple scenes where mortals recognize her for her true nature and yet still regard her in her guise. In those moments she existed as goddess and mortal, female and male simultaneously. It was almost too much to handle.

400 years after George Chapman, Emily Wilson became the first woman to translate the Odyssey into English. She hurled a book through a millenia’s glass ceiling and when it landed it opened to: 

Tell me about a complicated man.

Muse, tell me how he wandered and was lost.

At age 14 I wandered from a tiny private Jewish middle school into Boston Latin Academy and was promptly lost. Trapped in the practices of the past 300 odd years, every student was required to take 3-4 years of Latin. The first year was relentlessly boring. We bumbled our way through the textbook, memorizing endings and grammatical rules as though the language was a series of mathematical formulas and not something to be read and spoken and learned. 

In tenth grade I cut my hair. For years I had kept my waist-length hair in a thick side braid and in a day it was all gone. I can’t for the life of me remember what was it that made me do it, or when I got the idea. At some point I started telling people that I was thinking about it, and then I started telling people that I was going to do it, and then I did it. Anybody who has gone abruptly from long hair to short knows the miracle of the first shower: the giddy lightness that moves from your neck down through your whole body. 

We started reading real Latin in class and suddenly the language became alive. I wrestled with the text to produce a messy grammatical translation at the bottom of my page and then neatly rewrote a more pleasing version alongside the columns of poetry. I doodled all across the back of the pages--beautiful Greek men with flowing hair, columns and bays, Icarus, wings outspread, falling into the sea. Aphrodite descends to earth in disguise as a young huntress. I search between the pages for Athena. 

Near the city of Crete lived an unremarkable but blameless man and his unremarkable wife. So scared was he of the pain of raising a daughter that he delivered the ultimate warning to his wife: if their child should be born a girl, she must be killed. Only a boy should live. We all know the story--with the dropping of the ultimatum, the course of the tale is sealed. The mother will have a baby girl and she will be unable to destroy her. In this tale there are no babies in baskets, or foundlings left in the woods. Instead, instructed by a goddess, the mother conspires with a nurse to raise the child as a boy. The father names the child Iphis, after his father, and the mother is happy because the name suits a boy or girl and it removes part of the burden of the lie. The child grows up fine and beautiful, with all the best features of the male and female. Their disguise is unquestioned, and they grow up happy, sharing their childhood with a friend, Ianthe. We know this story too. Young love blossoms, and soon the two are engaged, to the delight of father and the despair of mother and child. 

I read this story properly for the first time, in Latin, in the summer of 2020, with the help of my Greek professor. At the beginning of our Greek class the year before we had each chosen Greek names. I was fascinated by the gender play in this story, and so I stole the name Ianthe from it. I am drawn much more to Iphis, of course, but I find the name Ianthe more lovely. And perhaps it is fitting that I embody that fascination with the choice of the name of the character so in love with Iphis, whatever gender they may be.

Burning with love and chafing at the equal ardor of Ianthe, Iphis cries out in despair to the gods. 

    “If the gods want to spare me, then they ought to spare me already! If not, if they wish to destroy me, then at least deal me some regular harm, according to the laws of nature! Never has love of mares consumed a mare, or of cows a cow: sheep love rams, and stags chase after does, the females of their own kind. Thus too birds couple, and amongst each and every type of animal, no woman is seized by feminine desire. I wish I were no woman!”

We reach this part of the poem and I am compelled to stop and reach through the text, to try in vain to comfort the grieving lover. You’re not broken at all, poor girl. You’re not alone.

    My professor asks me if I knew the story when I chose my name, and I tell her that I did. I am always aching to be recognized, to be seen, but at the same time I want to reassure her that this angst of Iphis’ which dominates the text is not a pain I have had to bear. Blessed by my circumstances, I have never once resented who I am. I have never been made to feel unnatural, and I have never felt alone. Again, perhaps it was right that I chose to become Ianthe, the unwitting and undisturbed bride who manages to never hear a thing about the anguish that surrounds her betrothal.

    The end of the story offers a neat resolution-the goddess hears Ianthe’s prayers and transforms her into a man. Light the marriage torches and sound the bells! I am torn in every direction. I don’t know what’s more important--the love of a woman for a woman, the ability for a character to straddle the line between gender, or the transformation from woman to man. Despite knowing that the social construct of gender in Roman times is far from the one I exist within, I can’t help wondering about Iphis after the curtains close. Are they happier as a man? Are they a man at all, or a woman in the body of a man? Was gender ever anything for them other than a weight around their neck, or a performance to play? I translate and translate and wonder what pronouns to use, reading the word woman again and again. 

Iphis leaves a gift in the temple, dedicated to the goddess with an inscription:

DONA: PVER: SOLVIT: QVAE: FEMINA: VOVERAT: IPHIS.

A boy pays this gift, which a woman had pledged, Iphis.

I take a spoken Latin class and think of using neuter endings for myself and then I don’t. I go from “she/her” to “she/they” to “any pronouns.”

O Muse, instruct me of the man who drew

His changeful course through wanderings not a few,

Trans. John William Mackail, 1903.

Athena comes to earth as Mentes. Aristophanes jests with his tale of the original third androgynous gender as pretty boys vie for spots on the ground next to Socrates. 

Tell me, O Muse, of the Shifty, the man who wandered afar.

Trans. William Morris, 1887.

The goddess commands that Iphis live as a baby girl until she can grow into a man. I bind my chest with medical tape and stick socks in my jeans and write my first original ancient Greek poem. 

Tell me the tale, Muse, of that man

Of many changes,

Trans. Herbert Bates, 1929. 

Telemachus strings up a line of women like caught bird for the crime of being sex slaves and translator Fagles kills them again when he calls them “sluts” and “whores” where the Greek says “sleeping.” 

This is the story of a man, one who

was never at a loss.

Trans. William Henry Denham Rouse, 1937

I’m letting my hair grow out again, in an undercut this time. Quarantine has seen me take at last to the clippers, shaving the sides and leaving the rest to grow. It’s long enough now to tuck behind my ears. I’ve spent my Saturdays chanting the Odyssey in a sing-song up and down my house and yard. I’ve memorized over 50 lines by now, but none as powerful as that eternal first. Someday I’ll translate it too. I imagine how appropriate it will be to have a little “trans.” before my name.

The first word of the Odyssey is Ἄνδρα, Andra-man. I take the man inside of me, right next to the woman and the thing which is neither, and I work on translating myself. 

[cctinsleybaxter]

2019 in books

The year’s contenders for the good, the bad, and the rest. I used to make a list of the ten best books I read all year, a tradition encouraged by my mom as far back as high school, but out 2019′s twenty-six mediocre offerings it didn’t really come together. Instead I’ve decided to break my ‘honorable mentions’ category into three subsections that I hope you’ll enjoy. In order of when read, not in order of affection:

Honorable mentions [books I liked; 3+ star material]

The Fifth Season by N.K Jemisin was given to me as a Christmas present last year, and I wasn’t sure how much I would like it since I don’t really do high fantasy. Rules need not apply; I loved the world building and narrative structure, and the characters were so much better than I’m used to even when their arcs seemed familiar at first glance. I guessed what was going on with the formatting maybe a little too quickly, but even then it was emotionally engaging and I was eager to keep reading and see what happened next. Haven’t devoured a book that way in years.

The Periodic Table by Primo Levi has been on my list for a while; as a memoir told through short stories it’s hit-or-miss, but so worth it. I especially loved getting to read his early attempts at fiction, and the chapter Phosphorus regarding his first real job as a chemist in 1942 (his description of his absolute disgust at having to work with rabbits, the feel of their fur and the “natural handle” of the ears is a personal favorite.) This excerpt is one I just think about a lot because it’s full of small sweet details and so kindly written:

“[my father] known to all the pork butchers because he checked with his logarithmic ruler the multiplication for the prosciutto purchase. Not that he purchased this last item with a carefree heart; superstitious rather than religious, he felt ill at ease breaking the kasherut rules, but he liked prosciutto so much that, faced by the temptation of a shop window, he yielded every time, sighing, cursing under his breath, and watching me out of the corner of his eye, as if he feared my judgement or hoped for my complicity.”

Slowing Down from Mouthful of Birds by Samanta Schweblin is a one-page short story, but I’m including it because it’s the best in the book and one of the better stories I’ve read in general. I won’t spoil it for you since it’s more poem than anything else (and you can read the whole thing here.)

A Short Film About Disappointment by Joshua Mattson deserves to be lower in the order because it’s like. Bad. But I couldn’t help but have a self-indulgent kind of love for it, since it’s a book about white boy ennui told through movie reviews. It definitely gets old by the end (one of those things where you can tell the author lost steam just as much as his leading man), but parts of it are so well-written and the concept clever. 80+ imaginary movie reviews and psychosomatic possession by your traitorous best friend. 

The Gone-Away World by Nick Harkaway has one of the greatest twists I’ve ever read in a novel, and no that’s not a spoiler, and yes I will recommend it entirely on that basis. It does its job as a multi-year sci-fi epic; reminds me a lot of Walter Moer’s early stuff in that it’s a bit Much(tm) but still a good mixture of politics and absurdity and absolute characters. Tobemory Trent was my favorite of the ensemble cast (but also boy do I wish men would learn how to write women.)

My Only Wife by Jac Jemk is a novella with only two characters, both unnamed, a man describing fragmented memories of his wife. It has me interested in Jemck’s other writing because even though I didn’t love it she writes beautifully; reading her work is like watching someone paint. The whole thing has a very indie movie feel to it (no scene of someone peeing but there SHOULD be), which I don’t think I’ve experienced in a story like this before and would like to try again. 

Mentions [books I really wanted to like but my GOD did something go wrong]

Bad Blood: Secrets and Lies in a Silicon Valley Startup by John Carreyrou is the most comprehensive history we have of Elizabeth Holmes and her con-company Theranos. It’s incredibly well-researched and absolutely fascinating, but veers into unnecessary pro-military stuff in one chapter (’can you believe she tricked the government?’ yes i can, good for her, leave me alone) and carries an air of racism directed at Holmes’ partner and the Pakistani people he brings onto the company. Carreyrou works for WSJ so I don’t know what I expected.

Circe by Madeline Miller was fun to read and goes down like a glass of iced tea on a hot day, but leaves a bit of an unpleasant aftertaste. It says a lot of things that seem very resonant and beautiful but ultimately ring hollow, and the ending is too safe. Predictable and inevitable. 

I was also bothered about Circe’s relationships with Odysseus and Telemachus as a focal point, not because they’re father and son (Greek mythology ethics : non-committal hand gesture) but because it’s the traditional “I used to like bold men but now I like... sensitive men.” Which as a character arc feels not unrealistic but very boring. You close the book and realize you’re not nine and reading your beat-up copy of Greek Myths, you’re an adult reading a New York Times Bestseller by a middle aged straight white woman.

Reservoir 13 by Jon McGregor could have been the best thing I read all year and I’m miserable at how bad it ended up being. The concept is excellent; a thirteen-year-old girl goes missing in a rural English village, and every chapter chronicles a passing year. I knew it would be slow, I like slow, but nothing happens in this book and it ends up it feeling like Broadchurch without the detectives. Plus, McGregor, you know sometimes you can take a moral stance in your story and not just make everything a grey area? Especially with subplots that deal with things like pedophilia and institutional racism?

Paul Takes the Form of a Mortal Girl by Andrea Lawlor is about a twenty-something who moves from Iowa to San Francisco in the 90s and explores gender and sexuality through shapeshifting. It was something I really thought I would like and maybe even find helpful in my own life, but I couldn’t stand a single one of the characters or the narration so that’s on me! It does contain one of my favorite lines I’ve read in a long time though:

“And anyway, weren’t French boys supposed to be like Giovanni, waiting gaily for you in their rented room and actually Italian?”

Dishonorable mentions [there’s no saving these fellows]

The Butterfly Garden by Dot Hutchinson was supposed to be a fun easy-to-read thriller and what can I say except what the jklfkhlkj;fkfuck. It very quickly goes from ‘oh hey I read books like this when I was 15’ to ‘oh the girl who intentionally gets kidnapped by a wealthy serial killer is accidentally falling in love with his son and can’t stop talking about his eye color now huh.’ I felt like I was losing my mind; why did grown adults give this 5 stars on Goodreads.

The Beautiful Bureaucrat by Helen Phillips is supposedly surrealist horror fiction about working an office job in a new town, and reminded me of that rocky third or fourth year when I really started hating Welcome to Night Vale. All spark no substance, and even less fun because you know it’s going nowhere. I’ve also realized this past year that I cannot stand stories about women where their only personality trait is the desire to have children. People will throw the word ‘Kafkaesque’ at anything but here it was just insulting. 

The Great Believers by Rebecca Makkai alternates point of view between Yale, a gay man living in Chicago in the late 80s and watching his friends die, and Fiona, the straight younger sister of one of those friends now looking for her erstwhile daughter in 2018. It was nominated for the 2018 Pulitzer, and part of my interest was in wondering how we were going to connect the plot lines of ‘the personal cost of the AIDS crisis’ with ‘daughter lost to a cult.’

The answer is that we don’t. The book is well-researched and acclaimed beyond belief, but it is SUCH a straight story. Yale’s arc is fueled by the drama of his boyfriend cheating on him and infecting them both, Fiona is painted as a witness to tragedy and encouraged to share their stories with her own daughter. “You’re like the Mother Theresa of Boys Town” one of the men complains bitterly of her, and the claim goes undisputed. It’s a story that makes a lot of statements about love and families and art that I feel we’ve all heard before to much greater effect.

[tsarizuu]

Answer these 85 statements about yourself, then tag 20 people.

i was tagged by the wonderful @mintdae !! thank you for the tag love 💕💕💕

last

1. drink - protein shake

2. phone call - my dad

3. text message - my friend

4. song you listened to - jaljayo goodnight by twice

5. time you cried - last friday or saturday i think? maybe more recently :/

ever

6. dated someone twice - nope

7. kissed someone and regretted it - hmm... i don’t think so

8. been cheated on - nope

9. lost someone special - yes

10. been depressed - yeah :/

11. gotten drunk and thrown up - nope

fave colours

12. green

13. pink

14. black

15. blue

in the last year have you

16. made new friends - yeah

17. fallen out of love - idk

18. laughed until you cried - nope

19. found out someone was talking about you - ooh boy.... yeah

20. met someone who changed you - yes

21. found out who your friends are - yeah

22. kissed someone on your facebook friends list - nope

general

23. how many of your facebook friends do you know irl - most of them; the few i don’t know are simply family members that i’ve never met

24. do you have any pets - 2 cats!

25. do you want to change your name - not anymore!

26. what did you do for your last birthday - i don’t like my birthday so i didn’t really do anything special. i just went to school like any normal day :)

27. what time did you wake up today - 9am

28. what were you doing at midnight last night - trying to fall asleep

29. what is something you can’t wait for - graduation + seeing my bff tomorrwo

30. what are you listing to now - the cars driving by

31. have you ever talked to a person named tom - yeah

32. something that gets on your nerves - @/the freshmen ppl (at school) who stop in the middle of the hallway or walk rllyyyyy slow :/ also ppl who are just super negative and/or haughty and mean

33. most visited website - youtube or tumblr

34. hair colour - strawberry blonde

35. long or short hair - short hair 

36. do you have a crush on someone - ew no i h8 crushes :(( (lol i sound like a child here but yeah i don’t like crushes bc i don’t like to deal with them)

37. what do you like about yourself - oooooof lol idk

38. want any piercings - i’ve thought about getting my ears pierced

39. blood type - b+ 

40. nicknames - leasy (lease-ee), ylyse (why-lease), mimosa, odysseus, dad, and romeo

41. relationship status - this quote says it all: "I'm pringle. That's kinda like single but hungry." -michael clifford

42. zodiac - pisces

43. pronouns - she/her

44. favorite tv shows - stranger things, hello my twenties, the office, parks and rec, black, ncis, how i met your mother, twin peaks, and orange marmalade 

45. tattoos - nope

46. right or left handed -  right handed

47. ever had surgery - yes, 3 times :)

48. piercings - nope

49. sport - oof i stopped doing sports after middle school. i do like to watch soccer and the olympics

50. vacation - i leave for coloRADo on tuesday 

51. trainers - puma, nike, and saucony

more general

52. eating - nothing

53. drinking - nothing

54. i’m about to watch - youtube

55. waiting for - my melatonin to kick in

56. want - to get into my top choice for college & for everyone to be happy and content

57. get married - oh ;) well a buzzfeed quiz told me i’m getting married this year soo... lol jk maybe in the future after college

58. career - ...i’m not entirely sure yet. i think i’d like to do something where i’m traveling across the world a lot!

which is better

59. hugs or kisses - hugs

60. lips or eyes - eyes

61. shorter or taller - taller

62. older or younger - older

63. nice arms or stomach - idk

64. hookup or relationship - relationship

65. troublemaker or hesitant - both

have you ever

66. kissed a stranger - i don’t think so

67. drank hard a liquor - i tried a couple once (they were rlly gross)

68. lost glasses - i lost a pair of sunglasses

69. turned someone down - yeah

70. sex on first date - no

71. broken someone’s heart - i hope not

72. had you heart broken - yeah

73. been arrested - not yet ;) lol jk definitely not

74. cry when someone died - no

75. fallen for a friend - yeah

do you believe in

76. yourself - nope lol

77. miracles - i think so

78. love at first sight - idk

79. santa claus - no

80. kiss on a first date - if you wanna

81. angels - idk

other

82. best friend’s name - kate (aka telemachus, my son, and mercutio) 

83. eye colour - hazel/green with some blue

84. favorite movie - my neighbor totoro, clueless, ponyo, and a quiet place

85. favorite actor - idk... maybe gal gadot

i’ll tag @calicocatcaughtinalie @autumnal-dawn @bhabhes @laxiq @6jork @momos-mochi @full5un @n1chijou @cafechai @cafepjm @01pil @mujitea @fe1icity @hanisgf & @flowertrail-s (you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to!)

[agent-7-at-your-service]

Future Plot: Project Prometheus - Chapter 12

(( Sandra (Not in this Chapter), Telemachus and Justinian (not in this chapter) belong to me

Camille, Janine, Lee, Depiction of Callie, Pacling, and Malina belong to @inklingleesquidly

Nebula (not in this chapter) and Wish belong to @myzzy and @agenttwo  

Myzzy belongs to @myzzy

Mysteeri (not in this chapter) belongs to @dreadangel

Designs of Marina and Wish belong to @teamuntyblue

Emerald and Sapphire belong to @twelvetailedkitsune and @son-of-joy

Celeste (not in this chapter) belong to @alpinesquid

Arsenic (not in this chapter) belongs to @a-demo-of-a-hero  ))

The five scouts surrounding Camille and Janine, the flagbearer planted the Squidforce banner to the ground. They were all in a unique samurai armor like the special outfits gifted to turf war players. However, these kinds of armor were modified to look more closely to the original armors from history.

One of them removed their mask and helmet to reveal themselves: It was Myzzy.

"Uncle Myzzy?" Camille recognized.

Myzzy didn't respond, looking shocked, mostly at Camille's missing right arm and Janine now-young appearance.

The young Janine, at first, had her .96 Gals ready for a fight. When Myzzy shows his face, Janine had the guns down.

"Uhhhh... Uncle, Myzzy?" Camille raised an eyebrow in confusion.

Myzzy ordered his scouting party for a trip back to the ruins of what was once Inkopolis. This time, he's taking Camille and Janine there. Myzzy didn't say a word to the two, but a conversation between him and a scout mentioned Camille but with a title, "The Heretic".

On the way there, they passed by flooded basins that were once Octarian homes, and Octo Valley and Octo Canyon were two of those basins. Janine now wonders what happened to the inhabitants there.

When they reached the ruins of Inkopolis, inklings, octarians, and all other sea-life are now dwelling in settlements made of tents, cottages, and burrows. They appeared to be in deep poverty, depending on hunting, gathering, and farming to sustain them. The ruins were being swallowed by nature. The Inkopolis culture that Camille and Janine knew was nearly forgotten like the culture of Human Civilization.

"The world changed when you were gone," Myzzy began, "a god named Moros came and threw Inkopolis and it's neighboring civilizations into the bronze age. Nearly all our technology has been turned useless by his will. He then said something about you and held us responsible for carrying the world's defiers of destiny. Then he disappeared in a flash, and after that, people went missing, new people arrived on our shores, our city was left in ruin, and memories were fabricated or replaced."

Camille now worried about her baby brother, Pacling. Janine was worried as well, but she gestures Camille to have patience.

As they enter a settlement near a familiar Inkopolis Plaza, there were a few familiar faces from Camille's home of Shee-Booyah. They were dressed in kimonos and what was left of the old Inkling Fashion. There were other faces, she cannot recognize, and they were dressed in tunics and Greek armor.

Myzzy stopped the scouting party, and they dispersed. Myzzy escorted Camille and Janine alone towards Inkopolis Tower -- or at least what's left. The sliding door had to be open manually by two jellyfishes.

"And that Moros guy did leave us something a stained glass window and a plaque," Myzzy continued.

Inside, it was like a mix between a cathedral and a treasure vault. Every relic of Inkopolis' History and the Octarian's History are stashed here along with other treasures. The room was lit with fire and its walls painted with ink.

And at the end of the room was a large stained glass window. The small rims showed scenes of most of Camille's Journey from fighting the Titans and Typhon to traveling the Mediterranean. The rest of the window that's taken up depicted Camille in her Olympian form. This depiction of Camille had owl wing sprouting from her back, a missing right arm with the Taurus constellation show over it instead, herbal flowers covering her eyes, tears coming down her cheeks, and an olive tree standing behind her.

A pedestal with a plaque was in front of this window with the words: "The Profane Heretic of Athens".

"Uncle Myzzy, thank you for the explanation, but what about Pacling?" Camille asked. "I thought you were taking care of him while I was gone."

"Oh, Pacling, well.....," Myzzy sounded nervous at first, but then decided to show Camille and Janine. "You two might want to see this."

When they return to the door, the door opened for two familiar faces. Lee and Callie were right in front of Camille's and Janine's eyes. Pacling can be seen being held in Callie's arms. Myzzy scratched the back of his head sheepishly. Lee recognized the young Janine, and he looked as if he wanted to ask. Callie was surprised that Janine looks so young now.

Janine felt relieved that her son and daughter-in-law were alive, despite what Moros said. Camille accepted that her parents were dead because of Moros, and seeing them alive and well made her shed tears of joy. She just wanted to hug them immediately in which she did.

"Mommy! Daddy!" Camille runs up to them and embraced her father.

Lee pats her back. "It's good to have you back, dear."

"No, it's good to have you back, it felt like forever," Camille corrected.

"Camille! Your arm!" Callie noticed.

"Yeah... Moros did that..." Camille didn't mind her mother's worry. She sort of missed that.

"Yummy!" Pacling commented.

Camille lets go. "But how...?"

"He sent us back here, saying he threw you back here" Lee explained, "But this world is not the same."

"I see." Camille looked down, wondering about her friends, Malina and Wish, and then Pyrrhus.

"Come on, how about we have dinner at your place?" Myzzy offered. "The last time I checked, it has changed."

There was a lot of stories they had to share, but most of it was already shared through dreams. And despite Janine now being young, the Squidlys can at least be a family again at this moment. Camille and Janine, though, knew that there's still so much Moros did to the world that they must undo. And if Lee and Callie are still alive, Camille's friends could still be alive somehow. Nebula, Emerald, Sapphire, Celeste, Justinian, Arsenic, they must be alive. Mysteeri and Pyrrhus must be still out there in this new world, and Sandra is in the hands of Moros. All they need to do is find them.

That night, the Squidly return to their apartment in Shee-Booyah which has been surprisingly left unchanged. The young Janine had to break it to Lee and Callie.

"You're joking?" Lee felt somewhat nervous.

"Grandma Janine is right," Camille supported, "It's not over. We have to make things right."

"But we don't want to lose you..." Callie then pointed out the arm. "Look what that Moros god did to your arm! You're like your father!"

"Oh come on, you know I don't believe..." Camille looked at her father and noticed him rub his right arm. "... I mean... this is different."

Janine looked to Myzzy. "How much of the world has changed geographically?"

"Well... Some of the continents are gone." Myzzy took out a map and spread it in the center of the table for everyone to see. He then pointed to an island on the far right name Elpis. "This is where we are right now."

Callie and Lee were shown this map earlier. Callie and Janine were quite surprised, but Camille's look after seeing the map is what worried Callie and Lee. Camille knows where to head first for the continuation of their journey.

"We'll have to get off this island somehow," Camille stated, "Do we have boats?"

Myzzy shook his head. "No, but there is a long boat the comes by like every noon to drop off exiles."

"Then we'll seize it and commander it," Janine planned.

"We need more people then." Myzzy liked to help them in any way. "You'll need a crew to help sail it. Maybe no more than six will do?"

"Uhhh, Mom, don't you think you and Camille shouldn't be doing this?" Lee mumbled.

"Lee, look at me? I'm 14 years old, I feel like the Freshest Inkling of the Decade again." The young Janine gave a twirl. "And I made an oath to watch over Camille and help her."

Lee gave a moment to think this over, he looked at Callie. Callie wasn't sure about this. Lee sighed and shook his head.

"I think your mother and I need a bit more time to think about this," Lee replied, "When we were in that dream realm, it was fun, but I think that was enough."

"...Alright." Camille nods.

Camille tried returning to Morpheus' dream realm as she slept, and she was able to wake up and find herself in a tent. Lee and Callie can be seen asleep in this realm. Camille got up and quickly exited the tent.

Prometheus can be seen sitting on a log near a campfire. Cedalion and the flying squirrel Icarus were there, having roasted snacks. Camille approached him carefully.

"Ah! Miss Penthesilea is awake!" Cedalion welcomed.

Prometheus turned his head to look at Camille. Icarus wanted to go up to Camille and sit on her shoulder, but Prometheus urged not to with a simple halt gesture.

"I was able to find you and your horse when you fled the Caravan," Prometheus stated, "And I sensed a change outside this dream realm."

Prometheus knew what Camille has done.

Janine was able to wake up in the dream realm as well and join Camille. Prometheus look disappointed in both of the inklings. He held his orb of flames close.

"I warned you," Prometheus stated, "You've clearly disobeyed any warning telling you not to go straight to Moros, and it has to lead to drastic consequences as I expected."

Camille just looks down. She didn't show any sign of despair of grief from what has happened. Prometheus can see that and he sighs.

"Well then, I believe you have some idea to make things right," Prometheus assumed.

"Are Telemachus, Emerald, and Sapphire still around?" Camille asked.

Prometheus gave a nod which gave some relief to Camille, and that meant a lot of things. There was chance her friends are alive.

"They've just finished a trial for you here in Troy and were out celebrating," Prometheus explained, "They're currently asleep, but they were behaving differently as if their memories were twisted."

"That's not good," Janine commented.

"For now we play along during the trials." Prometheus looks into the campfire. "Aeacus, Rhadamanthus, and Minos have scheduled all the zodiac constellations to align towards the road to Mount Olympus. They're counting the next 11 trials to be more of practice."

"Then we got work to do," Camille replied.

[in-the-bookish-dark]

Light of Day - Chapter 1 - RL

The morning was wet.  It wasn't humid or muggy. Just plain wet. Everything was wet. The rains had swept through town the night before at ten and two, but since then, no water had fallen. It just hung heavy in the air and gave every surface in the house a misting of earth sweat.

Miles padded through the house.  Derek, transient houseguest, was gone. Windows were open. Kids were down the street, already squealing.  They always played tag between the cars on either side of the block.  In the mornings, it was okay.  Then, when things got busy, lunchtime or after, they'd find a back yard to congregate in.  Fun was fun, but getting run over was not.  Ten or twelve years ago, he'd have been out there with them. Right now, he'd give his right hand, or part of it, to be out there playing in the new day.  New day or old day, just a different fucking day.

He went through the motions with the coffee.  Muscle memory, they called it.  He sat at the dinette and shook out a cigarette as the percolator started to rumble.  At the first drag, he wanted a shot of Jack, but he'd start with coffee.

When he came in the day before, the letter was buried between two magazines and grocery store flyers in the mailbox.  He'd done the physical a month ago. Clean bill. Son of a bitch.  He didn't have to read this letter to know what it said.  He did anyway. He needed to know his drop-dead date.

He mentioned it over dinner - Chelsea had come over and made spaghetti.  He drank most of the Riunite and two beers.  It was right at the end of the second beer. They cleaned the table. She had questions and a deer in the headlights look. He said he was tired. Then he ushered her out by picking a small fight and poking and prodding until the room and the house were too small for more than him. They'd talked about her moving in, but they still both liked to have some space.  He sat on his front porch and smoked two joints and drank the rest of the sixer.  He didn't care who smelled the bud that night.

Maybe he'd call her this morning, after he had some cleansing coffee. Maybe he's walk 'round to her place. When he poured his coffee, he went ahead and poured a shot. Why wait? He threw it back and poured another. Why wait? Time's burning. The Jack burned going down and he liked it.  He needed something burning inside at that moment.  Everything was burning, and he wanted to feel it inside like he felt it outside.

They did the draft lottery in December. His number came up in the first half hour. His birthday was July 9th, so his number was 1. Couldn't be much more in the crosshairs than that. Can't even pretend to hope. It burned going through his mind.  He didn't hear anything after the number showed on the tv, just helicopters.  Waves - no, fleets - of helicopters, slicing through the humidity of Vietnam.  What felt like their rotors pounding the air, though was his heart trying to escape his chest.  Chels was with him that night. She asked what was wrong.  He took a while before he said "Nothing."  It was a big nothing growing in the pit of his stomach. He remembered Polyphemus and Odysseus.  "Who is killing you, Polyphemus?"  "Nobody. Nobody is killing me." Then shut the fuck up, they probably said.  He did soon enough, and then he was silent for all ages.

Odysseus pretended to be mad in order to get out of war.  It didn't work.  They put a baby - his son - in front of the plow, in front of the plow he was turning the field with, dressed as a woman. If he was really mad, which they knew he wasn't, he'd have plowed on through Telemachus, on through his legacy. He stopped, though, then accepted his fate and went off to death and Troy.

Dressing as a woman, (was Odysseus actually the world's first cross-dresser?), wasn't going to get him anywhere.  It had been done.  Done to death. Canada?  It was 1000 miles up the Mississippi and then some.  A hell of a trek to a place where he knew nobody.  Did he know anyone in the movement ... surely someone ... but nobody came to mind.  He sympathized - sympathized like crazy, but music kept him busy.  Maybe Kyle or Kenny knew someone.  Practice was at two and their gig at nine.  Maybe they knew someone.  He'd see. And maybe he'd ask someone.  It seemed right but maybe it was someone else, like Achilles or someone. But that was back in Dec., even before the order for physicals came in.

His coffee cooled when he stared toward the window.  Not at the window or out of it, just roughly that general direction.  He padded back into the living room and grabbed some vinyl.  "In a Silent Way" by his namesake.  He sprayed and wiped and blew little flecks of lint off the disk before cueing it up.  Mademoiselle Mabry started up as he sat down.

There was a smear of vinyl cleaner on his fingertip and he flicked it off before reaching for another cigarette.

He looked and rubbed the tip, spreading the little bit of moisture that was left.  His finger.  His cousin Greg had found his own answer.  Two weeks before he was supposed to do his physical, he managed to get his index and middle finger yanked off at the second knuckle at the [steel mill.]  He was always careful, except the one time when he wasn't.  Without both fingers, there was a lot he couldn't do, including things like filling out forms, firing machine guns, throwing grenades, and whatever else fit the job description of a grunt in 'Nam.

He rubbed slowly around the finger tip, imagining its absence.  There he was at Cafe du Monde, dipping his beignets left-handed. Or he was claw-lifting them with his right.  Pool.  He could still handle his stick with those fingers gone.  Grip the stick tighter.  Maybe that angle would even be better. It could start a trend. Everyone would start lifting their fingers off the stick just so they could play like him.  Albums. Could he get them out of the sleeve with "the claw?" Could he cup Chel's face with his hands the way she likes with the claw?  Down at the rec center, could he play pickup b-ball with the claw? Where would his control go?  Two fingers isn't a lot when it comes to a basketball. Four fingers weren't that much to start with.  But he'd be playing ball at home, and not on some muddy clearing outside Saigon or wherever the hell they would send him. No b-ball deep in the jungle where Charlie is waiting around to shoot it - and you - out of the air in the middle of your jump shot. Two finger b-ball is always better than dead.

He picked up the spoon for his coffee.  Rolled it finger-to-finger with his left hand.  Dropped it six times. Didn't even try it with his right.  Couldn't imagine how. So maybe he's stop putting cream in his fucking coffee. If I can take a finger or two off, I can drink my damn coffee black. He went back to staring toward the window.  He drummed those two fingers on the table.  Might be his last chance, better take it.

Maybe two other fingers.  Left hand?  Nah. He'd be double screwed. Lamed up and still in 'Nam.  What do they care about your left hand if you're a rightie?  Ring and pinkie?  Still useless.

He called his mom, then he called his dad.  They both didn't know what to say. Literally. "I don't know what to say, it's ..." his mom said.  "I don't know what you want me to say ..." came from his father.

After he finished the calls, he sat on the couch.  Then he laid on the couch.  Then he methodically spooled his phone cord in one hand, until it was snug between wall and phone.  He tugged both ends, then he yanked the cord from the biscuit jack on the wall in one clean jerk.  His elbow nudged the casement window open and he flung the phone out into the yard, as far as he could.

At La Casa, forty-five minutes later, he was already on his third boilermaker.  Maybe he should pace himself. Maybe he didn't care because in less than three weeks, he was going downtown to the induction center.  He got another shot.  Still working on the second beer, but then he was already ahead of the game.  Whatever the game was.  A shadow came in through the Decatur side door, and walked up behind him.

"Hey, Miles,  what's the haps?" It had to be Carl, from the old band. The rasp and Irish Channel accent was unmistakable.  He and Chelsea grew up together.

"Hey, Carl, where y'at?"

"So?"

He shrugged. 'So ' what??

"Talked to Chelsea."

"Jesus.  And?"

"What's goin' on, man?"

"I got mail yesterday."

"From?"

"Uncle Sam."

"Shit, man."

"Yeah. Order to report."

"When?"

"The 23rd."

"Whatcha gonna do?"

"Exactly."

"No, I mean, really, what are you gonna do?"

"Man, I don't fucking know."

Neither of them said anything.

Carl glanced at the setup.  He flagged the bartender and waved two fingers at their glasses and bottles.

"Thanks, man."

"Hey, least I can do."

"So, what's going on with Chelsea?"

"Nothing, man, I just wasn't in a mood.  If we started on it as soon as I got the letter, she'd freak, and then we'd go around and around, and I just wasn't going to deal with it then.  I don't have an answer; how the fuck am I supposed to give her an answer."

"Answer about what?"

"About ... how I felt, what I was going to do, what about us, shit like that.  I wasn't thinking. I was just falling down this long, dark hole, man.  I don't think I've still hit bottom.  When I was first on the draw, I knew my number was up - literally.  Then I got the physical exam letter a month ago, and I knew they didn't find shit that was going to save me.  I'm not an athlete, but I'm healthy."

'Well, listen, guy, Amy has a connection to Canada ~'

'Canada.' Heavy. Not interested. Dropping it on the floor.

'Hang on, buddy.'

Carl walked off. Miles sat there, rocking his empty shot glass back and forth. After a while or two or three, Carl came back.

'Uppers, man.'

'What?'

'Take a bunch of uppers the day before your physical, and then one the day of, and your blood pressure will be off the charts.  They won't take you for that. Maria ~' he shrugged back where he'd come from ' ~ she can hook you up good, compadre.'

Miles flicked the shot glass.  It slid across the bar and hung over the edge before dropping.  There was no crash, so it must've landed on something. 'Goddamit, Carl, I already took the fucking physical. How the hell does that help me?'

'Oh yeah, shit, man. I'm sorry.  Little high.  Good fucking buzz, actually. I forgot.'

Miles tried to rub away the tension in his skull, but it wasn't going anywhere.

'Anyway, man ' hey, let's get together before you have to go in.  Get totally wasted and strung out. My tab.  Least I can do.'  Carl slapped his shoulder, then wandered.  Somewhere.  Miles didn't see.

He finished his drink.  He finished the drink Carl left behind.  He waved for another shot and threw it back, then paid out.

Chelsea was waiting on the front step when he got to the house. She had a beer beside her, sweating on the concrete, and her cigarettes, untouched, as well.

He sat back to back with her. "Hey."

"Yeah?"

"We can talk. I just couldn't do it then."

She picked at a single thread sticking up from the knee of her jeans.  "Yeah, well ..."

"I'm sorry."

She nodded.  He put out his hand and she took it. She reached across her body for her beer and took a long draw.

"Want to go inside?"

He wanted one of her cigarettes.  He reached, but then stopped.  "Yeah, hey - how about I cook tonight?"

"In a bit."

She walked him into the shotgun house; walked him straight back to the bedroom.  She held him and he held her.  They didn't manage sex.  The alcohol and the draft board saw to that.  They did have spaghetti again, his way, with wine in the sauce and big chunks of meat.  Almost meatballs, but smaller and ragged, and no breading or seasoning.

She got up in the middle of the night and found him by himself in the living room.  He was passed out, a dry bottle of vodka next to him.  His index and middle fingers were folded down and taped together.  Layers and layers of masking tape.  She turned off the snowy tv and threw her grandma's quilt over him and went back to the bedroom.

When she got up the next morning, long after dawn, he'd been up for a while.  A corner of the quilt was soaking in the sink.  He was at the dinette.  "I, uh, threw up a little.  Cleaned it up, but some got on it.  I'll hang it out in a bit."

She nodded and took a cigarette from the pack on the table. His were stronger and they burned, but she didn't care just then.  She took his mug of coffee and pointed him to the cabinets.  The steam told her it was fresh.

He poured a new one for himself and sat across from her.  She remembered and looked at his hand.  No tape, but some redness from where it was yanked off.

"What were you doing with the tape?"

"Nothing.  I was just drunk and wanted to see what it would be like."

"Kinda odd."

He shrugged. "Drunk guys do odd fucking things, Chels."

"What do you th~"

"I don't fucking know."  He stood and walked to the sink. "Honestly, Chels - I don't know.  I'm not trying to be an asshole. I don't know what to say yet, don't know what to do."

She blew out smoke and fiddled with the lighter. "I'll finish up the quilt."

"Nah, I got it, babe.  Hey, let's get dressed and go down to the park.  We'll grab po-boys and watch the kids on the flying horses."

She nodded.  He squeezed the excess water out of the quilt corner, then smoothed it.  The screen door banged behind him, taking it out to the line.

They got out there on the streetcar just as the lunch wagon rolled in. Miles went over to get the po-boys. Chelsea found a Magnolia with a grassy patch underneath.  The breeze was soft but refreshing.  They couldn't see the carousel from there, but they could hear it when the wind shifted.  It was the most relaxing thing they'd done in days.  She gathered their sandwich trash.  He reached into the bag for two Hubig's pies.  Cherry and lemon.  She took lemon.  He finished the cherry in half the time she spent on hers, but it was all good.

By the flying horses, there was a Coke machine.  Coke for him and Tab for her.  He folded up the pull tabs and stuck them in the coin pocket of his jeans til they found a trash can.  They leaned on the rail around the carousel and watched the squealing kids.  Their cans sweated and dripped down. A little cluster of droplets formed under hers.  His drips were all over the place.

It really was the best afternoon. They had laughing kids in front of them, surrounded by wide greens, greens without snipers or tripwires or landmines or flamethrowers, and somehow, he managed not to think of them.  Southeast Asia was somewhere on the far side of Mars.

There was a bench nearby, close, but not right on the main paths.  She kissed him and he kissed back.  Her hand rested on his thigh; he glanced around, then slid one hand up her shirt to her bra-less tit.  His hand was still cold from the Coke can.  She jumped, but didn't complain.

Back at the house, they again went straight back to the bedroom.  Windows were open, but windows didn't matter.  She laid him back and straddled him, riding him face-to-face.  His wood was weak, but it firmed up inside her.  She rocked until his hardness filled her, then leaned down and let him thrust.  She had little bruises on her thighs the next morning, but it didn't matter.  They rode together, and her tits dragged back and forth over his chest.  She panicked a little when he came - they hadn't stopped for a rubber - but she was too close herself to think too hard.  She douched after, though, as he laid, catching his breath.  Don't take too much of a risk.  Nine months on, he was going to be in the jungles or worse.  They hadn't talked marriage before, and she wasn't going to talk it now.  She also wasn't going to be a single mother.  If the douche didn't take care of things, there were other ways.

They skipped dinner and had popcorn and beer in bed.  The little tv set wavered and wobbled, but they saw most of the Saturday night line-up.

Around 2am, storms woke them.  He rolled her over, again without preamble, and glided deep into her.  She was wet from his cum and wet from the douche.  Lightning snapped around them. Thunder shook the windows.  Winds slapped the blinds back and forth.  All the rage outside was inside, too.  This was a fuck.  His cock pounded in; her ankles met behind his ass.  He reached a hand behind her neck and pulled her up to him.  Every thrust, he grunted; every thrust, she gasped.  The angle worked for her, and she came and came.  Hard orgasms from far inside, like they'd been waiting for a dark summoning.  They liked it a little rough sometimes, and they'd cum with fireworks and cannons.  She came hard like that.  Angry orgasms.  She fucked back against him as hard as he fucked down into her.  She would hold him there and fight to keep him home inside of her.  He fucked like he never planned to leave, or planned never to leave.  She couldn't cum anymore. She just shuddered around and under him.  She keened and clutched and scratched.  Her nails sank in and Miles himself went over the edge.  The last thrust, he didn't want to stop there.  He wanted his whole fucking body inside her cunt, swallowed up by her.  He squirmed, like that would help, but in twenty seconds, it was all over.  His cock was still hard, but it was the only muscle with any strength.  He sagged down on her, and they both wept, then faded out.

He woke and he was face down, naked, and alone.  His cock was slimy and sticky, but alone.  She was in the bathroom, running water for minutes on end, then going into the kitchen.  She came back and shut the door again.  The water came back on.  He drifted in and out, but noticed when the water cut off again.  The light under the door flickered like she was walking back and forth. He drifted in and out more.  By the time he got his head around checking on her, she snapped the light off and came out.  Chels sat on the bed and ran her fingers through his damp hair, then walked out.  His first thought was she was walking home at 4am.  He was about to roust himself to stop her.  He heard the chain on the door and the couch creak, and knew she wasn't going anywhere.

In the morning, he made coffee. He poured mugs for both and set hers on the coffee table.  Close enough to reach from the couch, but not so close she'd knock it over.  He drank his on the way to the corner for a paper.

He got the paper and kept walking, wondering about the night.  He'd cum in her twice without protection. Did it mean something more than convenience?  Chels was good about keeping condoms on hand for them.  His place, her place, her purse, just in case.  Didn't even bother last night.  She was always in charge of protection, the condom cop.  Just was.  Except last night.  He didn't know what it meant. Something? Nothing?

When he came in, the couch was empty.  She called from the kitchen "Hey!"

He went in and she was scrubbing down the countertop.  The stove shined as much as that old shitpile would shine.  This confused him more.  Was she nesting or working off tension?

"Hey, Chels."

"... hey."

This was fucking reading tea leaf time.  She only half-glanced at him.

He walked up behind her.  His hand landed on her shoulder. She kept scrubbing.  Not scrubbing harder. Not scrubbing any less. Not leaning back, and not trying to escape.  Just not engaging.  He stepped back and she slowed.  Two strands of hair had escaped her cleaning scarf, and she brushed them back.

"I've been thinking ... Miles ..."

"Yeah, Chels?"

" ... I don't know."

"About?"

" ... I don't even know that."

He touched her one more time on the shoulder. Light touch. Lighter even than before, and just for a second.  He walked toward the dinette, then changed his mind.  He yanked hard on the paper towel roll and eight or ten spooled off.  He ran them under the tap and smeared the water around the front of the fridge, avoiding anything that was taped or clipped to it. The wad of paper dripped water down the fridge to the floor.

She glanced over.  "Goddammit, Miles ..."

He froze.  Yeah. He couldn't - or wouldn't - clean for shit. Bad time to remind her.

He stepped back and they stood stock still for a moment.

She slapped her rag down on the counter.  "Here comes the shit storm" he thought.  One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four M~ ... and she hugged his side. She kissed his shoulder.  She said, "It's okay, babe. I got this. You go do something." She pointed outside, so he went outside.

He sat on the stump of the old Magnolia that had snapped apart six years ago when Betsy blew through.  He was surrounded by dandelions a foot high, and those nasty, milkweed kind of weeds even higher, so that's what he did.  Probably snapped off more than he yanked out of the soft soil, but it was something, maybe.

He fucked around, making a mess, for about half an hour. After that, he got shame, and he got serious.  Instead of throwing them around the yard, he stacked the weeds.  Instead of yanking, he dug with the fingers he while he had, and pulled them by the root.  Thirty more minutes and he was rolling a joint from the stash in the roof of the shed.  At least he'd done something, though.  He tapped on the kitchen window and she glanced over.  Ten seconds later, they were sharing the joint.  She was leaning in to him.  They were pulling down the beers she'd brought out and taking their time on the doob.  Their little time machine where everything stops. That Twilight Zone episode with the guy and the stop watch.  They had their own.

Their eyelids got heavy.  They rocked back and forth. He sang "Brown Eyed Girl" to her, or what he could remember.  They went to the bedroom and rocked against each other.  The condoms never left the drawer again, and the afternoon passed before either of them stirred.

He heated up leftover spaghetti in foil in the stove and she douched again.  Twice. Salt and vinegar, until it burned.  They sat on the stoop with paper plates and ate dried out spaghetti, with burn-brown ends, and watched kids ride by on their bikes in the twilight.

The next morning, he had to do something.  He didn't know what, but he couldn't sit still.  It could be the wrong thing, as long as it was something.  Between 5 and when he got up at 6, he rolled in and out of dreams.  Asians in black pajamas chasing him through the Garden District and into the Quarter.  The Greek sailors at the Acropolis bought him glasses of Ouzo, then tried to shove him into a tiger trap with big, sharpened bamboo stakes.  He took one through the thigh, but still managed to run down Dauphine to Bourbon, then around to the Old Absinthe House.  They poured a schooner of green liquid and told him he'd be fine - and that he'd be better off without any of his fingers, and when he looked down, his right arm was a stump ending just below his wrist.  He crossed the levee and jumped into the Mississippi.  When he came up, he was surrounded by screaming GI's in rat cages half-under the water.

He flung himself out of bed; every inch of him, pooled in sweat.  Chelsea didn't stir.  He wanted to scream her awake, but what good would that do?  He just needed someone to hear him.  The phone was still fucked, and laying in the yard.  He could go to [pirate place?].  They were always open to people they knew.  A drink would help. Two, three drinks would help. Maybe.  They were down to four joints, but he took one from the house stash and slipped out the front screen door.  He left the front door barely latched, so she wouldn't hear.

Jerry pegged him as soon as he walked in. "What the fuck, man?  Are you on acid?"

Miles explained the past three days, jittering as he did so.  Jerry poured him a big glass of something brown.  "On the house, dude."

Miles fired up and they passed the doob back and forth until it was too small even for a roach clip.

"What are my options, man?"

"You could fake going nuts, man, but there's a price.  You could claim you were a fag, also a price.  You could run off to Canada~"

"No. Ain't going anywhere."  Funny, the option with the least price was the one he ruled out immediately.  But there was a price.  It was the fact that it didn't cost him anything.  He might not want to fight or die, but he didn't want to run, either.  He'd take the consequences, but the one consequence he couldn't take was nothing."

"Conscientious objector?" Jerry said it, then shook his head.

"Yeah. I'd still go.  I just wouldn't get to shoot back.  That's assuming I convinced them of my 'longstanding beliefs' of the past two days."

Jerry nodded. "You could kill somebody, man."

They held their breaths.  The words filtered down out of the air.  When they were on the floor, still and safe, they went on.

"I ever tell you about my cousin? Greg?"

"Pineda?  Down at the garage?"

"One and only.  He got his letter a year and a half ago."  He held up a hand, two fingers folded down.

"Shit. So that's what happened to them ...?"

Miles nodded.

"I actually thought it was an accident."

"Maybe it was on purpose, maybe not. He had fucking great timing, though. Day after he got his letter to report for physicals, bam!  He still had the stitches in when he reported.  Doc didn't even want to look under his bandages.  Checked a couple of boxes and told him to put his fucking pants back on and go home."

Jerry nodded.  A moment later, Miles' glass was full again.  He reached for his wallet.  Jerry waved for him to put it away, eyes out the window, squinting at the sun that wasn't there yet.  The next joint was Jerry's. Big fat blunt. Twice as big as the one Miles shared.  By 8am, Miles was toasted.  Jerry moved him to a booth and brought a bag of Fritos for him to munch on.  Around 1, he walked home.

The day was as wasted as he was.

Next day, he had to have a plan.  Getting fried was no plan.  The clock was running, and in another seventeen days, his ass would be on its way to wherever the fuck they do basic, and then he'd be hopping through the jungle with a target on his head.

Chelsea was off at work by the time he woke up at 7.  The bakery started at 4 and she would get in at 5, and run solid to 5 that afternoon.  He was off til tomorrow, and had promised to clean up more shit in the yard. That's what she said.  Banquet TV dinners on trays in the living room last night, which he fell asleep on.  Salisbury steak and potatoes spilled all over the floor.  "Can you at least do something with the yard tomorrow?"  She went to bed.  Around 2 he woke up enough to clean up his mess.  He crashed on the couch.

The big Bradford pear in the back, past the magnolia stump, near the sagging back fence, needed trimming.  The branches dragged toward the ground. When the wind blew, the pears skittered and thunked along the ground. Some were already falling off and rotting. Chelsea hated walking around back there.  They had lawn chairs for sitting in the shade. "I might as well have to walk through a maze of dog crap, though."  She hated it.  They ended up sitting at the stump, in the sun, most of the time.

He dug the bow saw out of the shed.  He stared at the tree, not sure where to start.  Cut off the heavy parts at the end, the part with all the pears?  That didn't seem right.  Maybe the ones that were way overloaded.  No, start back by the trunk, where the problem started.  He cut of a couple of middle size branches, long, but not too heavy.  That gave him confidence.  Next, he went for a branch half way out on a bigger one.  It had to have 50 pears of different sizes.  He held the baby branch and started sawing.  He was half way through when things twisted.  There was a little crack-crack and the whole branch rolled forward.  The saw blade was trapped. On the in-stroke, it jumped and grazed his thumb nail.

"Son of a bitch!"  He threw the saw down and jumped back.  The branch crackled more and sagged to the ground. It didn't break. Just hung.  He checked his thumb. There was a long gash, and a little glow of pink, turning to red, showing through. He picked up the saw and banged on the branch, hammering until the back of the bow was dented.

"Son of a bitch. Son of a bitch.  I coulda lost my thumb.  Son of a bitch."  Even as he said it, even as he was angry of the near miss, he was getting angry over the missed opportunity. A thumb was probably worth two fingers.  He should have taped his goddamn thumb down the other night.  What would that have been like?  What the fuck can you do without a thumb?  He picked the saw up again.  He swung it at the trunk like a hatchet. It bent in two and the blade popped out of its anchors and warbled across the yard.

Then he sat down in the grass and stared at the thumbnail. His eyes swept the thumb from the nail down to the joint and back up, again and again.  The saw was fucked, but ... maybe there was a way to salvage this without being obvious.  Maybe if he ... fuck. Wrong goddamn fucking thumb.  Shit. He almost lost a thumb and it would have been the wrong goddamn thumb. He was halfway through a plan to get it done anyway. It still would've been useless. He berated himself. "You cut off a thumb, you cut off the right one, fuckass.  Not the left.  The left won't get you off a fucking bowling team, much less off a plane to 'Nam." He picked up the saw blade and the bow.He flung them. They tumbled end over end as they swirled high in the air.  Two, maybe three houses away, he heard the clang.  Then a dog went crazy barking.  Someone's mutt must've got the piss scared out of him.  Good. Fuck him and fuck his owners.

He came in, washed the thumbnail in peroxide, then put on the smallest bandaid he could find.  It barely covered the nail, though the edges easily overlapped across his thumbprint.  On his way out, he thought about leaving a note for Chelsea, but he was in a mood for niceties for himself or for anyone else.

He took the streetcar back to the Quarter and drank all his cash away at La Casa.  His buddy Ivan walked him back to the house at 2am. Chelsea had come and gone long ago.  There was a plate of food in the sink, filled up with water. The peas and corn just floated in it. The meatloaf was soggy and gray by then, just a ring of oozed Ketchup . No note. No hello; no goodbye; no "kiss my ass."

It pissed him off. He hated it, but he knew he deserved it.

She didn't come by the next day and she didn't call. Not that she could, actually.  The phone and its cord was still sprawled across the lawn on the side of the house.  He laid on the couch most of the day, watching who knows what wobble across the screen.  There was Dialing for Dollars, random soap operas, a couple of news breaks with updates from 'Nam.  There were dozens of furniture store commercials.  Some guy named Crazy Larry who windmilled his arms as he talked and talked and talked.  He would've gotten his ass off the couch, but every time he seriously considered it, he decided he didn't give a tinker's fuck, so he settled back down, grabbed another warm beer out of the four six-packs in the crate on the floor, and relit the joint that kept going out on him.  Shadows came and shadows ran off to the east, and then abandoned him completely.

The door was open, a breeze blowing through the screen.  The only light in the house was the tv.  Saying something.  After the six o'clock news, [carol bernett] came on. He thought it was her, anyway.  People ran around in dumb-ass costumes.  Now and then the audience would laugh and applaud.  Now and then he would, too, though he was only vaguely aware of why.  A lot of it was probably no more than laughing because others were laughing.  He muttered to nobody but himself, "Dumb-ass ... yeah, laugh because they're laughing.  Why don't you get your ass on a fucking plane for Saigon just because everyone else is doing it? We'll see how fucking funny that turns out to be."

He closed his eyes and rolled that thought around in his head. Getting on a plane.  Getting off in whatever fucking base everybody lands in when they get sent to Vietnam.  Laughing and laughing about the horrible humor of it. Him. Vietnam. Wanting to survive.  Not just his body, but who he is.  Coming back intact.  How funny it is that he's thinking about avoiding 'Nam by becoming not intact. Maybe he'd mail his fingers Vietnam.   They'd be casualties.  They'd belong there, right?  He imagined.  Getting a box.  Packing it with excelsior.  Maybe straw.  Straw seemed more appropriate.  They could throw the whole goddamn thing into a field and let a water buffalo eat it.  Did he know anyone over there?  Someone he could send them to?  Someone who would do him a dark and disgusting favor?  "Hey, man, is it okay if I send you two of my fingers? Nah, it's just because I want you to throw them out somewhere.  Field, road, rice paddy, land mine, shove 'em up a VC ass for all I care.  Yeah, that's pretty much it. Huh? Yeah, I cut them off so I wouldn't have to go, so it only seemed fair that they go anyway. Right. Ok, my man, have a good day and come back safe. Love to your wife, if she hasn't left you."

That would go great. Oh yeah. He played it a couple of times in his head. Two or three or ten or more. Maybe not the whole thing, but the bones.  He savored it.  Wanted it right.  Do you say it pissed off or calm?  Do you say it all twisted up, or safely from behind the mask?  He mulled, wanting to come up with a version that didn't openly offend anyone, but would be clear.

He mulled, and when he opened his eyes, it was already morning.  Had he really mulled for six or eight hours?  From the light and shadows, it had to be easily 10am, which would mean that they whole night had passed as he moved each word, each thought, from one side to the others.

Chelsea came in at noon and he was still glazed, still red-eyed and in his own hash fog.  She came in and touched his forehead.  He stirred.  Another hour or so, and he'd have sat up on the couch.  He stayed down. She might be gone before he managed to prop himself up.  She walked through the house.  He could see into the kitchen, and a little way down the hall.  She touched things.  She ran her fingers across the back of her usual chair;  she looked out of the window she could count on seeing a bird's nest from.  Down the hall, she stopped and adjusted a picture of them riding the paddlewheel steamboat.  She swayed for a bit, like she could hear the calliope calling them aboard.  She walked on down to the bedroom.  He heard the bed squeak.  Minutes later, his eyes followed her up the hall. She disappeared in the other side of the kitchen, then came out again, and stood in the hall for a moment. She adjusted another picture.  Tapped the frame three times.  She glanced his direction.  He thought his hand went up in a wave.  He wasn't sure.  It probably didn't, though. After glancing his way, she picked her purse off the kitchen counter and walked back out the front door.

Two hours later, he was focused enough to realize he was hungry.  Thirty minutes later, he was sprawled over the kitchen table.  He had three of four hot dogs to go. A mountain of ruffles spread across the tabletop.  He scooped chips onto the hot dogs. He worked his way through them, barely propping himself up.

His pitcher full of iced tea was almost gone.  No glass, just the pitcher.  When everything on the table had been eaten or drunk, he leaned back.  Restless.  Now that he had energy and a slightly clearer head, he was restless.

He grabbed a hat from the table and headed back out to Finnegan's.  It was a cave in there, dark and wooded, and the a/c was powerful enough to store beef.  For locals, the dark and quiet were the biggest draws; for tourists, it was the cold.

Trish was tending bar.  He liked Trish.  She always had a smile for him.  She had on a loose tie-died halter top and a big fake sunflower in her hair.  She shimmied.  That was one of his favorite things about her, even better than the smile.  She looked over her wire rim, yellow lenses and said, "You look like shit."

She slid him a beer and he told her the whole story.  He wasn't trying to stare at her cleavage, but his head wasn't doing much of anything else.  It was heavy from four days of heavy drinking and smoking.  And he liked the view.

"Y'know, you have to be square with her, if you really care.  She just wants to know what's going on.  She's not expecting you to be Johnny Hero. She just wants you to be you.  That's what she signed up for."

He nodded and finished off his beer.

"Hey," she put her hand on his. It was warm, despite the icicles hanging off everything else.  "Y'all should come hang out with me and my old man tonight. My sister will be there. Rap, smoke some. It'll be good."

He went by Chelsea's.  He knocked and knocked, went from window to window. After ten minutes of no response, he saw her old lady neighbor out picking shit in her garden.  'Hey, Mrs., uhhh ~ have you seen Chels?  I mean, Miss Jackson?'  She wobbled up to one knee, grabbing air.  Her cane had fallen over.  He grabbed the cane and boosted her up.  The dirt on her hand was warm and soft.  The skin on her hand was cold and dry.  She dusted her hands, swaying a little without any anchor.  He thought about reaching over and taking her elbow or shoulder, but he was afraid.  His hand was still cold from touching her.  He imagined the cold spreading all the way down his arm to his chest.  Worse, he considered the possibility that he'd accidentally touch her breast.  He shuddered.  Just the thought chilled him.  'Uh ''

Her eyes snapped to him.  She took the cane and inspected it, as if he might have tampered with it. Only then did she put her weight on it. 'She's gone, cher. Didn't say where. I didn't ask, me.'

He looked back at Chelsea's house, like it had more clues. 'Did you notice anyone with her, ma'am?'

'They was ' hmm ' no, that was the other day.' She eyed him up and down. Her glasses slipped down her nose, following a drop of sweat that just hung at the tip. She smelled of Ben Gay and chewing tobacco. Maybe a little like his grandmother and her perfume, L'air du Temps.  'Might-a been you, young man.  That other day, I mean.  No, they wasn't anyone with her.'  She patted his arm and wobbled away.

She stopped at her back door, hand on the screen door.  'Do you know anything about water bugs?'  He shook his head.  'It's hot out here.'  She shook her head and disappeared through the door.  He picked up her basket, half full of something that looked like squash, and dropped it on her back door.  She was right. It was hot out there.  Hot out everywhere.

He went by Chelsea's mom's house.  Barbara didn't even open the screen door.  That was fine. He didn't need to go inside with her and her tits down around her knees. "She's not here. Ain't seen her since day before yesterday." He started to ask another question, but the words didn't make it through the screen before she shut the door.  "Damn bitch stinks of rum.'  He kicked the screen door.  It rattled in its frame.  It wasn't satisfying. What was the point in breaking something that was already broken?

She never liked him.  She always compared him to Chelsea's last boyfriend who was a football player.  Unfortunately, he was also a dirtbag who almost got her arrested by hiding three lids of pot in her purse. They'd been at some party in Algiers and the cops stopped them just this side of the Connection for speeding and not maintaining a lane.  Fortunately, the cops got another call before they got a good whiff of the pot they'd already smoked at the party, or the fifth of whiskey on his breath.  He laughed as they drove off, then fished the bag back out of her purse.  The next morning, after she'd sobered up, she dumped him.  Barbara didn't care, though.  She was always talking about how Roger could have gotten an NFL contract with the right woman supporting him.  Chelsea was supposed to be the right woman.  More to the point, Barbara was supposed to be the right mother-in-law.  That was her whole thing.

He stopped by Anna Marie's apartment.  No dice there, either.  At least Anna Marie liked him. sometimes, she even flirted just a bit, and just for fun, not with any intent to go further.  But she hadn't seen her best friend in over a week. Hadn't talked to her since yesterday.

That was it.  He knew she wasn't at work. The two people who always had an idea where she was, had no clue.  He wasn't going to try to track her down house-to-house among half a million people.

He stopped at a random place in the Irish channel and had two beers, killing time until he was about ready to go to Trish's place.  He checked the piece of paper he had scribbled the address on.

When he got there, a double shotgun out along Magazine, there must've already been about a hundred people there.  That was good.  He wanted a party.  He wanted to get outside of his head for a while, but he also wanted to get lost.  He worked his way past the two flimsy grills in the front yard. They were loaded down with enough hot dogs and burgers, they should have collapsed.  The beer had to be in the back yard.  He brushed past Trish's old man, but the dude didn't recognize him. The guy's eyes were red and watery.  Miles was a little surprised the man was even standing.  He made his way down a little sidewalk, between groups of couples who were making out against the fence.  There wasn't any fucking ' yet ' but there were lots of hands already in clothes.  At one of these parties, by the end of the night, you were either totally wasted, or if you were lucky, you were fucked and wasted.

That made him a little annoyed that Chelsea wasn't there, but he got over it quick.  No point in bitching and moaning about something you can't change. He was almost to the back side of the house when some crazy bitch with a hurricane glass spun around hard.  She and her girlfriend were dancing to 'Bang a Gong.'  There was a lot of slow swaying, but they were already on round heels.  He couldn't tell how much was them and how much was the shoes.  Either way, her hurricane came out of her hands and bounced off his chest.  He now had a very wet and sticky chest and whole right sleeve.   'Oh, goddamn, man.  Wheredju come from?  I soooooo sorry!'  She mopped with the hem of her dress, lifted up over her waist, until he grabbed her hands to stop her.

Her, he didn't know.  The woman with her, though, was Trish.  'Hey, luv.' She dragged it out, letting it float on the wind. She was higher than a kite. The wind was about the only thing carrying her or her words anywhere.  She tucked herself under his right arm.  Her elbow length, loose hair immediately stuck to his shirt.  That was a hell of a sticky hurricane. Probably not a mix, but then what New Orleans native would use a mix?

Trish grabbed his sticky hand and took him back. The other woman bobbed along behind in their wake. When they turned to stop at the back stoop, the woman kept going, through the waves of people.  Probably got stuck against the back fence, walking, walking, walking until she passed out.  Trish reached between her wobbly tits and pulled out a decent-sized doob. She looked around for someone she didn't recognize, someone who looked like a narc.  She must not have seen anyone.

They passed it back and forth for a while, let two others take a hit, and pretty soon it was gone.  He was pretty gone, too.  Good weed.  Better than he could usually afford.  One minute he was in the clear, then as the smoke cloud encircled them, he was drifting in a fog.  That woman had come back.  She was yapping at Trish about their dog. How big he was, and how fast he could eat her little chihuahua. To be fair, Trish listened for longer then he could pay attention. Out of the blue, though, she put her hand on the woman's lips. "Shhhhh... sh-sh-sh-sh." She wobbled a little and her hand dropped. That crazy bitch just picked up where she was. Whatever she was saying.  Trish took her face in both hands and said, "Shut the fuck up, Marissa. If you don't shut up, Miles here is going to take you inside and fuck your brains out.  Seriously."

Marissa's eyes floated over to Miles'. Bobbed some.  She was wasted.  She tried to smile, but her face just hung there.  Maybe it was supposed to be a bluff, because all of a sudden her face got serious.  She had enough muscle control for that, evidently. She shook her head side to side, and nearly toppled over on one swing.  She slid down the rail and landed hard on the stair.

Trish smirked at him.  "All it took was making her take a breath, and she blew herself over."

She leaned in.  "Hey, what I said there ..."  He thought she was going to apologized. He was wrong.  "Clearly, Marissa isn't up for it, but ..." She slid her hand down to his waist and hooked her fingers under his belt, an arrow straight toward his dick.  "I'm not doing anything right now."  Her lips reached up and drew his down.  They were good lips.  Soft and moist, and she knew how to use them.  Miles immediately started getting hard.  The moment his dick realized how good her lips were, it was talking loud to him, begging to let her use them on him.

She stood slowly.  His lips followed, and the rest of the body with them. When she turned and latched her hand around his belt buckle, he gave no resistance.  Up the steps and straight through the kitchen into her bedroom.  Their bedroom.  She spun him backward and he flopped on the bed, right between a pile of laundry and a damp beach towel.  She poured herself on top of Miles' torso. He could feel the heat and moisture of her pussy grinding into his thigh.  She was driving - grinding herself against his thigh, Frenching him, with a fist full of his hair. With her other hand, she was undoing his belt.  She unzipped and fished his cock out, pumping it right from the start.  Definitely better than Chelsea - better with her hand, better with her mouth, and over the top with passion.  He convinced himself easily. Clearly, wasn't at fault.  How was he supposed to resist someone better than Chels on every level?  he scooped one hand into her top.  Her tits were the perfect size.  Her nipple was already erect, poking itself into his palm. She moaned when he squeezed, so he squeezed harder. He kneaded her tit and thrust his tongue almost to her throat.  He took a fist full of her hair with his other hand, tightened and twisted.  She moaned louder and clamped her legs around his thigh.  When she shuddered, he tightened his fist in her hair.  She shuddered again in a way that announced loudly that she was coming.  Little hip thrusts that tapped out on his thigh said she was losing control for a moment. She just laid there, panting for a moment.  She'd stopped stroking him while she came. She picked up stroking and slid herself down Miles' body.  Again, something she must have done thousands of times until she had the move down perfectly.

She slid down and with no adjustments to her glide path, took his dick into her mouth. Definitely well-practiced.  He held her hair as she bobbed up and down. She made slurpy sounds and yummy sounds, and stroked the exposed part of his cock with her hand. Every now and then, she'd look right up into his eyes.  When she did, she would flutter her tongue on the underside.  He'd read about that somewhere, but couldn't remember where.  Playboy, some paperback ... didn't remember.  He said "I'm gonna cum" and she didn't even slow down. More than that, she moved her hand away and tried again and again to take him all the way.  She would gag and then pop back up, then try again. The very last stroke, the head popped into her throat, and that's all it took. Boom. He went off like a fire hose.  He must have pumped ten shots right into her throat.  She bobbed up after the first two, then forced herself back down for the rest. He didn't have to do anything. He couldn't remember ever cumming that much or that hard with Chels.  Granted, he wasn't exactly in the habit of taking notes while he fucked.   She licked him clean after he finished, fished two pubes off her tongue and cheek, then slid back up and under his right arm. They laid there. She played with his chest hair. He squeezed her tit and rolled her nipple between thumb and finger.

"Jesus fuck, Ch~Trish ... Marcus is a very lucky son of a bitch."

She laughed, "Miles, I haven't been with Marcus in ... what, four months, I think.  My old man's name is Reince."

"Rench?"

"Reince. Like ... rents."

"Ok, he's the lucky bastard then.  Where did you learn that tongue thing?"

"On the underside? The flutter?" Miles nodded.  "I read it in an old dirty paperback my folks had.  Sounded like fun."

"Hell fucking yeah, it's fun."

"Been using it since I was fourteen, no complaints so far. Hey ... umm ... so how does Chelsea feel about girls - or couples?"

"When she was in college, she fooled around a little bit with her dorm mate." He could've said more, but didn't.  He wanted to hear what was behind the question.

"Hmm, so, she might be interested in a threesome? Or some girl-on-girl? Swapping? An orgy?"

"Damn. That's like a hard sell."

"No, I'm just wondering.  I haven't said anything to Reince.  Just curious.  I don't know her well, but Chels seems fun.  You're definitely fun, and y'know, Reince and me, we like fun people."

Suddenly, he felt miles from Chelsea.  Were they broken up officially? Hard to say. Certainly felt like it.

"Y'know, lemme feel her out, see if she might be cool with it.  Ya never know, right?"

Her answer was to french him.  That must've been an "Ok." She patted his chest and said, let's get back out there.  She left her pants behind, and they walked out of there with her in just her long peasant top, no pants, no panties, no bra.  He could dig that - dig that very well.

He tried to think about Chels, but couldn't seem to get his head to go there, aside from vague visions of two women fighting over his cock.

When they were back outside in the crowd, by the beer keg, it was back to reality.  The pot hadn't lasted near long enough.  Here he was at a party where he knew only two people. He was three weeks from induction. He'd just fucked this chick and might or might not be cheating on the girlfriend he might or might not still have.  He had about thirty minutes of escape, then it was back in the box. That made him think of Cool Hand Luke. "Man, what we have here is failure to communicate." He said it out loud before he even realized.

Trish turned around.  He hadn't even noticed until she did so, that she'd leaned across the keg to French kiss some beardy freak in a Grateful Dead t-shirt.

She said, "Huh?" and slipped her tongue in his mouth. He tried to figure out if he tasted only her, or that other dude, or even lingering traces of his cum. Next, she reached inside his pants deep enough to cup his balls. "I think we communicated pretty well."

"Huh? Yeah, no, babe.  I was thinking of something else."

She laughed at him and shook her head. She didn't get it, and she couldn't care less. Her fingers dipped into her cleavage and she pulled out another joint.  He thought, holy Christ, where'd that come from.  It hadn't been between her tits when they were screwing, that's for sure.  Somewhere between the bedroom and the keg, it had just magically gotten deposited in her top.

He frowned down at nowhere, for no particular reason than his own moodiness.  In seconds, she leaned in for another kiss.  When he opened his mouth for her tongue, she breathed smoke into his mouth and down into his lungs.  Knowing that wouldn't quite do it, she then passed the doob to him.  He took a deep drag, then pulled her in and returned the favor.  She was ready, and breathed him in deep.  Thirty seconds earlier, he was down, and the war was racing toward him.  Suddenly, it was all very cool and copacetic again.  The war would wait.  He didn't care whether her old man was there, or if he was watching, or if he cared.  He doubted he would. If Trish was telling the truth, he was good with whatever she got them into.

Trish wandered off when the joint was done.  She pointed his way from across the back yard. The older couple she was talking to made their way to him.  They introduced themselves as Hank Something and Junebug.  They stood close and looked around.  Junebug had great tits. Big and full, but not enormous. Well-rounded and just the tiniest bit of sag. She didn't seem to mind him noticing. Maybe that was part of their game. Maybe they thought he was carrying weed and she thought a little jiggle and wiggle would get some free samples. Their cautious glances around, though, seemed excessive given the company. If they wanted weed, nobody within a hundred feet was going to narc them out.

"Listen, Trish says you might be in need of a favor."

Miles didn't respond, so Hank continued .  "She says you've got your back up against a date with induction, and you might could stand some help finding some options."

He couldn't remember words, but he did nod.  Sure could use options.  That's what the word was.

Hank was explaining - without excessive detail - that he might have some strings he could pull. A favor for a favor. A string here and there, a package delivered here and there. While he talked, Junebug dug a a little foil packet from his shirt pocket.  She took out a little yellow pill and washed it down with a mouthful of beer, then took a beat and popped a second yellow pill into her mouth. No beer this time, just a swallow.  She picked a third out and offered it to Hank.  He shook his head and reached up to stroke her cheek.  Junebug looked for a moment like she was going to offer him one. Maybe she decided he was too far gone to really profit from whatever the pill was.

Hank handed him a business card and said, "Come by or give me a call - but soon."  Miles held it close enough to read.  Hank walked off as he focused on the words.  Junebug trailed behind Hank, their hands connected by fingertips.  He could have sworn she dragged her hand across his crotch, lingering on the zipper.  As soon as it registered with him, both of them were gone.  He had to have imagined it.

Things faded just a moment later.  When he woke, he was seated on one of the stumps, leaning against a garbage bin, with a cat licking his pounding forehead.  The moon was low in the east, but there was just enough light in the yard to see half a dozen others also snoozing in random spots.  It must have been around three o'clock.  He could check his watch, but that would've been work.  Too early for such exertion.  When he opened his eyes again, the sun was just topping the roofs.  The humidity was starting to simmer.  He was warm and clammy, as much from the partying as from the humidity.

Time to go home.

He got up and stepped over and between the litter, the bottles and cans and paper plates soaked by food and the morning dew.  Up by the gate, there was a cowboy in a buckskin joe hat sprawled up against the fence. More like on his buckskin joe hat.  It was crumpled up under his head, a crude pillow.  It was either that or the half gallon of Jack Daniels a foot away, with a slow trickle out of its mouth.

He was a mile down the road, two pair of sunglasses on his head.  They barely blocked the sun enough for him to wobble down the road, but barely was still enough.  He got home and laid down on the living room floor, wrapping his arm around a pillow from the couch, pinning it under his head.

Later, much later, but not nearly late enough, he woke enough to notice something different about the room.  He wasn't alone.  The room sounded different.  It was quiet, but the silence sounded angry, sullen, and sad.

"Chelsea ...?"

"Miles ... I see you've been ... having adventures."

"Listen, I ... I'm sorry I haven't gotten hold of you.  I tried this morning (no, that wasn't right) - I mean yesterday morning.  Your mom's, Anne Marie's, somebody else's ... " he couldn't remember who else, but surely there was."

He rolled to his side, facing her.  He found her face, her gaze pointed up and toward the window.  There wasn't a lot of warmth there.  He could understand that.

"Listen, Chels ..."

She stood up, towering over him.  "Miles, I'm going to give you some space, give you time to clear your head or purge your soul or whatever it is you're doing.  I want to talk, I want us to talk, but I can see that's not happening today."

She stepped over his legs, "I'm going to grab what laundry I have here and get out of your hair.  Please ... don't get up."

He felt like shit, but heard the sarcasm in her voice.  It was a warm, damp rag across the back of his neck, not soothing but unsettling, down in the pit of his  stomach.  He might have been able to get up, if he used up all his energy reserves, but it was a solid maybe.  More likely, he'd get five feet, fall over, and throw up.

He drifted away again as the living room wobbled into the dark.  He woke past dusk, another day in the toilet.  It was half past 9 when he made it as far as the kitchen.  He leaned against the refrigerator, then leaned inside, surrounding himself with the cool air.  He rubbed a big glass bottle of Coke on the side of his head.  He knew it was throbbing, but only realized then just how much it was pounding.  The left side was cool and nicely numb, the right side pulsing like a neutron star.

He sat at the table and dug at a carton of chocolate ice cream with the first spoon he found.  Spoon after spoon, without stopping or slowing. In time, by 10 or so, the cold had soaked its way into his upper body, blanketing the ache in his head.  He chased it with glass after glass of water, and when he was done, grabbed the Playboy from the end table by the sofa and worked his way to the bedroom.  He fell asleep with the open magazine covering his face and dreamt of escaping to Amsterdam with the Girls of Holland. It was a good dream, full of sex, alcohol, and pot, and spiced up with the repeated motif of nearly falling into one of the canals.  It seemed wherever he went without a handful of girls, he was in danger of falling into the water ways.  He never actually fell in, but came close plenty of times.

* Wednesday. 7am. His eyes opened and he was done sleeping.  Mind clear; eyes clear; even his goddamn sinuses were clear, and they never were.  He'd been in New Orleans since he was six and his family moved from Lake Charles.  He couldn't remember going more than a week at an stretch without antihistamine or decongestant. Given how much alcohol and pot he'd consumed in the past several days, he couldn't believe how alert and sober he was.  Had the last week even taken place?

Wednesday was Chelsea's day off.  She usually slept in until ten or so, then went off for lunch with friends.  He wanted to see her.  He felt like shit for how he'd been acting.  Childish, self-absorbed.  Chels was always talking about some sex therapist and her opinions.  Not just sex but relationships, too.  Being self absorbed and selfish were right up there at the top of the danger sign list.  Things were going to sort themselves out, though.  They always did.  With him and Chels, anyway, they always worked out in the end.  He'd talk to her and they'd get things trued up.

He'd go see that guy who gave him the card.  He'd do what he needed to, make whatever deal.  He'd stay here.  He'd stay with Chelsea.  They'd get married. Maybe. Or, she'd move in. They'd talk about it.

Suddenly, he wasn't as sober any more.  He sat up and put his head between his knees - or as close as it would go.  His eyes watered. His throat was dry and tight.

Start with the coffee, a couple of mugs, and think out the situation.  Find Hank's business card and stop by to see him. Or call or whatever.  Get things rolling.  While he was waiting for the coffee to perk, he got the phone from the yard and crudely reattached it to the biscuit jack.  When he was done, he tried it.  There was a little static, but it worked.

The coffee got him going.  He was out the door as soon as the second mug was done, business card in hand. Hank's office was on the edge of the quarter, down by the French Market.  First there, then to Chelsea's. He'd talk her down like he always did, she'd be happy again, and then to celebrate they'd have lunch at Galatoire's. Or Antoine's, if was later. Maybe just hang out at the Famous Door and have some drinks and list to music. At any rate, it would be a whole new start for them. G's was always the perfect place to start something new. Oh, right. Antoine's. Or the Famous Door.  Things were tight at the moment, yeah, maybe they'd just go to the Door.  Or she might want to stay in and cook.  He could go out and get them a fifth of Jack.  Anyway, new beginning, that was the thing to focus on.

He started the car, set the radio to WWOZ, and was starting to pull out, when a guy with a beard and a bald head popped up from around the front of the car parked at the neighbor's.  He looked familiar, but he couldn't place him.  Someone recent.  Whoever he was, he wasn't happy.  Very not happy, actually, and probably high as a fucking kite.  He lurched side to side as he walked.  He came around to the window and reached to pound on it, but the glass was down, so he just flailed a couple of times.  Very high not to figure it out on the first try.

"Hey, fucker. Shit, man. Hey, are you Miles?"

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm Trish's old man."

"What's your problem, man?"

"You son of a bitch, you knocked her up!"

"What the hell, man? You have no way of knowing ..."

"... fuck, man, I got no sperm. No swimmers, you hear what I'm saying?  Aint no baby comin' out of this cock, hombre."

"Oh, shit, man ... I ... wait ... I know y'all's score.  Y'all swing all over town, you might as well have vines hanging from the trees.  Are you trying to tell me ~" he paused as he popped the door ajar, and the guy jumped back like he was being attacked. "Calm down, dude, I'm just getting out to talk about this." The car lurched forward - he hadn't remembered to take it out of drive. He shifted gears, slapping the knob into place, and snapped the key off.

"Calm down and back away a little - " he leaned against the front fender - "... you're telling me that there's no way anyone else can have knocked that bitch up?"

The guy, whatever his name was looked bewildered, and staggered back again. His red face screamed back, "I know what you're trying to do, you son of a bitch, and it ain't gonna work. You have a responsibility and you are going to fucking pay.  The last motherfucker did, and the other guy before, and the same fucking shit is going to happen to you.  We ain't having no baby, so you know what that means. You're going to cough up $200 for an abortion and we'll get this shit taken care of before it gets too far."  As his speech played out, he slowly walked toward Miles, his head tilted, jabbing with a finger, until the finger was actually jabbing into Miles' chest.

"Don't do that man. Gimme space. I'm asking you."  His ears were pounding. It was like he was under water, no under six feet of red jello. Everything was dark and tinted and sluggish, like that time his uncle Fidelio had come after him.

The finger kept jabbing. He didn't see anything but the finger making brief ripples across his shirt. He couldn't see as far as the end of the arm. Everything was dark and red and starting to slant to the left.

His own hand moved across his chest.  It locked on the man's finger and twisted, which brought his body to just the right angle to take Miles' knee in the groin. Twice, and then again for good measure.  Something cracked. It had to be the guy's finger. Or fingers.

Reds turned to greys, and the pounding in his ears was replaced with the ocean.  His stomach wanted to vomit, but his throat told it to shut up.  [Frank] or whoever the hell he was, laid on the verge next to the sidewalk.  One hand was cupping his balls. The other was waving in the air like a flag, trying to keep that pain as far from the other as possible.

It was time to go.  He had to go and meet ... that guy... the card... from the party. With the hot wife.  Jesus, what was his name?  He couldn't concentrate.  Then there was Chels. He wanted to talk to her about something.  It would come back. That guy was still screaming and cursing. He wasn't going to figure out a goddamn thing with all that racket.

Time to go. Go see that guy with the card. He turned back to the door. As he was stepping around it, he slapped the guy's hand out of the air, "Shut the goddamn fuck up! Do you fucking thin you're the only fucking goddamn fucker who has any goddamn fucking problems!?" The other guy might've been loud, but people in Algiers probably heard that.

The guy choked on his curses and choked on the flashing surge of pain.  Once Miles was in the car and pulling out of his space, he was just a memory buried inside the massive flaming cottony headache he now had.

Despite his hurry to get moving, when he got to Hank's office, he sat outside for a good thirty minutes.  The car would warm up; he would start it up and run the A/C for a few minutes, blowing ice cold in his face. It was a losing game. He'd start to drip sweat, then blast himself with iced air. In moments, the sweat would chill and he would shiver.

At ten thirty, he decided it was time.  He'd get out of the car and either go in to Hank's office, or walk down Decatur and grab a beer.  At least he was doing something.

He walked past Hank's door, and was a good ten feet further down the sidewalk when he pivoted.  That's how he worked, stress, stress, stress about something, then the moment he decided not to do it, he was relaxed and could carry through with it.

The receptionist was an older women, slight and slender and easily in her sixties, but kind of steely. She was probably a good screen for Hank, and had a look in her eye that said she probably played for the Packers. "I'm here to see Hank. Mr. ..." he had to dig the card out of his pocket to get the last name. "... Sinclair."  He turned the business card to her - Mrs. Prideaux, her desk sign said - and handed it to her like a movie ticket.  The eyebrow that arched when he stumbled over the last name, came back down.  It knotted with the other for a second, then they both went back to neutral.

"And your name, Mister ... ?"

"Miles. Mikes Parker"

She didn't seen to regard the name well. Maybe she wasn't the jazz fan that his mother was.  She asked "And he will know what this in regard to?" Her tone was solicitous but skeptical.

"This is regarding ... " not exactly a job "... an opportunity. I ran into him and Junebug recently and he suggested, requested, that I come see him at my earliest convenience." He could tell she didn't like the reference to Junebug.  That was a mistake. The rest of it seemed to ease her annoyance just enough to maybe open the door.

She set the card down and centered it on her blotter.  She sighed. Then she reached for her phone and punched the intercom button.

"Mr. Sinclair, I have a Miles Parker out here with one of your business cards.  He'd like a few minutes of your time."  She threw her glance up and down him as she said it.

"Miles ... oh, yes ... from the other day.  Would you buzz him back through, Miz Emma."

She punched the intercom off, then pressed a button on the side of her desk.  A buzz told him that something was unlocked for the next couple of seconds, and he'd best be moving.  He reached for his card, but she'd spirited it away in the half-second he'd looked off.

He didn't even have to turn the knob on the door. All it took was a push and it swung wide. Medium sized office. Nice, hundred year old desk that took up half the room. Must've been goddam oak and probably weighed two hundred pounds.  He couldn't imagine how it came through the door, but it did. The rest of the office, eh. Crappy, warped wood paneling. A window behind the desk, no blinds, curtains, nothing.

He looked up, over the rim of his glasses, and said "Miles."  He looked back down and slid something into a grey folder and tossed it to the corner of his desk. He pointed at one of the $20 armchairs.

Miles took the offer.  Neither spoke.  He grabbed a pen from his desk and crossed his legs, turning sideways a quarter.  "So, how's the weather out there?"

Miles stumbled through a confused explanation of current meteorological phenomena, then fell silent again.  Sinclair nodded.

"So, anyway. I'm glad you stopped by.  We've got some things going on you might be able to help with." He glanced at the door. Miles pushed it shut.

Sinclair reached for another folder buried underneath three other folders.  This one had the words "Parker, Miles" on the tab.  It wasn't empty, or anywhere close  He glanced through it.  One, two, three sheets, then skipped down to pages that were paperclipped together. He glanced at the top sheet, then closed the folder. "You've got a little bit of a record, my friend."

"I, uhh ... yeah ... like what are you talking about?"

"DWI, public intoxication, a gram of weed, trespassing ..." he glanced into the folder.  "... one hot check? Just one? Nothing big, just a lot of fucking around, really."

Miles nodded and relaxed a little.  It was all good.

Sinclair tossed the folder on top of the gray one.

He smiled and tapped the desk like he was trying to remember a funny story.  Miles smiled, waiting for it.

"Anyway - tell me about the Mexican jail."

Fuck. The goddamn Mexican jail. It wasn't on his NOPD rap sheet. He knew that. What the hell?

"You've been watching me for a while ...?"

"Aw, nah, Miles. I had this stuff sent in this morning just in case you showed up straight off."

"But you invited me in ... for ... because you could tell ..."

"Hey, buddy, you're at a yard party being thrown by someone who has his finger on half the pot and heroin coming across the border or across the Gulf up to Orleans Parish. You disappear for thirty minutes to fuck the guy's wife, do some dope, then vanish."  He shrugged. "So, that generates some interest. You're not a big player. Sorry, no disrespect, but you just don't have that elan. On the one hand, sure, we've got a certain leverage we can use on you - it's what we do, the stick, but at the same, you've got enough scruples that ... you're not going to go rogue.  For that, at the end of the day, we’ll be happy to throw you some carrots."

Miles just sat there. It was an insult and a compliment. It was also precursor to a threat. He was brought in to be worked.  Not only that, just by looking at him that night, the guy, whoever he was, could tell that he was ripe for working.

Sinclair handed him a folder. He read through it and handed it back. By the time it left his hand, though, he’d forgotten everything it said.  He was a little distracted.

Sinclair walked him through it, as though he’d never glanced at the folder, which was just as well, since as far as he could tell, he hadn’t.  There was a guy, mob connected, maybe even a made man, that they were wanting to get a finger on.  He was the main drug conduit as well as the buddy of several prominent, established businessmen and a couple of up-and-coming politicians in Orleans Parish.  Plan A was to hook him. Plan B was to hook him and implicate his important patrons.

There was an interruption when some skinny guy in a narrow-tie suit and a lot of Brylcreme came in and whispered into Sinclair’s ear.  They both looked at him and then Sinclair looked at his watch and back at him. There was a smirk that blossomed, then he waved tie-boy off.  When the door was closed, he just smiled and said “You sure don’t lack for drama, do you?” before resuming.  Had news of his little event with Trish’s old man already trickled in to him?  It was at most an hour, hour and a half ago.

Sinclair could manage to get him on a bartending gig at one of Gianolo’s regular haunts, the Napoleon House, and boost an introduction, but it was Miles’ job to work his way in further.  He could take all the time he wanted, as long as it didn’t take more than two weeks, after which they expected him to be ass-deep in Gianolo’s pocket.  They’d feed him information to help him become an asset, but it was still up to him to sell it in a way that it wasn’t obvious to Gianolo and his crowd.

There was more, but he’d get that when he came back in two days for his briefing session with the ops guys.  Until then, it was his job to keep his nose clean and his mouth shut.

There was still a tight fog wrapping around his body when Sinclair got up, grabbed his shoulder, lifted him, and walked him to the door as if it had been his decision to leave at that moment.  “Remember, Thursday at 1pm. You won’t make us come looking for you, would you?”

Miles tried to shake his head reassuringly, but it didn’t much care to move. Sinclair was probably past being reassured by anything anyone else said, anyway. Instead, he made a little wave with his left hand, said “Later,” and clipped the door frame as he passed through.  At least he didn’t drop the sealed envelope Sinclair had given him.  Just more embarrassment under the bridge.

He didn't open the envelope until he was someplace safe.  The chair at Lafitte's, however, wasn't even warming when he ripped the end off.  He expected a new identity. Some cool spy shit like that, maybe a passport in case things went tits up, like the british spies in the books say. Nothing like that. He had to stay Miles Parker. He just got some backstory written for him, filling in gaps here and there. Made sense, he guessed. Not like it was happening in a town where nobody would know him.  Just sweetened his history a little.

The plan was to go next to Chelsea's, but one drink became six drinks at Lafitte's, and by the time he got back to his car on Esplanade, he smoked a joint and took a little nap.  It was good shit.  The dreams he had were all about fucking big tit redheads over and over, and having them fight over his cock - and some weed.  When he finally woke up, the sun was hanging over the business district.  He didn't feel like doing much more that day, so he got on St. Claude and headed home.  She was probably still pissed anyway.  Give her more time to cool down.  He'd go fetch her the next day and bring her back to the house for burgers and beer and they'd split a joint and fuck, and everything would be back to normal again, and they'd be fine.  Besides, if Sinclair could really get him off the hook for Vietnam, he didn't have a big fucking deadline hanging over him. He had all the time in the world to square things with Chels.

When he got back to his house, he laid on the living room floor, smoked his last joint, and drifted off to sleep until six the next morning.

He had eggs and boudain for breakfast, and then realizing he hadn't eaten since breakfast the previous day, ate twice as much.  He flipped through the envelope Sinclair had given him, doodling in the margins as he moved front to back.  Devils and large breasted women mostly. His default doodle.  Blocks of squiggly lines in random spots.

He went out and talked to his mechanic.  He'd had two tours in 'Nam and came back with a shattered knee and pelvis from a mine.  Why, exactly, he was consulting him, he didn't know.  He liked the guy. He trusted the guy's instincts. He also bought half his dope from the guy.  He danced around the idea of working for the feds.  Didn't ask him outright, but told him a story about a guy he'd known who'd gotten pressured into working as a mole.  The guy winced and drank his beers twice as fast, and got red-faced as Miles unwound the story, but he was more angry at the government for using people than he was at Miles' "friend" for taking the deal and giving in to being used.  Miles felt better when he left the garage.  Yes, he was high, but there was also a certain weight off his shoulders.

He went back to the house, found a note from Chels on the door, asking where he was. Actually, what it said was "Where the hell are you hiding? C" He got a glass of water from the sink,  sat down at the table to call her, and didn't wake up until midnight.

When he called her at 12:30, her mother answered ... the phone cut in and out, due to his crappy repair job, but he managed to hear her say, very clearly, "I'm sure she's not in for you, but I will take a peek."  She came back in twenty seconds. "She's dead asleep.  Maybe you'll have better luck tomorrow."  The click and dial tone made it clear that she was done talking.

He phoned in sick the next morning.  He got up at 6 and worked his throat up unto a gravelly rasp just to make it more interesting.  He needed to get back on the crew, 'Nam or no 'Nam, but he also realized he needed to stop stalling with Chelsea.  He didn't bother calling. He just went over and camped out on her front stoop. He  had no way, short of knocking and waking someone up, of finding out whether they were up yet, so he did the next most logical thing.  They always, both Chels and her mom, always came out to the front porch for a cigarette first thing.  They'd drag themselves out of bed, grab a mug of coffee and a pack of Winstons, then sit out on the glider and rock until they were awake or the coffee was out, whichever came last.  He'd wait.  If nobody showed up in 30 min, he'd assume they'd already been up and had their morning porch smoke.  Otherwise, it was just a matter of time.

He only had to wait ten minutes.  The knob on the front door rattle, then quit, then rattled again for longer.  It turned and the door gaped several inches, then came to an abrupt and thudding halt. It closed again so someone could remove the chain, then swung full open on its creaky hinges.  A housecoat backed through.  The cigarette hand reached for the screen door frame, just in case there was a gust. What he expected in the drink hand was a mug of coffee.  What was actually there was a Coors fat boy.  He looked at it, then up at the face of the woman holding everything. It wasn't Chelsea, but her mother, Berniece.  She gave a start when he came into view.  She looked in his eyes, then down at the beer, then back up at him.  She said "Aww, hell ..." and set the beer on the railing and went back inside.  It was ten seconds before the door slammed.  She must'v'e done it as an afterthought.

Two minutes later, Chelsea peeked through the curtain, then came out to join him on the porch, holding a pack of Winstons and an oversized coffee mug.  They were several minutes into saying hello, slowly and cautiously, the way sumo wrestlers squared off with each other, Berniece came out in due time to retrieve her beer, pausing long enough to eyeball him and make a sniffing sound.  Eventually, they both came to agree that he'd been an ass the past several days.  He admitted to her everything a reasonably cautious male would admit to. Indiscretions that had come uncovered, admit everything. Where questionable, ask questions. Where fishing, feign laughable innocence.  All she knew was that he was getting high as fuck and avoiding anything and everything, completely bailing out on her and the whole Vietnam thing.  That was close enough to reality for him to own sincerely, without excuses.  She didn't mention any rumors of anything else and he didn't ask.

Two hours later, all was good, or good enough for now, her mom had gone off to work, they'd gone back to Chels' room for a make-up fuck, and then she shooed him out so she could start the restaurant set up for lunch opening.

[brightbluedot]

absolutely despise that this is the exact intersection of my knowledge but I'd personally argue that seasons 1-5 are much more like the odyssey than the iliad.

people often forget about telemachus, odysseus's son, but the father/son dynamic is a huge part of the story. telemachus in book 1 is given the order to go out and look for his father, he's constantly compared to his father, people wonder if he'll live up to his father, and when his father returns to Ithaca he takes part in his father's violence at his side -- all while never knowing his father, who'd been fighting a war since he was a baby.

sound familiar? in spn.1-spn.5, if you will, the father/son dynamic is blisteringly textual. the pilot starts with a missing father and sons searching for him out of duty, with the threat of succession hanging over their heads. there's no "character" "development" to speak of in this horrid little show so that dynamic doesn't disappear, but it's part of the premise in the early seasons he same way it is for the odyssey.

also, in early seasons, the show was kind of sort of still pretending to engage with the question of what it meant to be a monster, inhuman. the odyssey is consistently engaging with that question, we see odysseus, a human, pillaging and murdering his way across the aegean, and then polyphemus, the cyclops, is just chilling with his sheep until they break into his house. then he eats some of odysseus's men in retribution, and suddenly he's the monster. we might be reminded of issues raised by episodes like the vampire support group episode (2.03 according to google) where we see hunters' prey's behavior questioning the justness of that dynamic. additionally, the question of humanity often rides on food in the odyssey -- think of the cyclops, think of the lotus eaters, think of the slaughtered suitors ransacking odysseus's house's stores. this might remind us of sam drinking demon blood beginning in season 4, as well as all the monsters eating human flesh throughout the show.

on a superficial level as well, the road trip vibes were much more present in the early seasons, much more like odysseus's, well, odyssey. by season 9 they have a home base, much more like the war camps or even the walled city in the iliad -- which is, of course, about so much more than just war. when I think about the iliad I think about grief (cas died Again), and the self-destruction inherent to violence (the mark of cain), the moments of respite and resilience in a cosmic meat grinder (bunker domesticity), and divine predestination (chuck).

that said, I'm not arguing that 1-5 are Actually The Odyssey and that 6-15 are Actually The Iliad. you could, I'm sure, argue that these more nuanced themes are present in any number of ways in any season of supernatural you turn your sexy little magnifying glass towards -- which is kind of my point. the similarities OP noticed are in my opinion absolutely there, but homer can do heavier lifting than that.

tl;dr: I argue that the odyssey's themes of fathers and sons, as well as the engagement with violence and the monstrous, give it a lot in common with seasons 1-5. conversely, later seasons of spn have a lot in common with the finer points of the iliad. the overarching themes of war/normalcy are present, but homer's got a lot more going on than just that.

we’re all agreed that seasons 1-5 are homer’s iliad and seasons 6-15 are the odyssey, right? it’s the desire to wage war and then the hope of normalcy.

[superhero--imagines]

Part 1 Here! / Part 2 Here! /Part 3 Here! / Part 4 Here! / Part 5 Here! / Part 6 Here! <This is Part 7!>

A/N: Maybe we should make it regular Friday updates? Since I always post a day early lolol

* As a child of Zagreus you’ve gone through some pretty strange things, but this has to be the strangest.

* ‘It’s in the top ten at least’

* In front of you, in a glass box with blinking neon lights, heavily reminiscent of the Zoltar fortune telling game you would play as a kid, has to be the oldest mummy you’ve ever seen.

* The mummy’s skin is leathery and wrinkled, eyes closed shut, long white hair is pushed back by a rainbow tie dye bandana, a few strands of hair braided with glittering beads at the end.

* ‘Clarisse could have warned me when Dionysus said I had to come up here to get my prophecy before I left, instead of just saying: “It’s like a tradition, tell us what card you get.” ‘

* “CoOoooooiiiiiinnnnnn” she groans, and you fumble over yourself to retract the silver drachma Dionysus gave you. Sliding it into the slot, clear guardrails moving it around the box and into the plate beside her.

* You wait for one long second then two, and nothing happens.

* You’re considering going downstairs and telling them you think there’s a paper jam when a thick, black card slides out of the slot.

* The second it’s in your hand green mist covers the room, you narrow your eyes, squinting to see through the haze.

* A dining room table comes into view—

* ‘It’s our dining room table.’

* —you see Maki, Hades, and Your father come into view, Hades at the head of the table, and Maki and your father across from one another.

* “Four half-bloods will travel to the east of the east, only three will return on the same path.” The words creep out in a ghostly whisper from Hades mouth.

* “You will barter with a god and reclaim what was stolen, despite the cost.” Maki hisses, a rattling sound heard in the distance.

* Finally your father turns to you, eyes glowing green as he says: “You will find the most important thing after everything is lost.”

* And then it’s all gone, you’re back in the attic of the Big House, the mummy holds up her hand as you watch with bated breath, she flashes you the ‘rad’ hand sign.

* “Cowabunga Dude!” Before closing her eyes and falling asleep again.

* ‘Definitely upgrading this to the top three weird experiences I’ve ever had.’

* Dionysus practically tackles you as soon as you come downstairs.

* “What did she say?” You wordlessly hand him your card, watching as he pales.

* You look past his shoulder to see Chiron on the porch, entertaining your Demi-god companions, an easy smile on his lips.

* ‘So Dionysus is jumping out of skin with worry and Chiron is acting like we’re going on a trip to Disneyland…make it make sense.”

* “W-well it doesn’t instill the most confidence, but it’s not the worst I’ve seen.” He stutters.

* “Circe herself…well she had that run in with Athena all those years ago, but it brought Telemachus to her so I doubt she holds a grudge. Ares, I don’t think she has any strong feelings towards him. She had that affair with Hermes, we can hope she’s still affectionate with him so Luke should be fine, and you…Hecate is in and out of the underworld we’ll have to hope that carries some weight still.” Dionysus mutters to himself very quickly, grabbing a map from the side.

* ‘He knows all of our names?’

* Truthfully, you thought he was just pretending to care about you guys. But his behavior over the last few days has started to convince you otherwise.

* “The other three they’ll be fine, but you—I don’t know what’s gotten into Poseidon, but he’s been vouching for you on Olympus, people are starting to suspect there’s been a trade of resources from the Underworld in exchange for his support—nevertheless, he won’t take kindly if you enter his domain, Zeus is gunning for you as well, he said if his hero can’t survive neither can you.” He flinches as the words slip past his mouth, carefully lifting his gaze to test your reaction. When he sees no strong emotion a sigh of relief passes his lips and he continues.

* “So you musn’t travel by air either, especially not the sky over the sea, that’s the most treacherous space for you, many don’t know this but you can tap the ground three times, if you call for your father using his old name he will not ignore yo—”

* “Why are you going so far?” This man is a god, the gods that have helped you so far have been—for better or worse—your direct family. Hades himself has only assisted you because your needs have aligned, but Dionysus doesn’t owe you anything. He has no reason to help you.

* Dionysus hesitates under your gaze.

* “If—when you come back I’ll tell you everything.” He rests a hand on your head, a gentle golden glow radiating from his palm. “For now, as an apology for my secrecy, please accept this small blessing, no matter where you go you will find food and water until you reach your destination.”

* You’re in shock at his kindness, unable to decipher the warmth of his eyes. You turn to join your friends on the porch when you feel his hand on your shoulder.

* “And whatever you do, don’t trust Chiron.” He whispers.

* You’re suddenly reminded of what Maki said in the car on the way to Long Island.

* “Whatever you do don’t trust that assholes propaganda.”

* Your gaze wanders from the amethyst eyed god in front of you to the auburn haired centaur on the porch.

* ‘Which one of them’s the asshole then?’

* You don’t have long to wonder as the four of you are ushered into the Jeep and driven to the nearest train station.

* ‘And back to Manhattan we go’

* Grand central station is dingier than you remember, there’s rats in some of the corners and it isn’t tinged with the golden glow of nostalgia that you remember from your childhood.

* You’ve only been here once, for most school trips you took charter buses, and your father opted for driving everywhere in the city. Your father hoisted you into his arms, your face pressed against his neck and shoulder, his hands on your small back.

* ‘I wonder where we were going back then.’

* Why have you never gone on a train since then? You wonder as you board behind a bickering Clarisse and Luke.

* ‘I guess dad was just too much of a rich kid for public transportation.’

* Sure enough the first hour or so out of New York is quiet, passed by playing cards on the torn deck Clarisse borrowed from her half-sibling.

* “Do you have any five’s?” Clarisse asks.

* “Go fish.” Annabeth responds.

* You half expect an outburst but Clarisse just sighs, muttering ‘I should have asked for a two.’ As she grabs a card from the deck.

* 'At least they’re starting to get along better at least.’

* You don’t hold the outburst she has when Luke turns to her with a cheeky grin and asks: “Do you have any twos?” Against her

* ‘There’s only so much a person can take.’

* The train rocks, before the lights overhead flicker and turn off

* ‘That can’t be good.’

* A mist creeps from under the compartment door, clouding your vision.

* Clarisse reaches for her spear and Luke draws his knife

* A harrowing screech fills the compartment, the door slides open to reveal, what appears to be, a floating black table cloth.

* ‘Is someone trying to be funny? Is this like…a prank on a TV show?’

* The wind blowing up the cloth revealing long white hair and glowing red eyes is enough to tell you that no, this isn’t someone’s take on a cartoon ghost halloween costume.

* “Crap it’s an Arae.” Clarisse hisses through gritted teeth.

* ‘An Arae, those are the spirits of curses.’

* An enigmatic monster, but looking at those dangerous red eyes you can tell it fits.

* “Usually they float away, but when they’re in cramped spaces like this…” Luke whispers,watching with bated breath.

* ‘So that’s why we never traveled by train.’ You think as the Arae lunges at you.

Tag List: @holybatflapexpert @atomicsoph @fadingunknowncoffee @hopeworldsupremacy @padsfirewhisky @magical-dreamland @ladylapize @kookiedesi @kiritokunuwu @bleepmorp @flickeringlizard @luckyzipperscissorsbat @jessiegerl @bluegremlin108 @undecided-as-always @officiallydarkgeek @marsbars09 @smolfrogz @yizhoutv @alicesolengg

[pattriikk]

Joycean Anguish and Aesthetics

Saint Ignatius of Loyola, the founder of the Jesuits, once wrote, "After I have trodden upon a cross formed by two straws ... there comes to me from without a thought that I have sinned ... this is probably a scruple and temptation suggested by the enemy" (van Megen HJGM et al. 271, emphasis added). Here, Ignatius invokes the idea of 'scrupulosity,' which is a personally distressing -- often socially impairing -- pathological guilt about moral or religious issues (Miller and Hedges 1042). Scrupulosity has risen anew with the more modern concept of 'Catholic guilt.' This is undoubtedly a familiar phenomenon among Catholics; as recently as last year, the New York Times published an article entitled "The End of Catholic Guilt," which seemed to encapsulate the feeling well: " If you break the rules, you’re condemned. Shame, shame, shame" (Egan). According to Peter Stravinskas, Catholic guilt is "an expression used to identify the reported excess guilt felt by Catholics and lapsed Catholics" (71, emphasis added). This classification implies that even lapsed, or non-practicing Catholics, experience excessive guilt.

Stephen Dedalus, one of the protagonists of James Joyce's Ulysses (1922) and the main protagonist of Joyce's explicitly autobiographical Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (1916), is a lapsed Catholic who experiences a unique sort of Catholic guilt. Through a cross-examination of both novels, one gains a greater understanding of Stephen's acquisition of Catholic guilt, and also of the effects it has had on his character. This analysis will focus mainly on chapter one of Ulysses, and supplemented with passages from later chapters and Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man, Stephen Hero and other sources as needed. In reading Portrait and Stephen Hero, one sees the influence of Thomas Aquinas's aesthetic philosophy on Joyce as a writer. This is most prominently displayed in Stephen Daedalus's philosophical inquiry into the idea of the epiphany; here, Joyce espouses an aesthetic theory that is just as much his own as it is an extrapolation of Aquinas's aesthetics. In Stephen Hero, Daedalus discusses Aquinas with his schoolmate Cranly, focusing on the moment during which a glance reaches the focus of the vision. He concludes, "The moment the focus is reached the object is epiphanised. It is just in this epiphany that I find the third, the supreme quality of beauty" (SH 216-17). He speaks here of the three things requisite for beauty, proclaiming, "For a long time I couldn't make out what Aquinas meant... but I have solved it. Claritas is quidditas" (SH 218). As he preaches to an increasingly impatient Cranly, he develops his own interpretation of this aesthetic theory. Reciting Aquinas's requisites for beauty, Daedalus even goes so far as to suggest that he wishes to expand upon Aquinas's ideas to write a philosophical treatise (SH 217). Considering that the character Stephen Dedalus is explicitly autobiographical, there is reason to examine the influence of Catholicism as a powerful force in the rest of Joyce's work.

The first chapter of Ulysses, Telemachus, begins with Stephen waking up in the morning. He is immediately greeted by his roommate, Buck Mulligan, who is performing a mock mass with his shaving bowl and razor, borrowing from Psalm 43: "Introibo ad altare Dei " (U 3). Mulligan is acutely aware of Stephen's Jesuit upbringing, and he goes to great lengths to remind him of it: "Come up, Kinch, come up you fearful jesuit" (U 3, emphasis added). Here, Mulligan hints at the guilt underpinning Stephen's psyche; Stephen's mother has recently passed, and as an act of defiance for the religion he had since disavowed, he refused to pray by his mother's deathbed. Mulligan's musings quickly turn to a sort of playful antagonism: "The aunt thinks you killed your mother... to think of your mother begging you with her last breath to kneel down and pray before her. And you refused. There is something sinister in you" (U 5). The hypostasis of Mulligan's joking seems to suggest a genuine chastisement. Stephen somewhat idly dismisses Mulligan here, but his words push Stephen's thoughts inward. He imagines his mother's "wasted body within its loose brown graveclothes giving off an odour of wax and rosewood, her breath, that had bent upon him, mute, reproachful, a faint odour of wetted ashes" (U 5, emphasis added). Prompted by Mulligan's scolding, Stephen here envisions his mother expressing her disappointment with him. As such, his betrayal to his mother and his disavowal of religion become inseparably tied.

His Catholic guilt, at this point, exists as a duality; thoughts of religion remind Stephen of his mother, and vice versa. This duality is solidified when Stephen calls out Mulligan for saying that his mother was "beastly dead" (U 8); after being called out, Mulligan downplays Stephen's hurt feelings, then goes on to sing a song of Yeats's poetry: "And no more turn aside and brood..." (U 9). Ironically (and unfortunately for Stephen), this is the song which Stephen sang to his dying mother. She comes to his mind again: "Memories beset his brooding brain. Her glass of water from the kitchen tap when she had approached the sacrament" (U 10). Here, Stephen remembers his mother with an association to the Blessed sacrament. According to McCormack, this first reference to the Blessed sacrament represents a "relation of a primary kind for Stephen" (132). This implies that Stephen has a strong connection to the Blessed sacrament much the same as his connection to his mother. After this reflection, the liturgical references which were prompted by Buck Mulligan continue in Stephen's thoughts. One in particular, which occurs intermittently throughout the novel, is Stephen's recollection of the ritual prayer: "Liliata rutilantium te confessorum turma circumdet: iubilantium te virginum chorus excipiat " (U 10). This excerpt is from the Ordo Commendationis Animae, and it was one of the specific prayers that would have been recited while Stephen's mother was passing -- the prayer for the dying (McNelly 291). This is important because he is not simply remembering a prayer, he is remembering a specific prayer which he associates with his mother: "Joyce uses the Liliata here and in several other places in Ulysses to intensify Stephen's mental anguish" (McNelly 291). This further illustrating the link between the betrayal to his mother and the disavowal of his religion.

Just as his mother comes to him in as if in a dream, haunting him, so too does the influence of religion. As before stated, Joyce has interspersed liturgical references generously throughout. This could be a reflection of Stephen's mind as a result of his education. Margaret Loftus Ranald, quoting Sam Hynes, shares: "'Paraphrases of Catholic ritual appear in his thoughts; he thinks in ritualistic patterns. 'the rite,' he says, 'is the poet's soul' '" (Ranald 97, Hynes 488, emphasis added). This is in line with Stephen's arrival at his sense of artistic calling at the end of chapter 5 of Portrait; he uses liturgical language to express the sense of art's aboslute truth. "Heavenly God! cried Stephen's soul, in an outburst of profane joy" (PA 171). Despite his overt reluctance to say a single prayer for his mother, he repeatedly asserts that his religious upbringing has become an integral part of his very identity as an artist. Furthermore, as we have seen, he is established as a lapsed Catholic at the beginning of the novel by Mulligan -- "fearful jesuit" (U 3).

This disconnect should only further confuse Stephen's sense of self, but is this integral part of his own choosing? Later in Telemachus, when Stephen and company are in Sandycove, Haines and Stephen discuss religion. Haines starts, "Either you believe or you don't, isn't it? Personally I couldn't stomach that idea of a personal God. You don't stand for that, I suppose?" to which Stephen responds, "You behold in me... a horrible example of free thought" (U 20). Although he has here established belief in God as an impedance to his free-thinking, he still finds himself subservient to the influence of Catholicism. This subservience is introduced in his assertion that he is a "servant" to three masters; an English, an Italian, and those who want him for odd jobs. He explains that his masters are "the imperial British state... and the holy Roman catholic and apostolic church" (U 20). Haines, responding only to the former of the two, halfheartedly apologizes, but Stephen is distracted; he is remembering a portion of the Nicene Creed: "et unam sanctam catholicam et apostolicam ecclesiam" (U 20-21). He considers the sluggish movement of the progression of religious dogma in comparison to his own writing: "the slow growth and change of rite and dogma like his own rare thoughts, a chemistry of stars" (U 21). Here, he draws a parallel between his own work and the religious creed, or formal statements of religious faith meant to distinguish orthodoxy from heresy. This could simply be Stephen's academic desire to be unique and profound instead of being a poser, or perhaps his artistic desire to gain a following; readers (or believers) of his literary work (or religion). The poser (or heretic), in this case, would be Mulligan. Stephen observes that Mulligan "had spoken a moment since in mockery to the stranger" (U 21). It seems here that Stephen's Catholic guilt dissipates when he allows himself to indulge in the knowledge he has of his religion.

At the end of Telemachus, Stephen hears the bells of George's church tolling the time of day (quarter to nine), presented as such: "Liliata rutilantium./Turma circumdet./Iubilantium te virginum" (U 23). Here, the ringing of the church bells reminds him of his mother, and thus the sounds of their ringing is accompanied by snippets of the prayer of the dying. Stephen observes a priest's clothing on the rocks. Ulysses Annotated notes that "the priest, who has just been swimming, dresses as the celebrant of the just concluded mock mass would divest himself" (Gifford and Seidman 27). calling to mind his upbringing and vocation in Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man.

For a brief stint, Stephen finds himself intrigued with the idea of being a priest. In the fourth chapter, he is implored by a priest that he might be called to the priesthood: "To receive that call, Stephen... is the greatest honor that almighty God can bestow upon a man. No king or emperor on this earth has the power of the priest of God. No angel or archangel in heaven, no saint, not even the Blessed Virgin herself has the power of a priest of God... What an awful power, Stephen!" (PA 152). After a period of serious consideration, however, Stephen decides instead to attend university. Gradually, Stephen once again loses his faith, and decides that he may have to leave university to pursue a career in art. He tells his friend Cranly that he "neither believes nor disbelieves" in the Sacred Eucharist, leading Cranly to assert, "It is a curious thing, do you know... that your mind is supersaturated with the religion which you say you disbelieve" (PA 234). 

Before these events, however, Joyce traces Stephen's academic and religious life from birth to young adulthood. Portrait shows Stephen as a person who has always struggled with Catholic guilt. Before fluctuating between passive religiosity to absolute hedonism, the first chapter sees young Stephen Dedalus during his first encounter with disciplinary action. When the priest teaching his Latin lesson notices that he is not completing his lesson, he confronts Stephen. As it turns out, his glasses had broken and he could not see; regardless, he was unjustly pandied twice for this infraction: "A hot burning stinging tingling blow like the loud crack of a broken stick made his trembling hand crumple together like a leaf in the fire: and at the sound and the pain scalding tears were driven into his eyes" (PA 44). 

This disciplinary action was likely the first real experience of fear the young Stephen had against authority; he was made to feel unjust guilt. Eventually, he speaks out against the priests, and is exalted by his classmates: "'Hurroo!' They caught their caps and sent them up again spinning skyhigh and cried again: Hurroo! Hurroo!'" (PA 52). Although resolved, this childhood event likely had lasting effects on Steven.

The other notable event occurs in chapter three, in which Stephen hears Father Arnall's sermon about hell. Prior to this, Stephen had fallen deeply into hedonism, having his first sexual encounter -- and subsequent repeated sexual encounters -- with a prostitute. Naturally, the fire and brimstone sermon paralyzes Stephen with fear. Father Arnall gives a depiction of hell: "The horror of this strait and dark prison is increased by its awful stench. All the filth of the world, all the offal and scum of the world, we are told, shall run there as to a vast reeking sewer when the terrible conflagration of the last day has purged the world" (PA 114). He continues with this highly hyperbolized sermon, injecting horrors into the mind of the fearful jesuit. All in attendance seemed to be affected by the sermon: "Voices spoke near him: 'On hell.' 'I suppose he rubbed it into you well!' 'You bet he did. He put us all into a blue funk.' 'That's what you fellows want: and plenty of it to make you work'" (PA 119). This is perhaps the most extreme example of Catholic guilt, and it sets Stephen himself into a fearful and hallucinatory nightmare: "He flung the blankets from him madly to free his face and neck. That was his hell. God had allowed him to see the hell reserved for his sins: stinking, bestial, malignant, a hell of lecherous goatish fiends. For him! For him!" (PA 132). This doubtlessly left Stephen with permanent scars, and a strong sense of Catholic guilt which he would carry through to his adulthood.

Thus, through knowing Stephen's history, one can examine the ways in which he responds to Mulligan's mockery through the lens of Catholic guilt; the lens offered to us from Steven Dedalus (and Joyce's own) Jesuit upbringing. From his fluctuation from absolute hedonism to absolute religiosity to inquisitive aesthetic philosophy, we can trace the progression of Stephen's maturity and the formation of his self-proclaimed freethinking attitude. This fear, and this guilt, were indeed renewed after the death of Stephen's mother, who is inseparably tied to his religious past. We see this renewal in Stephens thoughts of liturgical prayer, as well as his guilty conscience in refusing to pray for his mother. -- Works Cited Egan, Timothy. “The End of Catholic Guilt.” The New York Times, 15 Apr. 2016, www.nytimes.com/2016/04/15/opinion/the-end-of-catholic- guilt.html?mcubz=0. Gifford, Don, and Robert J. Seidman. Ulysses Annotated: Notes for James Joyce's Ulysses. Berkeley, Calif., Univ. of California Press, 2009. Hynes, Sam. The Catholicism of James Joyce. Commonwealth, LV, 1952. p. 488. Joyce, James. A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. New York, New American Library, 2006. Joyce, James. Stephen Hero. New York. New Direction Books, 1963. Joyce, James. Ulysses. New York, Vintage Books, 1990. McNelly, Willis E. “Liturgical Deviations in ‘Ulysses.’” James Joyce Quarterly, vol. 2, no. 4, 1965, pp. 291–298. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/25486523. Miller CH, Hedges DW. "Scrupulosity Disorder: an Overview and Introductory Analysis." Journal of Anxiety Disorders, vol. 22 no. 6, 2008, pp. 1042–1058 Ranald, Margaret Loftus. “Stephen Dedalus' Vocation and the Irony of Religious Ritual.” James Joyce Quarterly, vol. 2, no. 2, 1965, pp. 97–102. JSTOR, www.jstor.org/stable/25486487. Stravinskas, Peter (1990). Catholic Answer Book. Our Sunday Visitor. p. 78. van Megen HJGM, den Boer-Wolters D, Verhagen PJ. "Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and Religion: a Reconnaissance." Beyond Boundaries. Wiley, 2010. pp. 271–82.

[agent-7-at-your-service]

Future Plot: Project Prometheus - Chapter 1

(( Sandra, Justinian, Telemachus, Iruka, Kitzeh, Agent 7 (mentioned), Hera of the motherly moon (Mentioned)  and Pyrrhus/Chaodis belong to me

Camille, Marina, and Pacling (mentioned) belong to @inklingleesquidly

Nebula and Wish belong to @myzzy and @agenttwo  

Mysteeri belongs to @dreadangel

Designs of Marina and Wish belong to @teamuntyblue

Emerald and Sapphire belong to @twelvetailedkitsune and @son-of-joy

Agent 0 (mentioned) belong to @son-of-joy

Celeste and Willow (mentioned) belong to @alpinesquid

Arsenic belongs to @a-demo-of-a-hero ))

Camille managed to get Nebula, Justinian, Emerald, and Sapphire to come with her as they were hanging out in Inkopolis Square along with Marina and Wish. As for Telemachus, he was found in Octo Valley with his little sister, Iruka, hanging out with Kitzeh, the Inkatarian Hybrid and Agent 7's daughter, in what was once Cuttlefish's Shack. Telemachus decides to join only if Iruka comes with them. Camille had to agree which made Iruka squeal in bliss, still thinking that Camille and Nebula are Callie and Marie.

Agent 0 decided not to go for he is done being a Champion of Ares. He did pray they stay safe even though he had trained his daughter to take care of themselves. Hera of the Motherly Moon is with her mother, Agent Beta 10, having some family bonding on another planet. She was the champion of the goddess Hera and the cupbearer Hebe. Willow, who was Champion of Asclepius, didn't want to come for similar reasons that Agent 0 had; however, she did hope Celeste would be okay. Agent 7, who was once the Champion of Heracles, refused to go, thinking the job is done; instead, he sends his adopted daughter, Sandra, to represent for him.

Kitzeh still kept that hidden passage to Hephaestus's Forge in her personal guild pub. The passage still has that mine cart. It still transports Camille's party a full speed with the end, catapulting them into a pile of pillows.

Camille, Nebula, Justinian, Celeste, Emerald, Sapphire, Telemachus, and Kitzeh were the only ex-champions that came. In addition, Marina, Wish, Iruka, and Sandra also joined for various reasons. And it turns out that Arsenic and Chaodis were already in Hephaestus's Forge, representing as champions of Hephaestus and Eris respectfully.

Meanwhile, someone has followed Camille's Party -- one more person that took interest in what Camille is doing.

Arsenic and Pyrrhus run over to help their friends out of the pillow pile.

"Arsenic, I thought you and Hephaestus replaced the catapult cart and cushion," Camille remembered.

"Oh... Uh..... we forgot," Arsenic folds her arms, "Wanna fight about it?"

"I don't think we have time for that," Pyrrhus intervened. He offers a hand to Camille so that he can help her up.

Camille sarcastically laughs. "Welcome to Hephaestus's Forge I guess...... It's been a while." She gets up and dusts herself. "And I can help myself, Chao-Chao." That was the nickname she gave Pyrrhus when he was called Chaodis.

She's now recalling many things that happened in the forge, including how the Olympic Champions began their journey. She then remembered something -- something grim and heart-wrenching -- two funerals.

"So what exactly are we back here for?" Telemachus asked, remembering the forge.

Camille snapped out of her sudden trance of remembering things.

"...Hephaestus told me to bring you guys back here," Camille explained. She looked bothered, still trying to get over the fact her parents got kidnapped and that Janine is missing.

Anger -- and only anger -- is what's building up within Camille.

The news about Moros kidnapping the parents of Camille has spread all around the Mythological world of Greece. From the descendants of the Amazons to the residents of the Underworld, they all knew who Camille was and they all know what Moros did. Most of the people of Inkopolis only know that Camille's Family -- except Pacling -- have gone missing.

Marina and Nebula place their hands on Camille's shoulders, hoping to comfort her. Camille looked at them and smiled.

Pyrrhus and Arsenic took the ex-champions and their allies to the Vault, the very sanctuary housing the 20 heirlooms of their respective Olympians. Hephaestus is in one of the halls leading to the Vault, carving up a statue of Eris to replace the deteriorating one. Hephaestus started lecturing, sensing the ex-champions' presence:

"When the first primordial, Chaos, created the universe, the worlds, and the waters of the Classical World, water-meadow dove Eurynome and ocean-wind snake Ophion were the first lifeforms created. Both titans were granted the power to create, resulting in the creation of the thirteen other Primordials and the Earth of the Classical World. When Eurynome exiles Ophion to Tartarus, his power was divided among the Primordials and herself. Thus, lead to the descendants of gods and the creation of mortals of the Classical world. The rest is mythological history then complete legends.

We Olympians are descended from two of the fifteen Primordials that helped shape the classical world: Uranus and Gaia. You can say that Eurynome is both the Ancestor of all Titans and creator of the Classical World. Ophion's divine power over the winds was given to Aeolus and the Anemoi by Eurynome. The Titan Cronus earned his time powers from Chronos. The Olympian Eros is an incarnation of the Primordial Eros. And Moros and the Children of Nyx descend from Erebus and Nyx."

Hephaestus puts down his tools and sighs. He looked tired.

"The resting places of Athena, Triton, and Melinoe... they've disappeared." Hephaestus stops sculpting and approaches the door. "And the Olympian Family Tree has somehow....... rejuvenated."

"What do you mean by that?" Telemachus asked.

"The Gods have returned." Hephaestus opens the doors. "Someone was using the Omphalos Stone. Hermes returned to Mount Othrys to check on it, and it's been stolen. But I'll handle that later."

The Vault's hall was still empty with nothing but the pedestals and the 20 treasured heirlooms of the gods. Behind each pedestal is a mosaic portrait made of clay, marble, and granite, displaying the major Olympian deities. On each pedestal, the heirlooms were still intact and untouched for some time.

This amazed Marina, Wish, Iruka, and Sandra as they never seen this place. The ex-champions, on the other hand, have been here several times when the Titans and Typhon threatened the world.

"You know what do, children," Hephaestus permitted.

Camille, Nebula, Justinian, Celeste, Emerald, Sapphire, Telemachus, and Kitzeh stepped forth to their former pedestals: Athena, Poseidon, Persephone and Demeter, Hestia, Apollo, Artemis, Hades, and Dionysus. Pyrrhus did the same, standing front of the pedestals of Eris. Arsenic already retrieved Hephaestus's Heirlooms. Soon Sandra stepped forth as well, but Hephaestus blocks her way.

"Where do you think you're going?" Hephaestus questioned.

Camille stood by Sandra to intervene. "She's taking his father's place."

"As the champion of Heracles, sir," Sandra bowed slightly.

Hephaestus looked into Sandra's eyes, and he shook his head. Instead of telling Sandra she isn't suited for the role, he shakes his head, denying the inkling the right to take Heracles's Nemean Lion Cloak. Camille sighed and pats Sandra's shoulder.

"It'll be alright, Sandy," Camille then walks over to Athena's Pedestal.

Nebula retrieves Poseidon's Trident and Triton's Conch Shell; Emerald and Sapphire retrieve Apollo's Bow and Artemis's Tiara respectively; Celeste retrieves Hestia's ball of clay which the goddess called her "Heart"; Justinian retrieves Persephone's Staff and Demeter's Satchel; Arsenic retrieves Hephaestus's Hammer and Tongs; Pyrrhus retrieves Eris's Golden Apple of Discord.

When Pyrrhus transforms, he's no longer himself; he is now Chaodis Diamachi, Descendant of Achilles. Adorned in crow feathers, lead, silver, and little gold, he still looked like Eris, the goddess who deceived him as a mother.

With one glance at the boy who is now Chaodis, memories deep in Camille's mind were resurfacing like beasts trying to break free of their cage. She had to look away and ignore what she saw and did back then. She looked back at Athena's Pedestal. She retrieves Athena's spear, but when she tries to take Zeus's thunderbolt on the pedestal next to her, it electrocutes her.

"Ahh!" Camille retracts her arms away from the thunderbolt. "What gives!?"

"It must be looking for another champion." Telemachus tries to retrieve Hades's Helmet of Invisibility, but it left a frostbitten touch. He retracts his hands away before the helmet engulfs itself in ice. "I guess it's the same with me."

"Dionysus's Thyrsus Wand and Wine Jug is stuck to the pedestal." Kitzeh seems to have trouble retrieving her heirloom.

Hephaestus takes notice of the issues. "That's not supposed to happen... I'm afraid they're searching for other champions. I don't know why." He then looked alarmed as he took a closer look. "So that's what the material does..."

The kids don't know what the god meant by that until they noticed a change in color from the Olympian heirlooms. They appeared glass like and filled with clouds and stars as if the veils of the galaxies and nebulas have been trapped in these belongings. Only Hephaestus's Hammer and Tongs remained in their bronze alloy form along with Hermes's Talaria and Caduceus (which are with the god at the moment).

"Wow..." Iruka was amazed by the new appearance of the Olympian heirlooms.

"What does this is mean?" Marina asked Hephaestus. "Does it have something to do with the Gods returning?"

Marina has studied mythology for the sake of understanding the past. She knew the Ancient Greeks of Human Civilization have a faith around Mount Olympus and all of Greece, but the idea of mythology repeating like this was new to her. She didn't know Camille, Nebula, and a number of others have ended up in the affairs of the Greek Pantheon, especially in the Titanomachy.

"I forgot to mention to you kids that the revived Olympians came to my Forge and retrieved their Heirlooms back," Hephaestus explained, "Hermes and I were quite confused. When they got their heirlooms, I replaced them with replicas made of a type of an enchanted Adamant that I call Promethean Glass. With the fire of Olympus and the sands made from the stone that Prometheus was chained to. They still act like their original."

"You're saying the real heirlooms are with their rightful owners?" An anonymous girl asked, stepping into the Vault. "Shouldn't they handle this for Camille?"

"Mysteeri?" Camille turns her head towards the Vault entrance with the other kids following.

Entering through the Vault door, an inkling girl much older than the other squids and octopi appears before her. She appeared like normal: yellow eyes, black and magenta hair like Callie's, and dark skin. Then suddenly, the ice engulfing Hades's Helmet thaws, glowing for Mysteeri.

"Were you following us?" Wish asked.

"Yes, and I heard about what happened to Camille's parents and grandmother." Mysteeri then looked at Hades's Helmet. She can hear it calling to him. "And I want to help." She started stepping towards the pedestal of Hades.

Telemachus noticed this and stepped aside so that Mysteeri can pick up the helmet. The Helmet has chosen her. She places her hand on the helmet and picks it up. Hephaestus encourages her to put it on, and she did.

In seconds, Mysteeri transforms, appearing in a black skin-tight suit with a lily and cobra design with white gloves and gold studded bracelets, hot pink and gold sandals, two leather belts strapped on each arm, and black-wing sleeves. A diadem is over her chest with the symbol, Pluto, Hades’s symbol. Hades's helmet of invisibility made up her hairstyle: a beehive-like hairdo with bangs sweeping to the right. The hair is wrapped with two leather strips each with three diadems and they extend down her ears.

Mysteeri is the new Champion of Hades.

She looked at herself, but she looked indifferent towards the new attire.

Soon Sandra is suddenly heard screaming. Everyone looked towards her, and she was glowing as bright as the sun. When the light dies down, Sandra wasn't there. Instead, there's a white lion-headed warrior in a war robe of bronze and fiery gold; her belt is leather, carrying a sword made of bronze-gold alloy. The warrior is humanoid with large lion paws and a slightly muscular tone.  The warrior appeared in it's 20's.

The lion-headed warrior was looking down at its hands, surprised yet confused.

"Where did she go?" Mysteeri asked.

"Sandra was just here in the vault," Emerald supported.

"And now there's a lion-man in here?" Celeste was looking at the warrior.

"Agent 7 is gonna kill us..." Justinian sounded nervous.

"We saw her touch the lion cloak," Wish explained.

"Yeah, she just stared at the pedestal and walked towards it, and then she just grabbed it," Marina added.

"She must've touched the lion cloak out of curiosity," Nebula assumed.

"But who's the lioness?" Iruka asked, amazed that the lioness-headed warrior came out of nowhere.

"It's me, guys." Sandra's voice was coming from the Lioness-headed warrior.

Sandra is the new Champion of Heracles.

Sandra grabs her lioness-head and pulled it back like a hood, revealing herself. She looked older with her indigo hair tied back. Overall she was beautiful. She smiled.

"How do I look?" Sandra asked.

Hephaestus was going to disapprove of this and demand her to put it back on the pedestal, but when he looked at Sandra's Olympian form, he nods in respect. Telemachus takes his sister, Iruka, out of the Vaults to explore the Forge; he convinces Wish and Marina to join. The returning Champions welcome Sandra and Mysteeri as new Champions.

"Now that almost all the Champions are here with new honorary members, let me show you all what has happened." Hephaestus looks to Arsenic. "Get Telemachus and those other kids, take them to the elevator." He then looked to Kitzeh. "As for you?"

"I'll... be heading back to my pub in Octo-Valley... I know my way out." Kitzeh bows in respect and simply leaves the Vault and later the Forge.

Hephaestus has Arsenic guide the former Olympian Champions to some room while he guides Sandra and Mysteeri to his main forge. Hephaestus took the Keys of the Underworld with him. It was originally a key blade, but not it's two simple keys.

The Blacksmith god reaches out to Mysteeri, gesturing her to hand him weapons she has with her.

"Got any weapons in your possession?" Hephaestus asked.

Mysteeri steps forward and took out two pistols -- one purple and one silver. They were her signature weapons: War and Death.

"This is all I've got," Mysteeri replied, "They're called War and Death."

Hephaestus takes the weapons, but Mysteeri gave a slight sign of concern. Still, she trusts the Blacksmith god. He was going to make a few modifications.

"Quite rare of me to forge firearms... but mixing it with the Keys of the Underworld..." Hephaestus started tempering both the first gun, War, and the first key. He places them on an anvil, holding them with tongs, and started hammering with his hammer. "Let War become Polemos." Hephaestus then worked on the other gun, Death. "And let Death become Thanatos."

When Hephaestus was finished he handed the guns back. They appear more like a key but the trigger and barrel almost visible. Mysteeri tried it out and shot down four lanterns. She smiled at her new guns, Polemos and Thanatos. She can see the galaxies and stars cloak her weapons.

Hephaestus then looked to Sandra. "As for you, I already had a weapon made for the former champion of Heracles." He goes over to a stone chest and opens it to pull out a unique ax also cloaked in galaxies and stars. "I modified Heracles's club so that it can act like an ax. Now it's yours." He hands it to her.

Sandra takes it and noticed how heavy it was. She didn't mind the weight.

"Thank you," Sandra said.

"This is the least I can do for newcomers." Hephaestus gives Sandra and Mysteeri a hand gesture to follow him. "Come, it's time I show you the city I've built beyond Mount Olympus."

Hephaestus leaves his cyclopes to manage activity in the Forge, he then takes the Champions -- transformed into their Olympian forms -- to a massive room of marble where the 20 Olympian Gods were painted on the dome ceiling. In the center of the room is a bronze lever in the shape of a thunderbolt, a carved bone, and a trident bundled together. Arsenic came just in time with Telemachus, Iruka, Marina, and Wish.

Before Hephaestus and pulls the lever back, he approaches Telemachus, Iruka, Marina, and Wish. He hands each of the four something: golden cloaks with a medallion depicting six arms sharing a lightning bolt.

"This city doesn't allow mortals through unless protected with this," Hephaestus explained, "The symbol on these medallions show that you're under The Six's protection."

"The Six?" Iruka wondered.

"The first Olympians," Telemachus answered, "Hestia, Demeter, Hera, Hades, Poseidon, and Zeus."

"Who would build a city at the top of the mountain?" Marina asked, knowing that a few settlements were established around Olympus only and not on the mountain itself.

"Who said it was built at the top of a mountain?" Hephaestus pulls the lever.

There was a roaring sound and the room started to feel like a real elevator, rising to the top. However, the way this elevator accelerate made the Champions and the four other children stagger a bit and get on their knees. Only Hephaestus remained standing as the elevator goes up. When the elevator reached the top, everyone but Hephaestus ended up flung in mid air for a few seconds before falling to the ground.

Hephaestus and Arsenic open the doors to reveal a vast city built in the clouds of the sky's shining blue. Enchanted bronze foundations kept the city afloat with every building surrounded by cloistered courtyards where the finest vegetation grow and the walkways are paved with gold. Unique jumps pads were placed everywhere to help some residents make their way from one building to another. The residents here were all walking about, wearing tunics, chitons, gold, and bronze.

"Welcome to Olympus, the true home of the Olympians." Hephaestus steps into his rebuilt home. "I'm taking all of you to the Acropolis where you'll take your oaths as champions."

Soon there was the sound of galloping, the sound of stomping, and the sound of horses and oxen pulling chariots.

"Woooo!!! The sun is faster than the moon, Artemis!!" A young man with fair skin and dark hair flies by, driving a gold chariot pulled by four fiery steeds. At his side is a guardian made of yellow light.

"Apollo! Slow down, this isn't a race!!" A young girl with fair skin and dark hair followed her brother, driving a silver chariot pulled by two horses with ghostly feathered and helmets that make their heads look like that of oxen. Beside the girl is a blue ghostly maiden.

"Helios, Selene, how are their chariot driving lessons going?" Hephaestus called to the guardian and maiden.

"Apollo still needs to watch their speed!" The guardian replied.

"Artemis would make good use of this chariot for his nightly hunts!" The maiden replied.

Hephaestus laughs. Everyone was amazed. Apollo and Helios drive faster, racing his sister, Artemis, and Selene; both of them didn't take notice of the Inktran Sisters. Emerald and Sapphire run over to watch the two gods continue their race. Sapphire looked closely and noticed the two gods carrying their Heirlooms.

"Was that Apollo and Artemis?" Emerald asked Hephaestus.

"Both reborn anew..." Hephaestus stood by the Inktran Sisters' side. "And your their champions."

"Are all the gods here?" Nebula walked over Emerald side. Justinian stood next to her.

"They're living among the mortals, living mortal lives with their powers still intact," Hephaestus answered, "But they're enjoying these decent lives."

"I thought the gods looked down on mortals,"  Mysteeri argued with Hephaestus's back turned. She has little knowledge of Greek Mythology, but she sure knows that the Pantheon has mixed views of mortals.

"A certain messenger convinced them otherwise, and they learned from the Trojan War." Hephaestus is talking about Hermes, indicating the revived gods still remember what they did in their past lives. "The Olympian Pantheon are carrying out sentences as punishment, and the only one carrying the longest sentence is Eris."

When Hephaestus mentioned Eris, Chaodis stepped over to stand by Sapphire.

"Does she regret what she did?" Chaodis asked. "Or does she still enjoyed the pleasure and thrill in that chaos she made?"

No one wanted to remember those days. There were mixed emotions among the group; Iruka, Marina, and Wish stood silently, knowing something happened and was caused by the goddess Eris. Hephaestus sighed, not wanting to answer.

Chaodis looks down grimly, knowing the answer already. "My apologies, Hephaestus."

"Let's just continue on the Acropolis." Hephaestus guides them there.

--

The Olympian Acropolis entrance was a stairway to a starry dome room. Half the floor has a ghostly image of a resting titan with a pyre made over where his heart would be. All the constellations can be seen and four constellations were glowing so brightly that lines were connecting the stars: Orion, Libra, Virgo, and Taurus. Camille looked up at those constellations. The Muses were there with wood-carved staffs and round shields.

An altar was built in front of the pyre, and at that altar, Hestia stood proud and tall, carrying her True Heart. She appears like the perfect mother to all, and she was dressed in sandy brown and gold. She had a shoal of charcoal and lumber brown.

"Aunt Hestia." Hephaestus bows.

"Hephaestus, rise for me. No need for such politeness." Hestia smiled at Celeste. "My Champion, you and the others are here to retake your oaths?" She then smiled to Mysteeri and Sandra. "And you two are here to take the oaths in place of the old champions?" She then smiled at Telemachus, Iruka, Marina, and Wish. "And their possible allies? Welcome to Olympus."

The former champions nod, Mysteeri and Sandra nod, and the rest bow.

Hestia giggles and gestures the former champions to step forward and get on one knee with their right hand placed where their own hearts are. Telemachus, Iruka, Marina, and Wish stood where they were and watched. The Muses stand around them in a circle. Hestia asked them to repeat after her:

"...You speak that which we know well: nay, even of ourselves we know that your wisdom and understanding is exceeding, and that you became a defender of the deathless ones from chilling doom. And through your devising, we'll come back again from the murky gloom and from our merciless bonds ... And so now with fixed purpose and deliberate counsel we will aid your power in dreadful strife and will fight..." (Theogony, Line 617; Hesiod)

Afterward, Hestia gestures Sandra and Mysteeri to come forth and do the same thing, but with hymns.

Sandra repeated two hymns after Hestia.

Sandra's first hymn is spoken with the Muses:

"I will sing of Heracles, the son of Zeus and much the mightiest of men on earth. Alcmena bare him in Thebes, the city of lovely dances, when the dark-clouded Son of Cronos had lain with her. Once he used to wander over unmeasured tracts of land and sea at the bidding of King Eurystheus, and himself did many deeds of violence and endured many; but now he lives happily in the glorious home of snowy Olympus, and has neat-ankled Hebe for his wife. Hail, lord, son of Zeus! Give me success and prosperity." (Homeric Hymns, Hymn 15)

Sandra's second hymn is spoken with Frankincense burning:

"Hear, pow’rful, Heracles untam'd and strong, ... 'Tis thine strong archer, all things to devour, supreme, all-helping, all-producing pow'r;  To thee mankind as their deliv'rer pray, whose arm can chase the savage tribes away: Uweary'd, earth's best blossom, offspring fair, to whom calm peace, and peaceful works are dear. Self-born, with primogenial fires you shine, and various names and strength of heart are thine. Thy mighty head supports the morning light, and bears untam'd, the silent gloomy night; From east to west endu'd with strength divine, twelve glorious labours to absolve is thine; Supremely skill'd, thou reign'st in heav'n's abodes, thyself a God amid'st th' immortal Gods.With arms unshaken, infinite, divine, come, blessed pow'r, and to our rites incline;Th e mitigations of disease convey, and drive disasterous maladies away. Come, shake the branch with thy almighty arm, dismiss thy darts and noxious fate disarm." (Orphic Hymns, Hymn 11)

Mysteeri is next, repeating after Hestia:

"Hades, magnanimous, whose realms profound are fix'd beneath the firm and solid ground... and wrapt forever in the depths of night... Earth's keys to thee, illustrious king belong, its secret gates unlocking, deep and strong. 'Tis thine, abundant annual fruits to bear, for needy mortals are thy constant care... Thy throne is fix'd in Hade's dismal plains, distant, unknown to rest, where darkness reigns; Where, destitute of breath, pale spectres dwell, in endless, dire, inexorable hell... With captive Persephone, thro' grassy plains, drawn in a four-yok'd car with loosen'd reins, Rapt o'er the deep, impell'd by love, you flew 'till Eleusina's city rose to view; There, in a wond'rous cave obscure and deep, the sacred maid secure from search you keep, The cave of Atthis, whose wide gates display an entrance to the kingdoms void of day. Of unapparent works, thou art alone the dispensator, visible and known. O pow'r all-ruling, holy, honor'd light, thee sacred poets and their hymns delight: Propitious to thy mystic's works incline, rejoicing come, for holy rites are thine." (Orphic Hymns, Hymn 17)

"You are all Champions of the Gods --now or again. Go forth in the name of Olympus," Hestia concluded before ending the Oath-Taking Ceremony.

Telemachus, Iruka were congratulating Sandra on being the new Champion of Heracles while Marina, and Wish congratulate Camille and Nebula. The champions were all kind of excited to become champions again. Mysteeri is hanging out mostly with Camille.

Hephaestus was taking them to the courtyard of Zeus's Palace where stories were told that the Greek Pantheon gathered for a full assembly. Gold automaton table arrived out of the palace when Hephaestus came with the champions and allies, offering grape juice and bread while they sat around.

"Pyrrhus told me you revived an old alliance, and I can assume this is the 5th incarnation of the Argonauts," Hephaestus began.

"Why the 5th?" Mysteeri asked.

"A man named Jason formed it for the sake of finding a fleece to get his throne back," Hephaestus explained, "Then a former Argonaut named Ascalaphus of Orchomenus started the 2nd incarnation with fewer heroes during the Trojan War by the request of Agamemnon. The Hero Achilles later replaced Ascalaphus when a spear killed the argonaut. After the Trojan War and the Fall of Olympus, Aeneas of Troy formed the 3rd incarnation of Argonauts to continue the legacy of the Greek Heroes and Pantheon by founding Lavinium. But that incarnation failed when Lavinium was renamed as Alba Longa and later Rome, and the legacy was tarnished."

"And that's where our incarnations of the Argonauts come in after so many years, ohhhhhh... it's like walking down memory lane for me." Camille sounded bored and sarcastic when saying that.

"...And you're right. And Nebula made the request to form the 4th incarnation to fight the Titans, defeat Typhon, and foil Eris's plans." Hephaestus stood up, continuing to talk. "And it dissolved for a good reason. Then there's the 5th incarnation that formed in the land you call America, and it lives on to this day. But..."

"But what, Hephaestus?" Marina asked.

"Who started this recent incarnation?" Hephaestus asked.

The majority of the meeting pointed at Sandra. Iruka didn't know much about Sandra, so she didn't point at her. Camille didn't point because she is focused on getting her parents back and finding her grandmother.

Hephaestus looked at Sandra carefully for a moment and then smiled. Now he understood why Heracles's Heirloom called out to her.

"So... when are going to go after this Moros god?" Camille asked impatiently. "I want to get my mom and dad back!"

"I was just getting to that." Hephaestus gets up. "You'll all be taking your free-time to explore the Mediterranean to investigate for signs of the Children of Nyx."

"Great..." Camille gets up, thinking this isn't going to help find her parents. "Then let's go guys."

"Not so fast, Champion of Athena." Hephaestus halted. "All of you go on and explore Olympus, see what you can bring on the journey. Camille, we need to talk."

Everyone splits up and go about in Olympus, Hephaestus and Camille took a stroll around Zeus's Courtyard. The volcanic Blacksmith God is aware of Camille's attitude at the moment, and want to help her in some way.

"Camille, your parents may be alive," Hephaestus stated, "Probably imprisoned somewhere in Moros's Realm."

"When I get my hands on Moros, he's gonna be ripped apart in more pieces than a popped, shredded tire!" Camille has fire in her eyes. "I swear he's gonna get it!"

"So you're not afraid of Destiny himself?" Hephaestus questioned.

"Destiny can die in a hole for all I care! I make my own destiny!" Camille folds her arms. "So he better give back Mommy and Daddy once I come up to his door steps! I'm not afraid of him..."

"You're afraid of losing them?" Hephaestus further questioned. "Your parents?"

Camille was silent. "... I just want Mommy and Daddy back."

Hephaestus then mentioned something that might help Camille communicate with them. However, there was a catch. They would need to see a wise woman in Athens for this.

"Camille..... will you believe me that there is a way to see your parents again?" Hephaestus asked.

[agent-7-at-your-service]

Future Plot: Syer’s Rebellion - Chapter 10

((Sandra, Pyrrhus, Telemachus  Kitzeh, James and Market Splatoon, and President Howe belongs to me

Camille belongs to @inklingleesquidly

Nebula belongs to @agenttwo and @myzzy

Marina and Wish belong to @inklingleesquidly@agenttwo and @myzzy; designs are made by @teamuntyblue  / @ryan-sign-guy

Vix belongs to @teamuntyblue / @ryan-sign-guy

Beaker Jr belongs to @askvincent and @scrushling

Emerald and Sapphire belong to @son-of-joy and @twelvetailedkitsune

Suzy belongs to @son-of-joy

Mysteeri belongs to @dreadangel ))

((Insert opening: https://youtu.be/IBF9XEsnvJI ))

Last time on Syer's Rebellion: 

With the help of Telemachus, Sapphire, Emerald, and Mysteeri, Sandra and James take the Black Hills. The Reservations made by Howe break their chains and for a northern blockade. The Revolution attacked from the southwest to push the Splat-Coats east. 

Their attack and their victory would mark an end to the Central US Theater (aka The Great Plains Theater) with just one battle. And this shocks the population still in loyalty with President Howe and her Administration.

The Eastern US Theater is now beginning to conclude the Revolution.

With the Black Hills reclaims, James promised the reservations a return to their old settlements and the protection of the Black Hills. In addition, the Revolution continue the construction of Crazy Horse's Monument and the reconstruction of Mount Rushmore where it was eroding away.

And with the Splat-Coats losing the Central US Theater to just one battle, Texas, Hawaii, and Alaska finally join in the favor of the Revolution. Splat-Coat Loyalists that are still in the Central US Theater had to put down their weapons and allow the Revolt to march on the East Coast.

Chris Zorin, who was reassigned to defend the Splat-Coats in the Black Hills, is captured for interrogation before being hung and splatted. 

The inkomaton "Angel", Justice, is found critically damaged and had to be scrapped. And later, they found unfinished models of Prosperity and Happiness with documents indicating two things: Liberty and Justice were the only complete inkomatons made, and Howe decommissioned the "Angels of America" Project for prosthetics for her.

With the Central US Theater beginning, we find Sandra's party reuniting with Camille's and Nebula's in New Orleans. With the water levels receding, cities once close to the Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic were being rebuilt with little success. New Orlean, Houston, most of the Cities in Florida, and all the cities in the Thirteen Colonies (including Washington D.C.) have been successful. Louisiana was the first to be liberated in the Eastern Theatre.

While Sandra's party was making their way to Louisiana, Sandra got to know about how James formed Market Splatoon:

((Narration by James Hiller Syer during this part of the Chapter))

After Mom and Dad died, I took up by a small inventor's fair society where I meet Abraham who was at the time, my mentor. According to him, he was aware of President Howe's efforts to reinstate slavery into the country as "Extra-Jobs for those of poverty". His brother is currently living somewhere in South Carolina, working as a servant. 

For Henri, we found him when Abraham and I turn the inventor's fair society into an activist party. He was a French exchange student who ended up in the mess. We had to take him in or those Splat-Coats would've taken him for interrogation.

Then there's Elizabeth. I met her when Abraham brought the Revolution's operations to Southern California. She was an English exchange student if we never met, but she decided to stay, seeing what President Howe and her Administration was doing to the United States.

And together we made Market Splatoon after the Market Squid. I know it's an odd choice, but there was no other squid native here in the United States.

((End of Jame's Narration))

With everyone in New Orleans, they had a meeting that a few would find familiar. However, Sandra and James began the meeting with an agreement.

Forgotten Monument, Lee Circle -New Orleans, Louisiana - 11:30 AM

The place they made their meeting in once displayed a grim reminder: A simple column pedestal. Centuries ago, a statue was on that pedestal in honor of a human general who defended a Confederacy built from cotton and slaves. That confederacy is gone and his statue with it.

"Why did we pick this place?" Sandra asked, having learned about the General that the monument was built for. 

"It's nice to have a meeting with some fresh air," James explained, "We got privacy here in this area anyway."

Camille, Nebula, Pyrrhus, Emerald, Sapphire, Suzy, Mysteeri, Telemachus, Kitzeh and Celeste were sitting in an inner circle. Beaker Jr, Vix, Marina, Wish, and Elizabeth of Market Splatoon were sitting in an outer circle, only there to listen. Henri and Abraham were at the bay, managing a fleet for an attack by sea. Half of them enjoyed having this meeting outside, half thought it was better doing it indoors, but a small portion doesn't care.

"Anyway...," Sandra continued, "James and I talked this over after our victory in the Great Plains. I think it's best that I remain with my brother and his Revolution. Emerald, Sapphire, Suzy, Mysteeri, you're doing the same for the sake of that Revolution. Camille, Nebula, Beaker, Vix, Marina, Wish, I'm having Telemachus, Kitzeh, and Celeste send you all back to Inkopolis. I can't risk putting you guys in danger at this point."

The reaction varied.

"What!?" Celeste is in disbelief.

Telemachus said nothing and shook her head. Kitzeh pretended to spit out an invisible drink for dramatic effect.

"We're returning home?" Vix asked.

"But there's so much to do here!" Beaker objected.

"I'm not going anywhere!" Camille stands up. "Mysteeri is like family to me, if she's staying, I'm staying.

"You can't do this to us, Sandra," Suzy commented, "Despite our reasons being in the Americas other than Revolution, we're not going to separate, not after what Howe did."

"What choice do I have?" Sandra argued. "I already have my family. I don't know why I need you guys..."

Everyone was staring at her. Sandra looked down.

"I just thought I can move on, forget my foster parents, and just go on other adventures." Sandra takes off her glasses and rubs her eyes. 

"Sandra, you're our friend, don't forget that we decided to help you," Nebula reasoned.

"To think I had you guys sail with me..." Sandra looked at Nebula and then at everyone. "Will you still sail with me?"

James stood back watching, arms folded. Elizabeth is beside him. When Sandra asked that question, there was silence until Pyrrhus stepped forward with one hand raised and with the other hand place where his heart is.

"If it means starting over for me, I will sail with you," Pyrrhus promised.

Soon the others followed, raising their hands and placing their other hands where their heart is. They followed Pyrrhus's example. Only Marina, Wish, Vix, James, Elizabeth, and Beaker Jr didn't participate, but they did nods in agreement; Sandra accepted their responses as yes. Suzy didn't respond for personal reasons, but Sandra can understand.

"You are still a sister to me, Sandra, and as a family, I will sail with you," Telemachus promised.

"Same! I'll sail with you, Sandra!" Kitzeh promised.

"A friend of Camille's is always a friend of mine! I will sail with you!" Celeste gave a grin.

"I have to agree with Celeste." Mysteeri has known Celeste. "I'll sail with you, Miss Syer."

"We'll sail with you until the end of our days," Emerald promised.

"As friends," Sapphire added.

"Sandra, despite everything, I'll do this for your father, my father, and my mother," Nebula promised, "And for that, I'll sail with you."

Camille rolls her eyes and gave a smirk. "Oh what the hey, I'll sail with you, Sandy."

Soon James and Elizabeth joined. 

"You're my sister, Sandra, therefore I will sail with you as a family," James promised.

"I'll sail with you for sake of your brother," Elizabeth promised while placing a hand on James's shoulder.

All Sandra can do was smile.

((Narration by President Evelyn "Georgia III" Howe for the rest of this chapter.))

"Just a few sparks, and it is done," the surgeon said, "This will be the greatest steampunk innovation we made since the Inkomatons."

I was lying on a surgical table this whole time; my legs have been scared and my abdomen was impaled thanks for the traitor, Mysteeri. But with this innovation, I am able to walk again with boots and wings made of the lightest but toughest metal my people can offer.

I am no longer a squid, but I am an angel. No need for four angels of America; Oh how foolish I was for commissioning that; just a waste of time and money. I personify me as the America's woman -- Columbia.

I am in Washington D.C. the capital of what is left of my people's country. America, shaped in my image, is shrinking thank to two indigo inklings and her allies from Inkopolis. My military are fools! How can they lose the Internment camp in the West Coast and the Black Hills in the Great Plains to them?

Once the surgery is over, I return to my office in the White House. My retainers and generals were all there with a map of the United States of America. The status of the country disgusts me; instead a war between the North and South, it's a war between West and East. States in the west of the Mississippi are already inspired to rebel: Minnesota, Iowa, Missouri, Arkansas, and Louisiana. The rest of the East still remain loyal to me. I look to Europe and the Native Tribes in what's left of my country for allies and support.

My generals are already blabbering like idiots, mentioning the number of options we have: give a reminder to liberated states, gather all our troops at the northern borders near Canada, make activists an example and torture them, and so many other methods of keeping the citizens in line and fight the Revolution.

The Legislative and the Judicial are already considering one action to take, and that is making me dictator until the rebellion is quelled. I'm obliged to follow it, but they have to go through the process of passing it like a law.

The commotion in this meeting was then silenced. They reorganized their thoughts and spoke on at a time like real men at a meeting. 

"President Howe, at this point, the loyalist are lost, and those in our remaining states are starting to dwindle and lose hope," one general warned.

"President Howe, we don't have enough to pay our men," another general warned, "without money to pay our men, there's a chance they'll refuse to fight or worse, treason."

And I had to listen to all of this for 12 hours. 

But I already knew how I'm going to face the Revolution.

((End of Howe's Narration))