#up there in the phrases that immediately cement themselves in my brain

[jimmyandthegiraffes]

I can’t stop thinking about “I think I do need a scwubby wubby to be honest but not from you”

[successfullyadhd]

Your Memory Isn't Terrible, I Promise

Okay, please hear me out. This is NOT a post shaming you for not being able to remember anything. It is, in fact, the opposite. There will be no “Just try harder and you’ll do better! :) :)” type of nonsense advice.

Here’s the true root of the problem - it’s not that you have a bad memory. If you have ADHD, it’s most likely that you didn’t truly absorb the information that you were supposed to remember in the first place. Or it’s that you have so much external stimuli bombarding your brain, you can’t pull out the piece of information hidden in your mind when you need it because it’s buried under a ton of other things coming at you in the moment. And now you’re probably thinking “Uhh, okay cool but that’s still not helpful!!!???” 

I used to constantly forget things. IMPORTANT things. A weekly meeting, doctors appointments, assignments - you name it and I’ve lost it in this grey matter behind my eyes. And then someone would mention it out of frustration or concern (usually both) and I would gasp, hate myself or just be completely shocked. The worst feeling is when you realized you knew something but your brain didn’t supply it until far after it was needed. I can’t number the amount of times someone has said “Em, did you know about this?” and a hot feeling of shame would pour over me because I did, in fact, know but had just completely forgotten. And it’s hard using the phrase “I’m so sorry, I completely forgot!” over and over again without skepticism from neurotypical people. “How is that possible?” they would wonder aloud as a I scrambled to make amends. Does this sound like a familiar scene?

So this is what I did about it - it might work for you, or maybe it will spark an idea of some things that are helpful.

First - names. I used to be the WORST with names. I’ve literally forgotten my cousin’s name while introducing him to a friend. I once read that if you said a person’s name three times during a conversation, you would remember it later. I couldn’t usually make it that far because the name would drop out of my head as soon as I would hear it, so I came up with another method. When someone tells me their name, I look them in the eyes and repeat it in my head three or four times. It took some time to train my brain to consciously grasp the information as it was being given to me instead of a panic of 1,000 other distracting thoughts, but I got into the habit. If I’m meeting a group of people, like clients or a team on the first day of work, I try a different tactic. When the name is mentioned, I repeat their name mentally with an unchanging feature. It will be something like this “Cindy - blonde, Cindy - blonde, Cindy - blonde”. If it’s a natural opening, I’ll make a point to speak their name out loud. “Cindy, it’s so lovely to meet you.” This helps cement it in my mind and makes sure that I’m consciously absorbing the information.

Next - write everything possible down. Smartphone notes are the greatest modern invention. If someone is telling me an important detail, I write it down immediately. Telling yourself you will remember it later is our favorite lie - don’t fall for it! Don’t be afraid of taking an extra moment or of people thinking you’re distracted - they actually love it. I will always say “Give me a moment, I’m just making a note of that in my phone.” and they are delighted that you’re showing that you heard them and the information is important enough to record. Again, it has the added benefit of forcing my brain to record the information instead of being distracted by external forces. It’s also a proven fact that if you write something down, even if you don’t read it again later, it reinforces that moment in your memory. And if you realize that your mind wandered while they were talking and you didn’t catch what you needed, writing something down is a great excuse to get them to repeat themselves without feeling as if you’re annoying them.

Now, you’ve put the facts into your brain - but how do you pull them out again? This one is a bit more tricky, and it has more to do with how your ADHD brain processes information. See, our brains are more controlled by external stimuli than neurotypical people. One theory is that ADHD was developed evolutionarily because the humans who could take in the most stimuli around them were more likely to notice and react to threats than neurotypical people, and therefore live longer. This was great while hunting on the savanna and far less helpful in a class lecture or corporate meeting. ADHD brains are great at reacting to what is right in front of us, but any stress - like being put on the spot to answer a question or being surprised by seeing an acquaintance out shopping - makes extra information harder to retrieve. When your body feels stress, it starts wanting to deal with it’s immediate needs and shoves everything else away. 

To counteract this, I’ve found consistent practice of mediation very helpful. When I get the feeling I’m forgetting something important, I take a moment to calm my body and sort through my thoughts until the essential information begins to surface. The best way to explain it is that it feels like unravelling a crocheted scarf - if I can find the right thread to pull, everything else follows. “Okay, but I don’t have time to meditate in the middle of the grocery store when I can’t remember why I’m here!” you may be thinking now. I get it, and you’re right. The process I’m talking about should take just a moment. Consistent meditation practice will help you learn not to clear your mind, but instead evaluate and focus on specific thoughts. You know there is something important, and you start pulling threads until you find the right one. “Okay, I’m in the grocery store, and I know I’m forgetting something but what? What actions have I done today that could spark a memory? I was with my daughter earlier, and she has school tomorrow, is it something with that? Yes, she needs a packed lunch for her field trip! And if she has a field trip, she needs some sunscreen too and I need to remember to make sure her form is in her backpack. Lunch, sunscreen, form.” 

The combination of meditation practice and writing everything down has changed the way I remember things and made me feel so much better about myself. Let me know if there are any other helpful memory tricks you use!

[savage-pillar-of-salt]

Hyrule No More

General concept: The heroes have been reliving their adventures with the group, and really need a break. The lost woods can get really tricky...

The linkeduniverse  by @jojo56830 is awesome, hopefully this is a nice contribution. I’m a fan of Time especially, and all the juicy angst you can get with him. See if you can guess my fav LOZ game by the end lol

Here is part 2

 The Lost Woods were a common occurrence on our heroes’ journey, different versions, all seeming to connect and weave in and out of the individual Hyrules. Most of the time when they found themselves in these woods, it meant they would leave them emerging into a new version of the land they all knew and loved.

It was a strange experience you never really got used to. Wind always would get a little queasy as the world seemed to bend around them, vertigo taking over for a second until, just as quickly as it had arrived, the feeling was gone. Then the trees would appear slightly different, the air would have shifted, similarly smelling but with variations. Wind could always tell when they were in his Hyrule; the smell of salt in the air from the sea was never too far off, though it wasn’t present here. Unfortunately he wouldn’t get a change to visit home just yet.

As the heroes continued walking through the woods, each attempted, as usual, to asses if this was their homeland, or somewhere familiar. The sooner they knew who to look to for info on the surrounding area, the sooner they could get a move on. With each passing minute, the Links continued to rack their brains to no avail. Twilight could not catch the distinct scent of his homeland, Sky couldn’t recognize the bark or the leaves on the trees, Four had never seen the kind of lower growing foliage on the floor of the forest. Hyrule and Legend quickly dismissed as their own, and Warrior waved away the notion that this was his due to the fact that they had never set foot in his strange world, he began to doubt they even could. Wild’s lost woods had gotten pretty dense but this was even hard to navigate for him. That left one, their leader. They all turned to Time.

“So I don’t recognize this place, anyone else?” Warriors asked, breaking the silence of thought in the group. With a chorus of no’s and head shaking he asked the oldest of the group, “Well that’s everyone but you, old man. Suppose that means we’re back in your Hyrule, suppose we should be getting on to Lon Lon Ranch then?” Time was silent, with a look on his face that was hard to place, cautiously he cocked his head to the side and took point, continuing the group forward.

This may have caught the attention of the others if they had not been walking all day, and the thought of getting back to Malon’s home cooked meals sounded like heaven to the lot of them, so dragging their aching legs, none of them noticed, assuming their leader was just being his typical, broody self.

A couple more hours of walking, and the forest still hadn’t let up, ahead of them was an enormous tree trunk, felled and hollowed out. A trademark of the lost woods, they acted as sort of pseudo bridges, and as ways to both the exit and a way deeper into the forest. Time stopped the group. “Something isn’t right,” he nearly growled as he held his right arm to the side as a sign to stop, and reached for his Biggoron sword, about to unsheathe it. “What? What is it?” Twilight got into a fighting stance and brought his sword and shield to a ready position. The rest of the group followed suit, praying another fight was not about to be on their hands right now. Seconds of silence felt like minutes, as nothing was heard but the wind howling, and the leaves shuffling along.

Time whispered to himself, “Is this really the exit?” as he stepped into the slowly and methodically, unsheathing his sword and holding it at the ready. The group followed, with Warriors taking the back. Time couldn’t shake the feeling, something in the back of his head was telling him this wasn’t right, something was coming, and it was bad. What was frustrating him was that he couldn’t pinpoint it. Then they all heard it.

“Hee hee hee…fell for it again, huh?”

A high pitched voice rang out from behind them, outside of the log. Standing there, back facing them was a skull kid, his head shaking violently side to side.

“What the-?” Warriors let out as he and the rest turned to see. The skull kid began to slowly turn, but before anyone could see more, a loud *THUNK* was heard as their entire vision went dark from the entrance suddenly being blocked.

“H-hey, uhh, what’s going on?” Sky rung out, “Everyone? Are you guys still there?”

“Everyone, call out” Warrior’s voice rang through the silence as sparks were seen while he prepared a torch.

“H-here,” Wind offered after a gulp.

“I’m fine,” Legend huffed.

“All good,” Hyrule and Wild each offered torches for light.

Twilight was up ahead with Time, both in silence, looking ahead.

“What just happened? Anyone want to offer an explanation?” Warrior asked as he walked to the two at the front, putting a hand on each of their shoulders. Looking ahead he saw it too, then checking Twilight’s expression of confusion, he felt a little better that he wasn’t alone in it. It was Time’s expression of horror that scared him.

Time slowly staggered over to the figure in front of them and knelt in front of it. Hands shaking, he gingerly touched the bark of the waist high tree sapling with a face in the center of the trunk, hollowed out and sad. The tree was almost doubled over in pain if you looked at it from the right direction.

“No….no, no, no, no. This cannot be happening,” Time told himself as he almost began hyperventilating, his hands now raking through his hair, nearly pulling it out in clumps.

“Hey, Time, are you okay?” Twilight rushed up to his mentor’s side and put a hand on his back. “What’s going on? Tell us, we can help, we’ll get through this together, like we always do.”

“No, no you can’t help. I can’t help, no one can.” Time stood, still breathing heavily. There’s no way out. No way out, but there’s always a way out. Where is it? He just has to find the way out, and this nightmare never has to happen, he can just move on like he did last time. Looking around frantically, Times eyes dart around the outing they currently find themselves in, a circle of grass with some tree stumps, and only one exit.

“Forward,” Wild’s voice told him the one thing Time didn’t want to hear. “If we want to leave...” he gulped, “We have to move forward,” his hand pointing past the sapling to the tunnel ahead of them.

Awkward silence plagued the group for a long time, Time never acts the way he is now. Not calm cool and collected, unstable. It was strange and no one really knew how to address it as their leader was continuing to breathe up a storm, Biggoron sword held, white knuckled, in front of him as he lead the charge through the now stone tunnel with water rushing through. It was like they were underneath a town, and were traversing through the sewer system. Finally they ascended a set of stairs, to see cog-work and moving parts strewn about all clicking and clacking. Then a loud *BONG BONG* rang out, freezing Time in place once again. He should have listened to that feeling in his gut, he knew exactly where they were. Absolutely the worst place to have been sent, but that feeling was persisting. The bad wasn’t over yet. What else was there? All Time could think about was those words he heard years ago from the first man he met here. A phrase that cemented in his psyche, which even alone was enough to give him nightmares.

“Hmm…” a stranger’s voice rang out in the tower behind the group once again. This one, though, Time recognized immediately. He forced himself to turn to see the owner of the voice. He hadn’t changed, hadn’t aged. His head still cocked at an angle, his hands clasped together, and an overly friendly smile on his face. It was as if he hadn’t moved from that spot in the years it’s been since Time was last here.

  “…You’ve met with a terrible fate, haven’t you?”

[keepseaveyweird]

Escape | C.B.

Requested: yes! by @coolkidcorbyn :you and your friends signing up to do an escape room right and when you get to the place the dude is like "oh there's actually five other people in your room" and it turns out to be WDW and like you’re wearing your hoodie and it's just so surreal but when the games starts you and bean take charge and he is so impressed by how smart you are and there’s cute little moments and you are solving the puzzles together and basically the boys and your friends are just letting y'all figure it out at this point 

A/N: I have literally never done an escape room in my life so please bear with me and my assumptions as to how escape rooms play out. I loved his idea so much, it was so cute, thank you for sending it!! I know you’re not on here much anymore but hopefully you see this because it’s been like a month since you requested it and I’m sorry.

Word Count: 2548

“Just pick a shirt, let’s go, we’re going to be late for our reservation!” her friend yelled as she shuffled through her closet for an outfit. Annoyed, she grabbed the first sweatshirt she could lay her eyes on, which so happened to be the sweatshirt of her favorite band. Slipping it on and rushing down the stairs, she couldn’t help but be a bit upset, as it was her friends birthday, signifying cute outfits, make up done and hair did, which she didn’t get a chance to do as they rushed her out of the door. Her ripped jeans and plain vans did her no justice compared to her friends, dressed up in skirts and blouses, hair blown out and lashes coated with mascara. She felt small compared to them, and she had wished she wouldn’t have spent  her time curling everyone’s hair if it meant drawing the short end of the stick.

A quick dinner and car ride full of singing later, they arrived at their escape room, which they had fully planned on beating within ten minutes. The three of them strutted up to the counter, as y/n hung back a bit, not feeling worthy of walking the same walk they were in that moment. It wasn’t that she felt inferior to her friends, intimidated or anything of the sort. In fact, it was quite the opposite, y/n had much confidence, could make anyone’s day, could make even the saddest of people break into a smile. Could rock a dress with heels, only to feel just as good in sweats and a hoodie in the same hour. But when everyone around her is dressed up, looking and feeling their best, she couldn’t help but feel a bit self-conscience as she stared down at her more-than-casual outfit.

“I’ve got some bad news,” the man at the front desk began, “we’ve overbooked ourselves, and have to put you in with another group of five. I hope that’s alright?”

“What?” the birthday girl exclaimed, “but we specifically requested a private room?”

“I know m’am, I’m so sorry, so did the other group. I can definitely reschedule your game for you if you’d like for a later date?” He asked, regret and guilt plastered on his face. Suddenly, the bell above the door rang, causing everyone to direct their attention to the group of rowdy boys entering the building.

Her heart stopped, her blood ran cold, eyes wide like dear in the headlights. She thought about her hoodie, the red one she had grabbed from her closet, which she decided was the worst mistake of her life. She thought about how her friends looked so good, so well-kept and gorgeous, as they barely gave her enough time to run a brush through her hair. Because when the blonde boy recognized his own merch, she couldn’t help but die a bit inside, just as red as her sweatshirt from embarrassment. There was no reason for her to be embarrassed, to feel ashamed of being caught wearing their merch, but yet she felt the need to bury a hole and conceal herself from the world.

“I love the sweatshirt,” Corbyn started, pointing to it as he nudged Zach’s side to get him to see it as well.

“I-” she started, at loss for words as her five greatest idols smiled at her, “thanks, but I don’t really like the band that much. Just kind of bought it because it looked comfortable,” she joked, using her charming personality in hopes to even out the playing field of her and her best friends.

“Oh,” Corbyn started, looking down at the ground, not sure what to say next.

y/n grabbed his shoulder, looking him in the eye as he brought his head up, “I’m kidding,” she laughed , “I’m a huge fan. I love you guys so much! What are you guys even doing here, you’re so supposed to be on tour right now?”

Maybe she was losing it, maybe her heart and brain were playing tricks on her but when she touched him, made contact with blonde, she swear she felt a spark. Swear she felt a tingle or small surge of energy ignite between his shoulder and her fingertips. Swear she could see the world through his eyes, could make out galaxies from the swirls of green and blue. Because though his eyes looked like the universe and wonders of the world crafted his two iris’ personally, she swore that the heat felt between the two of them could end the world, could lead to a rapid increase of climate change.

And when he smiled, laughed at her horrible joke, she swore this boy could move mountains, could control the tides of the ocean with the snap of his fingers. That his smile alone could bring world peace. And when he pulled her in for a quick hug, she felt at home, felt the confidence she usually felt blast through her body, as he didn’t pay attention to the other three girls standing behind her.

“We’re on the road to our next stop, needed a break and bit of fun,” he explained as he released his grip from her. She greeted the other four with hugs and hello’s, as did her friends, but could feel Corbyn’s eyes on her, could feel the intensity of them from across the room.

The man from behind the desk interrupted, coughing to grab our attention, “so would you guys be okay going in together? May be a bit cramped, but I’ll double your time and give you all a discount?”

The nine of them looked around, before all introducing themselves and entering the room. It was decorated like a home from the fifties; vintage rugs and old kitchen appliances with random objects scattered about. All of them searched for the first clue. Opening chests, cupboards, doors to nowhere. It was then y/n reached for an empty candlestick, only for it to be cemented to the mantle over the fake fireplace.

“Does  anyone see a candle anywhere?” she asked the group. They all shook their head, lost as to where to start. A couple minutes pass, when Corbyn opens a chest only to find a candle.

“Found it!” he announced to eight, a smile on his face as he rushed over next to y/n. As he handed it over, their hands brushed, fingertips momentarily tangled between one another. Corbyn swear he could’ve melted right then and there, as her touch made him feel a way he had never felt before. A feeling deep inside, unknowing, nerving, unsettling, and he didn’t know how to take, how to exactly feel about it, only that he didn’t want it to end.  

Their eyes met, a small smile on both of their faces as she took it from his hands and placed it on the candlestick. Instantly, lights began to blink. 12 lights on, then 15, then 22 and ended with 4. It repeated and repeated, 12,15,22,4. The ten of them began searching again, looking for any hint they could find.

y/n followed behind Corbyn as they passed by an old telephone.

“Wait!” Corbyn exclaimed, taking a step back, “seven digits, like a phone number.” He quickly spun the dial around to the numbers and listened to the line ring twice before the blinking lights came to a halt.

A phone on the other side of the room, next to Daniel, began to ring.

“Hello?” He answered, as if an actual person was on the other line. Eyebrows furrowed, he pulled the phone away from his ear and gave the phone a strange look.

“What’s that face for?” her friend joked. He put the phone up to her ear to let her hear, in which her face contorted into the same expression.

y/n walked over and took the phone from her hand, putting it to her ear. The Wheels On the Bus played over the line, sung by little kids and though it shouldn’t of been creepy, it most definitely was. Her eyes wandered around the room for a moment before quickly focusing on the toy bus on top of one of the shelves which Jonah was leaning against.

“Can you hand me that bus?” she asked politely, as she was much shorter than the tall boy, who reached for it. The moment she grasped it in her hands, the top popped off to reveal a key.

Jack sat down, a scoff leaving his mouth, “I’m done, you two can figure it out on your own,” he mumbled, pulling out his phone. The other seven did the same, sitting around the mock kitchen table as Corbyn and y/n continued to search for clues.

As they were stuck on the last one, a picture on the wall saying the phrase, “an apple a day keeps the doctor away,” they wandered side by side around the room. They began re-opening chests and drawers before looking at each other confused.

“I’m lost,” Corbyn admitted, defeated.

“I just don’t-” she cut herself off as she stared at the vintage oven, a shadow in the window of the door. She rushed to it, opening it up to find a fake apple pie, with the final key inside. She unlocked the door to reveal the check-in room they met in before.

“Okay smarty pants,” Corbyn smiled, “that was good.” The other eight rolled their eyes as they made their way back out into the parking lot but she couldn’t help the flush of pink that crept onto her cheeks as she thanked him.

“It was great meeting you guys!” she told them as all nine gathered around the birthday girl’s van, “sorry me and Corbyn ruined it for you.”

Her friend immediately laughed, “you didn’t ruin it y/n, we’re just dumb,” earning a laugh from all of them.

“Well, we still got a couple hours until we have to hit the road,” Jonah explained, “do you wanna go grab ice cream or something?”

As everyone agreed, the nine of you squeezed into her friends van, Zach and Corbyn illegally squeezed into the back of the trunk, y/n in the back seat in front of them.

“Are you guys okay?” she laughed. They both nodded before the van rolled over a bump, causing them to elbow each other in the stomach and groan.

It was half an hour later, the group squeezed into the large booth of a town favorite, the small ice cream parlor that had been around for decades, since their parent were their age. Jack had convinced the group it was only polite to sing happy birthday to y/n’s friend, in which all eight of them yelled the words, leaving her friend a shade of red while she laughed.

It was then she felt the familiar tingle, familiar surge of electricity she once felt before as she glanced over to see that Corbyn had draped his arm around her shoulder. And she couldn’t help but accept it, to lean into his touch, to melt into his side as their contact only created butterflies in the pit of her stomach. Couldn’t help but look up to see him staring at his friends with soft smile on his face, as though it was a normal occurrence, that it wasn’t the first time they’d met but as if they’ve known each other for a lifetime. So for the hour and a half they all sat there, talking about anything and everything they could think of together, Corbyn and y/n sat there in silence, enjoying each other’s presence, each other’s warmth and touch. The two didn’t need to look at one another to know that the other was smiling like an idiot, was the happiest they’d ever been while in that position.

So when the moment came and they had to stand up from the booth, as Corbyn slid his arm off her shoulder, he couldn’t help but feel the cool air rush to the side of his body where she once was, couldn’t help but want to shiver at the bitterness of their separation. The nine of them walked out to the van, laughing and giggling like they had been all night, as he tapped Daniel’s shoulder to beg him of a request.

“Please, for me?” he frowned, guilting Daniel into muttering a ‘fine’ before climbing into the back of the trunk with Zach.

Corbyn climbed into the van and into the back row of three where y/n sat in the middle, him climbing over to sit on the other side of her and one of her friends. Their shoulders brushed against one another, and immediately the warmth and good feelings came rushing back.

Suddenly, y/n took his hand into his, entangling their fingers as she looked up at him to make sure her actions were okay. He smiled, his eyes glowing and smile entrancing, before giving her hand a tight squeeze, indicating that it was more than okay. The short car ride was full of singing, full of dancing and bouncing up and down in everyone’s seat as they enjoyed their last couple moments together as group, and throughout the trip, their hands remained locked, as the two swayed into one another, as they rested their heads on each other’s shoulders from time to time.

A bit later, they all stood outside the large tour bus, y/n and Corbyn’s hands still tangled together as they said their farewells.

“Thank you for letting us crash your birthday party!” Jack cheered, giving everyone a hug as the others followed suit.

“It was really great meeting you guys, really. Thank you for everything,” y/n told Corbyn who was the last to board the bus.

“Of course,” he smiled, wrapping her in a hug and enjoying her touch for the last time, “I had a really good time, an amazing time actually. You’re amazing, brilliant! Um, do you think we could stay in touch? Like could I get your number? Just in case I’m ever in town again or you happened to be in LA cause you know-” he rambled as she laughed and cut him off.

“I thought you’d never ask,” she laughed as he handed her his phone.

“Okay,” he sighed, “we really need to get going, but I’ll text you!” Corbyn smiled, grabbing her hand and giving it one last squeeze.

“Bye Corbyn,” she said, a smile plastered to her face.

“See you later y/n” Corbyn beamed as he stood in the doorway of the tour bus, before turning around and heading it.

Her and her friends watched the tour bus take off down the road, a small frown on each of their faces.

“I can’t believe you actually got Corbyn Besson’s number,” her friend exclaimed as they loaded back up in the van again, this time less crowded.

Suddenly, her phone buzzed, a message popping up on her lock screen.

Corbyn: Hey smarty pants :)

“Yeah,” she said looking at her phone, a smile from ear to ear as she blushed, “I can’t really believe it either.”And she began to wonder why she was so self-conscious about her appearance at the beginning of the night in the first place.

[mandysimo13]

It’s Complicated

Here it is! The last of the three promised gift fics. This one is for @notesoflore, who asked for some badass Johnlockary. Ask and ye shall receive! It’s a little longer than anticipated but, hopefully, it does it for you guys. You can also read it here on AO3. Enjoy! 

John really should have been used to being abducted. To waking up missing small chunks of time, feeling nauseous, cold and hungry and angry and sore. He had been friends with Sherlock long enough, and married to an ex-assassin, and had been abducted several times before. If you count anytime he had been shanghaied by Mycroft. Which he did. He really should have been more prepared.

 But he wasn’t.

 Though his eyes were closed, he winced hard as he slowly came to consciousness.

 First things, first. Take stock, he thought to himself. He knew he was lying facedown on damp, cool concrete that smelled vaguely of mildew. Basement or a warehouse. He dragged his leaden arms up so he could push himself up and at least roll over onto his back. With a bitten-off groan, he succeeded and opened his eyes cautiously. It was dim, he blinked to clear his watery vision a little. Turning his head, he saw a single ceiling lamp, switched on, and nothing else. No furniture, no windows, not even piping. At least that meant they couldn’t tie him down to anything.

 Next, he wiggled his fingers and toes and found them all in tact. His joints were sore but that probably had more to do with waking up on cement than anything else. His neck began to complain, throbbing at the juncture of his neck and shoulder. His hand came up to rub at it and he hissed in pain, the dull throb not unlike an amorous hickey.

 Injection site, more force than necessary.

 He wondered what they’d actually drugged him with, if they planned on keeping him drugged up or if whoever kidnapped him wanted him awake to interrogate him. As to what they would interrogate him about, John had no idea. Either way, he made an effort to be silent as he dragged himself up off the ground to prop his back against the nearest wall.

 His mouth was dry, possibly a side effect of the drug and definitely a result of being dehydrated. He was unsure of how much time had passed but it was safe to say a couple hours at least. Squashing down his impending nausea and shoving aside his discomfort, he dug in his pockets to see what he still had on him. He had left the house this morning with his phone, keys, wallet, set of nail clippers, pocket flashlight, and handkerchief.

 He frowned to realize whoever had taken him had been very thorough. It was too much to hope that he’d have his phone still on him, but stranger things had happened. In any case, they had cleaned him out.

 Well, nothing for it now but to sit and wait. Just like in the army. Sit and wait.

 ///-\\\

 Mary’s blood ran cold when she walked up on their car with their daughter in her arms. The bags John had been holding were scattered on the ground, keys left near the passenger rear wheel, no sign of John. Kidnapping, he’s been kidnapped. Again.

 He had been out of her sight for no less than two minutes. While she got their daughter changed into a new nappy in the loo, John said he’d take the groceries out to the car. They were going to have a nice night in, movie and homemade pizza with the shit £10 wine like the normal couple they had convinced themselves they were.

 Of course that was too much to ask for.

 Not allowing panic to take control, she shifted Rosie on her hip and dug into her purse to pull out her phone and hit speed dial two. “You better pick up your goddamn phone, Sherlock Holmes,” Mary warned the empty air in front of her.

 He answered on the first ring.

 “Mary, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

 “John’s gone,” she said, unable to keep the small tremor out of her voice. “Someone’s taken him.”

 The answer was immediate. “Where are you?”

 She told him her location and Sherlock assured her he’d be right there.

 “Did you call the police?”

 “Course not, they’re morons,” Mary said, trying for levity. They shared a strained laugh before she continued. “But they are the next call. We’ll need access to the lot feeds and they’ll be useful in that capacity.”

 “Excellent, Mary. Don’t let them touch anything. I’m already on my way.”

 “We’ll find him, won’t we? Just like before, right?”

 “Of course we will. Hopefully this time he’s not being used for kindling, though. I think it’s a little early for bonfires.”

 “Quite right,” she said, heart picking up speed. She rang off and stood there, leaning against the car as she dialed for Lestrade. If there was anyone who would be willing to let Sherlock get involved, it would be him.

 With the calls made, all she could do was sit and wait.

 ///-\\\

 It took fifteen minutes at the crime scene for Sherlock to determine who had taken John. By the time he got there, Mary had found someone to take Rosie off her hands for the time being and had set up her own perimeter around the car.

 John chose well, in her, he thought silently.

 He had taken a look at the spot and saw John’s keys lying on the ground and had to swallow back a lump of panic. Just like any other case, find and analyse the evidence. Solve the case, he told himself firmly.

 He examined the area, scanned their receipt to see if they had taken anything from their grocery bags, searched the area around the car. Nothing else had been taken, nothing other than John’s keys left behind. A quick look at the lot surveillance yielded a lucky shot of John walking out into the car lot and being tailed by a black van. The footage showed a man opening the side door, hitting John in the neck with something and dragging him into the van before it sped into motion and leaving for parts unknown.

 The van had been partially blocked on the bottom of the frame so it was impossible to read the plate but what they did find made Sherlock’s heart soar with hope. The hand that had delivered the blow to the neck had a tattoo on the back of his hand.

 “I know who took him,” Sherlock declared with delight. Without another thought, he was running out the door and all set to retrieve John himself.

 A grip to the back of his coat stopped him short.

 “Sherlock Fucking Holmes, if you think you’re rescuing my husband without me then you are sorely mistaken.”

 A turn of his head brought an angry, determined Mary Watson into view. Instantly chastised Sherlock stilled. He cleared his throat, “of course. Apologies.”

 Lestrade spoke up and said, “who took him, Sherlock? Tell us and we can all go and get him back safely.”

 Sherlock straightened his coat like a disgruntled bird would smooth its feathers. “A man named Panczenko. Rather, an associate of Panczenko, I recognize the tattoo. I ran into them during my time away. He’s an arms dealer, dabbles in the drug trade and was looking into expanding his enterprise in Russia. I discovered him when I was dismantling Moriarty’s network. I might have caused,” he hesitated, trying to phrase his words correctly, “a slight upset in his supply line.”

 “How,” Mary asked.

 “He had a shipment of guns in a warehouse that I accidentally liquidated.”

 “Is that a fancy way of saying you destroyed the warehouse,” Lestrade asked.

 Sherlock nodded. “More accurately, I had to blow it up. The warehouse they were using was partly owned by a member of the network I had been hunting. I couldn’t get close to him, not without some measure of personal risk. So, I had to go with a more...covert approach.”

 “A bomb is covert,” Lestrade asked incredulously.

 Sherlock shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. Could detonate from afar, ensure maximum likelihood of death, cathartic in a sense.”

 “Hang on, how did they find out about you, though,” Mary asked.

 “Criminals talk. I was taking out people left and right, in those days. I didn’t think I was coming home. I wasn’t exactly careful, after a certain point. It’s how I eventually got caught.”

 “And now they want revenge,” Mary said plainly. “Exactly how much did you blow up?”

 “Several hundred thousand pounds worth of merchandise. Some members of their organization, too. Not exactly a write off.”

 Mary, in a second, had turned from “scared wife and mother” to “ready for battle assassin”. For not the first time in his life, and certainly not the last, Sherlock was impressed by Mary’s ability to prioritize and seamlessly blend into any situation she found herself in. Staring up at him she said, “well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go get our John back.”

 Sherlock nodded and said, “yes. Let’s go get our John back.”

 ///-\\\

 When Sherlock and Mary burst into his cell, both brandishing guns and murderous scowls, John had to fight the urge to laugh and kiss them both. They were both stunning, sweeping into the room, almost in slow motion to John’s tired brain, looking like some kind of old school spy movie.

 I watch too much fucking James Bond, he thought distantly.

 Not long after, a policeman came barreling in, guarding the door. Commotion rang outside but John couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when the two loves of his life were crouched in front of him, touching his face with concern.

 Mary swept his sweaty fringe back to inspect a cut on his forehead while Sherlock cupped and held his cheeks up to the light to examine his black eye.

 “What have they done to you, John,” Mary asked, barely containing her anger.

 “Just roughed me up a bit,” John answered, wincing at their prodding.

 “Black eye, split lip, two superficial cuts to the forehead,” Sherlock rattled off automatically. He pushed John’s head to the side to look at his neck and he surprised all present by literally growling at what he found. “Whoever kidnapped you was a bloody butcher. I’ve seen better injection sites from first year med students and shaky junkies.”

 John smiled fondly and shoved them both off. “If you two are quite done.” He held out his hands for them to help him rise, which they did, and he staggered a little on his feet. Immediately two arms came around his waist to support him. Between the aftereffects of the drugs, having no food or water in the twelve hours he’d been captive, and the knocking around he’d been given, he was not at his best. “Take me home, if you would be so kind.”

 “Yes, John,” his wife and best friend answered in tandem.

 On the way home, sandwiched between Mary and Sherlock while Lestrade drove, the two grilled him about his time as a captive. On autopilot, he told them that he was asked details about Sherlock’s life. People he loved were threatened if he didn’t answer and he was beaten repeatedly when he didn’t comply.

 When Lestrade pulled up in front of Mary and John’s flat, he offered Sherlock a ride but the detective waived it off. “John needs looking after.”

 John anticipated Mary telling him that she was capable of taking care of him herself but, to his surprise, she seconded Sherlock’s statement. His heart felt full. Normally, he found himself tugged in two directions: the family he had always wanted with Mary and Rosie on one side, Sherlock and the adventure he had always needed on the other. He loved them both tremendously and felt guilt gnaw at him whenever he was with one without the other. He was better, happier, when he could have them both in the same room.

 He had stopped hiding his feelings after Sherlock came back. At least from himself he did. It was Mary who ended up saying the words out loud first. Long after the bullet wound had healed, not long after they brought Rosie home. He had spent so much time away from Sherlock that it made him ache. But parting from his wife, his new child, the thought made him feel like scum.

 He couldn’t decide which was worse.

 She cornered him after putting their daughter to bed. “You love him. He loves you.”

 “I do. I think he does.”

 “It’s obvious.”

 John had laughed humorlessly. “You two sound so alike. What’s that say about me, then? Hmm?”

 “That you’re in love. And you’re feeling guilty as shit, not wanting to choose.” She had stared him down, not pulling away from him or their situation. “I’ll not lose you, John,” she had told him plainly. “But I do think there could be...accommodations made.”

 John shook his head. “I would never risk us.” It was unclear if he was talking about his friendship with Sherlock or his marriage with Mary. It didn’t really matter. There was too much at stake.

 Mary had kissed him then and told him, “you might be surprised. My offer stands. If you ever gather the courage to ask him.”

 That conversation haunted him for months. The offer sat on the tip of his tongue for weeks and each day he grew closer to saying it. But in the end, he always chickened out.

 Dragging his thoughts to the present, John walked into his house with Mary in front of him and Sherlock behind. He wash ushered into the shower by Mary and Sherlock announced he would make John dinner.

 He cleaned himself thoroughly, sighing at the warm water working magic on his stiff, sore limbs. When he emerged, it was to the smell of a proper fry up and fresh pajamas. On the nightstand was two paracetamol tablets and a glass of water, which he downed greedily. Empty glass in hand, he went in search of his rescuers.

 In the kitchen he was handed another glass of water and then a cup of tea. Both went down easily and soon a plate of food was put in front of him. After his plate was clean, he looked at both Sherlock and Mary and asked, “what now?”

 His wife and friend looked at each other then back to John. Sherlock remained silent and Mary sighed, exhausted. “This ends right now.”

 John’s heart lurched in his chest. “What are you talking about?”

 “I’m tired of pretending like you two aren’t completely gone over each other.”

 “Mary,” John started, not wanting to get into it just yet but Mary was having none of it.

 “Neither of us can live without you, John.” She let the statement fall. Silence followed it, heavy and thick. Her eyes watered and she averted her gaze to try and hide it. “While you were gone, while we were looking for you, we talked.”

 John licked his lips nervously. “Go on.”

 Mary, landed her gaze on Sherlock and it seemed to him that she was begging Sherlock to say something. He cleared his throat and toyed with his own hot mug of tea.

 “It was mutually agreed that neither of us can let you go. Nor are we willing to let you continue feeling guilty for having to choose between us.”

 John’s palms began to sweat and his eyes darted between the two people who he loved most in the world. “So...what does that mean?” A million thoughts zipped through his mind.

 Is one of them leaving? I think, I know I can’t handle that. Losing Sherlock almost killed me, Mary’s the mother of my child, how do I keep them, I can’t-

 “Stop thinking, John,” Sherlock told him firmly.

 John swallowed thickly. “I...I can’t.”

 “You don’t have to. We’re not going anywhere,” Mary promised.

 “What does that mean,” John asked, tired and growing increasingly unsure.

 “It means,” Sherlock said, turning to look at Mary.

 “That we’re making room,” she concluded for him.

 John sat, brain unwilling to process the information he had received. Without a word, Sherlock and Mary rose and helped him stand and lead him to the bedroom. Mary left the two men alone while she checked on their daughter and John finally seemed to find his words without so many people in the room.

 “So you just decided all this without me, then?”

 “Are you saying you don’t want this?”

 “That’s not what I’m saying,” John replied instantly.

 “Then don’t overthink it.”

 John sat on the edge of the bed, covering his eyes with his hand. “This is so complicated. So fucked, I don’t know where to even begin.” He looked up at Sherlock and asked, “how did we get here?”

 Sherlock stared right back and said, “Who cares, John?”

 “Who cares, indeed,” Mary said, walking back into the room. She began changing, readying herself for bed and John was about to protest, uncomfortable with the sudden ease of nudity in the room but she beat him to it. “We’re going to be getting very familiar in short order, might as well get a jump on things.”

 She dug into John’s drawers and pulled out an oversized shirt and a pair of John’s pajama pants. “Might be a little short, but they’ll do.” She tossed them to Sherlock and said, “extra toothbrush on the sink.”

 “Thank you,” he said softly, leaving to go ready himself for bed.

 John sighed. “Better go make up the couch, then.” He tried to rise and Mary gently pushed him back down on the bed. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. He sleeps here. There’s room enough.”

 “But-”

 “But nothing, John.” She smiled at him and said, “I agree that this is...odd. But since when have we three been normal, eh?”

 Accepting defeat, John nodded once and slipped between the sheets. Soon Mary joined him and then, standing awkwardly in the doorway, Sherlock appeared. He fidgeted with his fingers and John took one look and, finally realizing all he could have if he just stopped thinking, took pity on him. He held up a corner of the duvet and said, “get over here, git.”

 Sherlock relaxed and did as told. John soon found himself in the middle of his bed with a head resting on each shoulder. For the first time since Sherlock’s return, he felt completely and totally whole. His arms squeezed the two of them close and he let out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding. He had never been so at peace.

 There was just one thing that would make the situation perfect.

Reading his thoughts, Mary tilted her head up and kissed him slowly, sweet, familiar lips welcoming him home. “We’ll figure it out in the morning. Good night, John.” She looked over at Sherlock with a look that said your turn, dummy.

 Sherlock moved slowly and said, “John, may I-”

 “Yes,” John finished for him.

 Almost shyly, Sherlock cupped his chin with one hand and John angled his lips down to meet Sherlock’s. Soft as Mary’s but more timid. Over far too quick for a first kiss, but perfect nonetheless, Sherlock pulled back and said, “good night, John.”

 He pressed one more quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips and then turned to kiss the top of Mary’s head. He said aloud, to them both, “good night.” Then, softly, he added, “I love you.”

 “Love you, too,” the two voices against his chest answered.

 Their situation was bizarre. Complicated beyond belief. But they were right, it didn’t matter how they got there. All that mattered is that they loved each other and they were moving forward together. They’d figure it all out in the morning. Without the weight of guilt on him for the first time in over three years, John Watson slept peacefully.

[bucketluvr]

The Past - Anakin X Padmé X Reader

 The barrel of the stormtroopers gun presses to the boys head. The boy doesn’t flinch.  The possible reason why suddenly hits you. This boy, he’s Force sensitive, you can feel it. Have they found him? No, no, no it’s just like with that youngling on Raydonia-

 “You dirty little Loth-rat! Stealing from the Galactic Empire is treasonous!“

 The statement doesn’t force the terror from your veins. The scene flickers. It’s a clone and a youngling, then its the child and the stormtrooper. You scream in fear and rage. You won’t let that happen again.

 The trooper turns his head slowly. You look straight into the visor of his helmet, looking calm for someone who’d just screamed, giving themselves away to Jedi hunters.

 You pull Padmé’s old blaster from your cloak. Padmé. Your heart aches, and you attempt to push the thought of your wife down. You press the blaster to the trooper’s own head. “Get. Away. From. Him.”

 Someone’s behind you!, the Force screams. An armoured arm wraps around your neck, and the cool circle of a blaster barrel digs into your neck. “Put the weapon down, Jedi!”

 You knew they’d figure it out at some point. You saw the wanted posters and holograms of your face everywhere you go. They want you more than they want Obi-Wan. That never sat well with you.

 “Vader wants me alive,” you hiss. “You can’t kill me.”

"That’s what stun is for.“ The trooper says.

The Force predicts his next move. Stunning you. You drop, quickly averting the troopers trajectory to the one with the blaster aimed at the boy. He falls to the ground, and the boy just stares. A woman, presumably his mother, yells from the gathering crown. People don’t see much action on Lothal. "Ezra, come on!”

Circular stun bolts fly around you. You duck, getting out your lightsaber and cutting through the bolts like air. You haven’t used it in fourteen years, almost fifteen, now. About two months from now is fifteen years after everything crumbled like the crumbly briskets they sell at markets. Fifteen years after everything and everyone you loved was destroyed or murdered. A bolt hits you in the arm, forcing you to drop your saber. Another seizes the advantage to hit you in the back. You fall onto your stomach, and when you go to get up, a boot presses into the back of your neck. Binders snap onto your wrists.

 When you turn your head, you seeing the smiling face of Willhuff Tarkin.

 “(Y/ N) (L/N). Former General in the Grand Army of the Republic, Jedi Knight. Born on Felucia. Padawan to Aaayla Secura. Traitor to the Empire.” Tarkin says.

"Thank you,“ you roll your eyes. "But I’m pretty sure I know this already, because…you know…that’s me-”

 Tarkin’s boot retreats from your neck, only to come down on the back of your head. Your face grins into the cement, and you feel blood pouring from your nose, and a burning sensation on the side of your face where it scraped against the gravel. Only slight injuries, compared to what you’ve withstood.

 "I knew you were annoying, but I never knew you were so violent, Governor-”

Tarkin pounds your face into the ground again. You hiss in between clenched teeth. He sneers. “You don’t know when to stop, do you? No wonder you and Skywalker got along so well.”

Let’s not forget Obi-Wan, Ahsoka, and Padmé…You add silently. They hadn’t known when to stop either.

“And it’s no wonder you and Palpatine got along so well, you cruel, wrinkled, bitches-“

Tarkin kicked your head into the cement once more, harder this time. Your nose is most likely broken by now. He keeps his foot there, so he’s practically stepping on your head.

 You hear a dial click, and you know what it is. A needler. A cruel weapon that sends streams of red electricity to assault the victim’s body, a Zygerrian favorite, actually. You sigh. There nothing else you can do.

 It’s aimed at your back. You sense Tarkin pull the trigger, and a second later streams of violent, deadly, lightning attack your body. You cry out, emitting the first signs of serious pain since Tarkin’s gotten to you. You see black spots at the edges of your vision. They threaten to take over, to swallow you up. Perhaps that’s a better option.

 "Stop.”

 The voice is clear and strong. It’s almost mechanical, as if it’s been disrupted by a helmet.

 The electricity ceases. A pair of armoured boots near you and Tarkin.

 "I will handle (L/N) myself.” He informs Tarkin sharply.

 “Very well,” Tarkin says. You sense him leave.

 “Bring her to me,” the monotone voice says. A pair of trooper lift you by the arms, your knees dragging on the ground and your head dropping. Vader gestures for them to let go when they reach you. He drops to a crouch, holding your shoulders to steady you. They slowly move towards your face, and you struggle away from Vader. The trooper behind you brings the butt of his blaster down on your head.

  Vader’s sudden rage burst through his thick mental shields, making you flinch with surprise. Choking, gurgling sounds resonate in your ears. You struggle to get  glimpse of what going on, with Vader’s firm grip on your shoulders. Suddenly, a neck snaps behind you.

 You barely have time to comprehend what has happened. Vader’s hands are cradling your face, scanning it under the oval voids of the mask. You find yourself wanting to lean into his touch, like you would’ve done with Anakin or Padmé, on evenings when-

 No. Anakin is dead. Padmé is dead. They will never touch you again, never hug you. You’ll never snuggle up to the both of them after a hard mission, or never comfort each other when your PTSD acts up. You repeat the phrase in your head like a mantra: they’re gone, they’re gone, they’re gone, they’re gone-

 You jerk back suddenly. You realise Vader had accessed your mind. He could probably break you with just those memories and the mantra.

 “Take her to my ship,” Vader says. “I’ll take her aboard the Executor for imprisonment.”

The sound of a door opening cuts through your meditation. You don’t open your eyes. The beacon of pride and arrogance surrounding the Force signature is enough for you to figure out it’s Tarkin again.

“An unexpected pleasure, Captain-“

"It’s Grand Moff, my dear. In the last fifteen years, unlike you, I have actually done something,” Tarkin says.

"Don’t call me that, Captain.“ You hiss, spitting the dated title solely to piss him off. "Second, I’d like to update my greeting: this is not a pleasure, it is a grueling waste of my time.”

 “You certainly have a lot of time, my dear.” He gestures to your bond form. “If you’ll excuse me, we must get on with our interrogations,” Tarkin says, smacking a button. In comes a interrogation droid.

 “Wonderful,” you mutter, followed by a string off profanities aimed at Tarkin.

 Tarkin’s smile is cold. He waves the droid on. It injects you with a grayish liquid, and you will yourself not to flinch.

 The liquid bounds into effect. It seems like your drowning, unable to do anything but comply. To what, you don’t know. Yet.

 “Let’s begin,” Tarkin grins like a child to a new toy. “Which clone battalion did you command?”

 “Pointless,” you spit, your words slurred from the liquid. “Just look at your data pad, you sleemo. I am one hundred percent sure the information is there, Captain.”

 “Grand Moff-”

 “Captain.” You argue. Maybe if you belittle him he’ll back off.

 “I am a Grand Moff-”

 “You’re a captain.” You say stubbornly.

 “Foolish.” He spits. “Now, which clone battalion did you command?”

  The liquids push is a aching reminder at the back of your mind.

  "239th,“ you say. That’s just a random number you made up. You really don’t want to give the Empire anything, even useless information like this. Not after they ripped your life to shreds.

  "Incorrect,” the interrogator hooks it mechanical fingers inside your nose, and yanking backwards with force. “Answer honestly, Jedi General (Y/N) (L/N).”

  "That data is outdated. I’m not a general. You stripped me of every title and honor I have possessed.“

 "Answer!” The droid screams.

 “No.”

  This was going to be a long day.

 You’d given up. You answered all their questions, occasionally fucking up the story or a number. Blood smeared the side of your face, your clothes smoked from electricity, and your body ached from the droid’s torture.

 "Since I seem to have broken you, (L/N), how close were you to-“ he smiles. "Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala?”

  You flinch. Anakin died. He was killed by the clones. Every time you reach for him in the Force, it’s just a wall of darkness. Padmé, she died before she could give birth to you, Anakin and her child. You spend your nights tossing and turning, trying to forget that night. Sometimes you wonder, why am I alive and they aren’t?

  You’re almost glad they’ve ripped down Republic propaganda. You would’ve broken down in tears.

 You draw in a shuddering breath, your mind bursting with sadness and emptiness at them being killed. Rage builds there for the Empire for taking them, and more so at Tarkin for daring to bring this up.  

 You don’t answer. Tarkin hits you across the face. “Are you deaf? I asked you-”

 Burning rage on the other side of the door. Coldness. Vader sweeps in, crushes the droid, and jabs a finger into Tarkin’s chest.

 “I did not authorize this. I do not care you’re rank, leave my presence immediately or you will die.”

 Tarkin clenches his fists and teeth, but leaves.

 Vader turns to you, but does not say anything.

 “Why?” You say suddenly. “Why do you care if I get tortured or not?”

 “We need you alive,” Vader says. “And if you hadn’t been so stubborn like you always were I wouldn’t have to had stop Tarkin.”

Confusion clouds your brain. You narrow your eyes. “How would you know I was stubborn?”

"The Separatist Alliance reports you as being stubborn,  and never answering the simplest of questions no matter the consequence.“ He stops you before you can ask anything else about it. "Any requests?”

"Yes,“ you say. "Kill me.”

"What?“ Vader snaps. A tremor of rage ripples the water of the Force.

"Everyone I love is dead, okay? The Empire took them from me and I don’t want to be without them anymore. So please, kill me.”

"Jedi aren’t allowed to love.“

"We did. And I loved Anakin Skywalker and Padmé Amidala more than anything else in this wretched galaxy and they’re gone. I - I wasn’t there to save them and-” You stop yourself before you can go on. Then you shake your head. “Fuck, I’ve got nothing to hide. She was pregnant, okay? But we could never raise them because they’re. All. Dead.” You sob.

 Vader just stares at you. Then, he lifts his helmet from his head.

 Yellow eyes. Brown, wavy hair that comes down to his shoulders. A scar over his eye.

 Before you stands Anakin Skywalker.

 You scream, then everything goes black.

[theliterateape]

Staged Conflict and the Downward Spiral of Communication

By Don Hall

“Oh, I’m not trying to change your mind about anything.”

Then what the fuck are we doing here?

Like so many in the COVID-19 world, the pandemic has changed much of my perception of things I used to take for granted as normal. 

The amount of cash spent on food, for example. With eating in restaurants suspended for two months, I’m seeing that practice as a luxury rather than a staple. Unlike countless folks, however, I didn’t suddenly become a home chef concocting delicious experiments in bread making or sauces. The most ambitious experiment I’ve undertaken thus far is to combine a can of tuna with a package of Ramen (it was tasty but hardly my version of Beef Wellington from scratch...).

Dana and I decided to go to a local pizza place to dine in somewhere—both to actually get out and toe-dab into the pool of the new reality as well as do some recon on what it looks like protocol-wise in other, non-casino, businesses. It was kind of magical. The beer was draft, the pizza was delicious, and the fact that we were out in the world was novel.

Another normal detail has been something I’ve struggled with since high school. I was a National Debate Champion and learned at that tender age that winning the argument was the goal in most discourse. The training was such that manipulating the moment, spinning the truth, playing psychological games, whatever it took to win was the right thing to do. In debate, there is a judge who listens and watches and ultimately decides who won. The whole competition was performative rather than any sort of search for a common truth to build upon.

Thirty-six years later, in the wake of pandemic and economic throttling, with the now decade-old functioning of social media, I’m just now starting to really question this practice fully.

We’re seeing an increase in legitimate studies about not only why we are so divided politically but how we are dividing ourselves up. Scientific articles regarding confirmation bias, siloing of political thought, the effects of both disinformation and misinformation as well as the proliferation of both by media as well as partisan and international organizations are all summing up a roadmap to what becomes the dysfunction of democracy.

The human tendency toward conflict isn’t new. The history of tribes finding enemies and subsequently going to war with each other is the true thread that binds us. Likewise, the history of the educated waged upon the unwashed masses is as old as the Roman Catholic Church positioning priests as the only people allowed to read the Bible and thus establish the primacy of unexamined authority. Disinformation isn’t new, either. William Randolph Hearst was famous for being the FOX News of his day, routinely spreading disinformation via his newspaper to promote his personal agenda.

What’s new is our collective ability to argue constantly without ever having to come into contact with one another. Also new is our unparalleled access to information and our unprecedented ability to create false narratives and distribute them to millions in one keystroke.

“Oh, I’m not trying to change your mind about anything.”

Then why?

The answer was simple. We were arguing for the sole purpose of arguing. She started by announcing her opinion: “I don’t think government should have ever shut businesses down.” My immediate response was that I disagreed. For the next thirty minutes, we volleyed more opinions that supported our initial opinions, I threw out scientific consensus, she tossed around the idea that if there is the possibility 95% of scientists are wrong, they’re probably wrong. Both of us as adamantly without budging in our perspectives as we were thirty minutes prior until I nodded and told her my mind wasn’t changed.

“Oh, I’m not trying to change your mind about anything.”

!!!!!??????!!!!!!

We weren’t trying to persuade the other to rethink our positions. We weren’t curious enough to be listening for new information from one another. We were merely arguing to win and more pernicious was that we were arguing as if we were arguing in front of an audience just like we would if we were online.

We ended up doing that thing we do— agreeing to disagree. Despite the attempt to just get along, what has plagued me ever since that argument on the grounds of an empty casino was that we weren’t, in any way, trying to communicate with one another. Since then, I’ve been examining my interactions, both on- and off-line to see if I am communicating in a similar manner. I’ve even gone back through my history to see about online battles of the past.

A couple of insights have revealed themselves along the path. First, the desire to win the argument is really fucking hardwired into my brain. Like the most strident of the Left, I tend to use heightened vocabulary and the fact that I ingest information like a hoarder takes in Hummel figurines to beat my opponent. Second, I tend to judge the less educated with a casual disdain that automatically prevents any genuine conversation to unfold. It’s an odd snobbery only countered only by an equally dismissive anti-intellectual attitude which creates a spiral of posing and insults that prevent any sort of meaningful discourse.

For decades in my past teaching of theater and improvisation, I’ve insisted that if the audience doesn’t get it, it is the artist’s fault not the audiences. In these one-on-one situations, whether discussing politics, culture, art, or anything else, if my goal is to change minds rather than win the argument, I have to own the fact that if I am failing to get through to a particularly cemented opinion, it is my fault for not fully communicating my ideas, not them.

Finally, and the most damning of my insights, is that I tend to tailor my win at any cost pose based upon my own bias about with whom I’m battling. Once someone uses the phrase “fake news” or spout some anti-Obama spin or mention they saw something on FOX News, my demeanor changes and I’m simply no longer communicating. As soon as I hear talk of Critical Race Theory and the carrying of generational trauma, I’m fully disinvested with the conversation.

I can’t control how I am perceived (depends on which side of the tribal divide you sit on because I refuse to play the sides game) yet I can control my own perceptions. Like looking at the Boring figure, the most famous of the ambiguous illusions, I can choose to see the old woman or the young, the mouth-breathing moron or the human being I need to convince, at will. 

“Oh, I’m not trying to change your mind about anything.”

I am and am failing miserably.

[maloned]

My 30-year Love-Affair with Professional Wrestling, Part 2

Is this real? My story of Saturday Night Main Event.

Hulk Hogan and tag team partner Mr. Wonderful Paul Orndorff talking through a disagreement before their big match versus the Heenan Family. Watch video: https://youtu.be/7JVSNEh8PKI

Previously on Superstars of Wrestling, we left our hero, the World Wrestling Federation champion, Hulk Hogan, betrayed and beaten after being spiked on his head by a serious, career threatening piledriver, by his one-time tag team partner, “Mr. Wonderful” Paul Orndorff.  Orndorff turned his back on the Hulkster and joined forces with the sinister wrestling manager, Bobby “The Brain” Heenan and his evil stable of villains, The Heenan Family. (Read Part 1: Click here).

At ten years old, watching all this lead me directly to question, what kind of sport was this? Athletes were blatantly breaking the rules and assaulting rivals outside of competition. The boxing that my uncle loved didn’t allow this. My father’s favorite, the NFL, didn’t stand for this sort of thing.

My friends and family would chuckle at my pure shock. “You know wrestling’s fake, right?” “Why don’t their faces get bruised?” “It’s all scripted and choreographed!” Those are familiar phrases to just about every wrestling fan. I’d live with statements like this for the rest of my fandom. But for our legion of fans, we understand that being “real” isn’t the point.

At ten years old, of course, I didn’t know what to believe. But, like my fellow fans, I also didn’t care. Whatever wrestling was, whether sport or entertainment or a hybrid, I wanted to, no, I needed to find out if the Hulk was going to get his revenge on Mr. Wonderful. Week after week,

I would tune in Saturday and Sunday morning to hear the Hulkster and Paul Orndorff exchange insults and challenges in backstage interviews with WWF broadcaster, Mean Gene Okerlund.

As a kid, I bought completely into the theater as reality. As an adult, I understand its theater and also brilliant storytelling in its own way. Because, at the end of every episode, whether it was 10-year-old me or me now, I wanted to know one thing: When and where was this grudge match happening?

Today, the answer to that is a Google search away. Back in the 1980s, it was not that simple. But, as fate would have it, I was watching our local NBC affiliate, then Channel 4 WTVJ. On a Saturday night in October of 1986, I might’ve been tuned into the A-Team, Knight Rider, or The Golden Girls. Whatever was on TV, I was delighted to see the Hulkster appear during a commercial break promoting the long-awaited match with his nemesis, Mr. Wonderful. As if that wasn’t exciting enough, the ad went on to say that the brawl in the squared-circle would be tonight on a show called Saturday Night Main Event (SMME)! Wait, what?! What was this show coming on at 11:30pm? Why had I never heard of it before? Weekly series like Superstars of Wrestling or Wrestling Challenge never advertised SNME.

“Mom,” I said, “Can I stay up late tonight? I want to watch Hulk Hogan wrestle Mr. Wonderful.”  

“No.” Mom quickly replied.

But, almost as quickly, mom changed her tune and gave me a choice. I could stay up late OR go to the circus the next day. It should come as no surprise that I have an affinity for Carnie Culture and the Circus.

In the spirit of all the clever kids in 80s movies, I came up with a plan. Using my VCR skills, well-practiced after months of recording my grandmother’s novelas (Spanish soap operas), I would record SMME. Now, I could sit under the big top for some circus action and still get to watch the Hulkster seek vengeance on that Benedict Arnold, Mr. Wonderful.

Excited by experiencing my this win-win scenario I went to bed and woke up the next day ready for some clown and elephants. At the Greatest Show on Earth, however, I couldn’t focus. I could not wait to get home, rewind that VHS tape and find out if the Hulkster got his revenge.

The circus was a blur that day. When I got home, I immediately popped some popcorn and poured some Pepsi; what would become my SNME go-to snack combo for years to come. As I started to watch, even then, I knew there was something special about this show. The production value of WWF’s weekly programming was above and beyond that of other wrestling companies at the time, which were typically in smoked filled rooms and a few hundred (if that) locals to sit and cheer. Saturday Night Main Event, however, was on a whole new level of quality. I know now that NBC Sports handled the broadcast of SNME. These were not the same squash matches against no-name local journeymen (“jobbers”) that were typically served up on Saturday mornings. The matches on SNME were epic clashes between superstars. Legends like Ricky “The Dragon” Steamboat battled Jake “The Snake” Roberts; the British Bulldogs teamed fought the Dream Team of Brutus Beefcake and Greg “The Hammer” Valentine; “Rowdy” Roddy Piper faced off against the Iranian juggernaut known as Iron Sheik. As incredible as SNME was, the resolution I sought for between Hulk Hogan and Mr. Wonderful, never happened.

Hyping matches that only pseudo-materialize is nothing new for wrestling fans. On SNME, the match between Hogan and Orndoff featured many escapes by Mr. Wonderful to the outside of the ring. Orndorff’s strategy would disrupt Hulkster’s momentum each time. And each time, Orndorff would seek instruction from his wease of a manager, Heenan. I learned another staple of wrestling from SNME — the shocking ending that sets up another fight. In another moment when Hogan seemed to gain the upper hand, a woman, no, a wrestler dressed in drag, interfered with the match. The wrestler was Adrian Adonis, and the bout ended in a disqualification. No revenge for Hogan. Instead, the stakes were higher, the need for vengeance greater as Hogan is cheated once more. The quest for revenge would continue in a Steel Cage.

Hogan! Hogan! Hogan! My story of the Steel Cage Match.

It was January 3rd, 1987. I was well on my way to turning 12 when Saturday Night Main Event (SNME) premiered the first-ever national broadcast of a Steel Cage Match.  The first time that a nationwide audience would see the imposing structure.

A Steel Cage Match wasn’t anything new. Eventually, more matches in steel cages captured my imagination. Tully Blanchard vs. Magnum T.A. At Starrcade ’85 in the “I Quit” match, the first Thunderdome Cage Match, or the iconic image from Apter Magazine of Jimmy Snuka standing on top of the cage. Steel Cages were a common gimmick, but this one was my first.

Hosts Vince McMahon and Jesse Ventura sold the dangers of this match.

“It’s a match to end all feuds and rivalries!” urged the hosts, then reminded us “The Cage is a barrier and a weapon!”

The ultimate point of sale for how deadly a match the Steel Cage would be the complete lack of rules. The Steel Cage would serve to keep Mr. Wonderful’s inside and his friends out, but that didn’t mean it would be a straightforward match otherwise. No count-outs, no disqualifications, no referees, no submissions, and no pinfalls! No holds barred and no rules. The only way to win is to escape the cage through the door or by climbing out of the cage. But, of course, this meant having to incapacitate your opponent first.

If you haven’t come to realize it by now, each chapter in my series serves to illustrate what formed and cemented my love for wrestling. The Steel Cage Match between Hogan and Mr. Wonderful was mesmerizing. Whatever this “sport” was, it was outrageous, exciting, and never ceased to fascinate me; a fascination that’s lasted for three decades.

Years later, my love for wrestling and cage matches would lead me to host and publish SteelCageMatch.com from 2001 to 2011. On the site, I asked the eternal question, “How did a legit, technically graceful sport like wrestling become faux barbarism?” Wrestling had evolved into the outrageous, introducing matches fought within steel cages for utmost brutality (albeit feigned). On SteelCageMatch.com I chronicled the history of steel cage matches and the evolution of a newlegitimate sport, Mixed Martial Arts. Things would come full circle, as MMA happens in a cage.  (All my data compiled during this time is published here: Click here).

The steel cage match between Hulk Hogan and Paul Orndorff took place on December 14, 1986, in Hartford, Connecticut and taped for broadcast on the January 3rd, 1987 edition of SNME. The rivalry was at a fever pitch, pushed to new heights as both Hogan and Mr. Wonderful entered the arena to the same song — Real American by Rick Derringer. Both combatants claimed the song as their entrance music since they used it when they fought as a tag team. So, as if the stakes weren’t high enough, the winner would take the song which became so iconic in the World Wrestling Federation.

The wrestlers were in the ring, but the drama mounted even more before the bell rang. Outside the ring, two referees, Senior WWF Official Joey Marella and veteran official Danny Davis, argued over who was assigned to officiate the match. In the end, both referees decided to stick around at ringside. The audience thought nothing of it since one path to victory was clear to everyone.

Finally, the match began. For much of it, Mr. Wonderful overcame Hogan’s size advantage by making the most of his compact, pit bull-like strength and aggression. However, each wrestler took turns blaming into the unyielding, classic blue bars of WWF cages. In the end, both competitors found themselves bruised, bloodied, and lying on the canvass. Hogan and Orndorff picked themselves up off of the mat on opposite sides of the ring at the same time. They grabbed the cage and began to climb. At the same time. It was a race to the top between the two exhausted warriors.

The camera frantically cut back and forth as both wrestlers made their way out of the cage. Mr. Wonderfull took the early lead, but Hogan made up lost ground. McMahon and Ventura unabashedly cheered for their respective favorites.

Camera cut, after camera cut drew both opponents closer to the bottom of the cage. And, in what I understand now as a brilliant moment in choreography, both wrestlers jumped down and landed at the same time. Who landed first? On one side, Referee Marella raised Hogan’s arm in victory. On the other side, Referee Danny Davis had Mr. Wonderful’s arm up in victory. Derringer’s Real American played over the speaks sending the jam-packed arena — and me — into an absolute frenzy. Who won this match?!

Referees Marella and Davis argued over the result of the match. The refs turned to NBC Sports to help determine who won. Using a split-screen and a timecode, it’s clear both wrestlers landed at the same time. What now? Both referees ordered the match to continue!

The match restarted, and it looked like Hogan had no fight left in him. Mr. Wonderful pummeled Hogan, and it was only a matter of time before the Hulkster would fall. All hope seemed lost.

At this point in my short but immensely sweet wrestling fandom, I had never seen Hogan compete against a formidable foe. My heart sank as I thought my hero was done for. But I was not aware of the wrestler’s ability to mount a comeback powered by the “Hulkamaniacs,” the collective name for his legion of fans. It’s a familiar moment to wrestling fans today, but it was the first I’d seen it, and you never forget your first time.

The chant began …

“HOGAN! HOGAN! HOGAN!”

As if feeling the raw energy projected by his fans, Hogan began to tremble. The power overcoming the champ paralyzed Mr. Wonderful. Hogan’s body filled with energy from Hulkamaniacs, fists tightly clenched, as he turned to look Mr. Wonderful dead in the eye. Mr. Wonderful attacked again and again with punches that had no effect on Hogan. Mr. Wonderful swung again, but this time Hogan snapped out of his moment of “Hulking Up” and blocked the attack.

In the blink of an eye, Hogan took complete control of the match. The Hulkster sprung into action, hitting Mr. Wonderful again and again with powerful punches. Hogan grabbed a dazed Mr. Wonderful and shoved him into the ropes, bouncing the rival off of the ropes. As Mr. Wonderful returned, Hogan slammed a boot into his face. Mr. Wonderful hit the mat hard. Most wrestlers would pause to grandstand, but Hogan continued the assault. Hogan ran into the ropes, catapulting himself back toward Mr. Wonderful who lay helpless at the center of the squared circle. Hogan leaped into the air, stretching out his tree-trunk like leg, and slamming it down across Mr. Wonderful’s head, neck, and chest. The blow finished Mr. Wonderful. Hogan made his way up and out of the cage for the victory long before Mr. Wonderful could mount a serious effort.

Hogan’s journey for revenge against his former friend was complete. The iconic song was his. And there seemed to be no one who could ever defeat the Incredible Hulk Hogan! There also appeared to be no end to my complete infatuation with professional wrestling.

Another week and Saturday Night Main Event proved to be must-watch television for me. The long week ahead to the next episode loomed. But my adoration for wrestling knew no bounds and would carry me. Little did I know, that something bigger, better, badder than I ever imagined was in store — Wrestlemania.

My 30-year love affair with professional wrestling concludes in part three and my story of Wrestlemania.

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Edited by Ruben Diaz