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tales-unique · 4 years ago

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MEMORIES OF THE WEST V

Chapter 5

The only time Saint Denis seemed peaceful was early in the morning. The sun had barely risen an hour or so before Arthur found you descending the white steps into the street, dressed in a pale yellow pinstripe blouse and flowing black skirt. Scuffing your tapered boots in annoyance, you look about yourself with a scowl on your face. You have a delicate ornate fan in hand, swatting it ceaselessly to dispel the early morning heat that plagues you. “Mornin’ Miss DuBois,” he calls, tipping his hat in greeting, “you’re out early.” “Mister Morgan, good morning,” you chirp, regarding him with a tight-lipped smile. “I just had to get out,” you hiss, the beating of your fan a sharp tempo accompaniment to your words, “this heat is awful !” Arthur chuckles, motioning for you to walk with him. “Yeah, it is,” he agrees, feeling the sweat bead on the back of his neck where the sun beats down on him relentlessly.

You walk side by side on the cobblestone streets, taking in the relative quiet. A lone carriage rumbles by, a couple strolls past you and you greet them cordially. It's pleasant, but it won't last. "So, what’s the plan?" He asks, hooking his thumb in his belt loop, "how do you wanna approach this whole thing with Jebediah?" Not one to beat around the bush, Arthur wanted to have at least the bare bones of a plan in place. The last thing they needed was to create more problems, especially ones that would involve the law. That arrogant bastard probably had them all on his payroll. "Well, it's not going to be easy," you sigh, coming to a stop outside the tailor's shop, perusing the wares on display in the window. "Jebediah doesn't like you one bit , Arthur," you click your tongue, regarding his reflection. You can certainly see why. He's dressed in a simple white button up with the sleeves rolled up and a fitted blue waistcoat that shows just how broad and defined he is. The faded blue jeans and black cowboy boots complete the look, and you take extra care not to spend too long staring at the way the denim hugs his muscular thighs. He scoffs, shaking his head. If he notices you staring he doesn't say anything, much to your relief. "That so? I really couldn't tell!" He huffs, harsh sarcasm dripping from each word. Turning on your heel you simply smile up at him, you even dare to flutter your lashes. "Don't worry about that Arthur, I've got it handled," you tell him, your smile turning mischievous. "What are you up to?" He asks warily, narrowing his eyes at you. "It's nothing bad !" You grumble, fanning your face. Standing still let the heat cling to you and it was sending you dizzy. Arthur follows your lead when you start walking again, falling into line at your side. You casually make your way towards one of the gardens, trying to keep in the shade and the minimal relief it brings as much as you can. "I just commented on how safe I would feel if I had someone with me, and broached the idea of having my own personal bodyguard, is all," you comment flippantly, glancing at him, "and maybe I managed to convince Jebediah to hire you for just that very position." "Well I'll be damned!" Arthur exclaims, impressed you were able to pull off such a feat. "What can I say? I know how to play the damsel when I need to," you preen, rolling your eyes playfully. Not only was Arthur possibly going to get away with a large sum of money and other riches, but he was going to be paid for the privilege. It's almost too good to be true, but he bites his tongue. You look so proud of yourself and he can't bring himself to rain on your parade. If things go sour he can figure it out, he always manages to somehow. The flow of conversation comes easily as you continue to walk, taking your time leisurely to admire the botanical centerpieces in the gardens. Saint Denis always did have the most beautiful flowers and bushes and you often went there when you needed time to reflect and collect yourself. "We should probably get you back," Arthur hums, "or that brother of yours might send out the whole damn cavalry to find you this time!" The comment forces a snort out of you, hiding your snickering behind your fan. It's funny because it's a scenario you can definitely see happening, not that you'd blame him. William had been overly cautious ever since you had come back, terrified of letting you go out alone even for the simplest of things. While you could appreciate his fears it was becoming stifling and you didn't know how much you could take. "Come on," Arthur chuckles. Neither of you want to go back, especially knowing that you have to force yourselves to perform roles you didn't care for, but do it you must. That doesn't mean you don't take your sweet time doing it, though.

“Don’t walk away from me, William! We are not done talkin’ about this!” “Why do you have to turn everything into an argument?” “Oh, I do apologize! I suppose I shouldn’t be angry when somethin’ is arranged about me when I’m not even in the damn room !” You hadn’t been back in the apartment barely half an hour before you and your brother were embroiled in a heated argument. Arthur stood off to the side, leaning against the wall by the window, deciding right quick that he wasn’t going to get in the middle of it. You more than had this handled, if your imposing stance and downright mean glare had anything to say about it. Even Jebediah, as disgruntled over the whole affair as he was, didn’t interfere when you started biting back. “It’s just for a couple of weeks, sister!” William rebukes in a defensive hiss, throwing his hands up in the air, “Jebediah feels that—” “—Jebediah! So Jebediah feels like I should be plucked from my own home just because he says so! Why didn’t you say so? I’ll go pack my bags right now, shall I?” You snap, hands pinned tightly to your hips. Arthur can see the way you’re gripping the fabric there so tight your knuckles are turning white. You’re angrier than a wildcat with its tail on fire and it’s too much for William to take. He falters, all that built up bravado in front of the man he idolizes, the man who swindled him, suddenly wilting in the face of real fire. “I-I just think it’s a good idea, after everything that’s happened,” William tries to reason with you, but there’s no conviction to his voice, “you know Lady Kramer loves it when you stay with her, and it gives Jebediah time to get the wedding in order!” The mere mention of the wedding makes you bristle and you open your mouth to scream how there will be no damn wedding , but you hesitate. Your fiery gaze flits between William, Jebediah, and Arthur, the last of which regards you with a look of warning. It sobers you, making you think about the consequences of your actions. You inhale deeply, grounding yourself as best you can; you’re still brimming with anger, but at least you’re not ready to commit murder. “I’m not going anywhere , William,” you speak with a sense of finality that has William reeling from the vicious bite of it. The tension is still rife in your stance when you turn away from him to face Jebediah. His sharp eyes watch you closely through the smoke of his lit cigar, regarding you with an air of condescension that you return ten fold before striding towards the door. You stop just before leaving, your hand on the handle. “You coming, Arthur?” It’s subdued, nothing at all like the brimstone and fire you were spitting moments ago. The flames have simmered down until nothing but embers were left, your eyes imploring as they look at him. Arthur stands straighter, sizing up Jebediah as he passes him. The pompous snake seethes as he follows you, noticing the way you smile at him all soft like before shooting him a look of contempt as you leave. Outside the door, you let out a deep breath and rub your face. God, those men made you so mad. Arthur barely closes the door behind him before you’re stalking off, having to hurry his steps just to catch up with you. He matches your pace at the top of the stairs, eyeing you like you’re a coiled viper about to strike. “Well that was something,” he remarks. “Oh, go dunk your head in the river!” There’s no malice in your retort, just an annoyance that isn’t aimed at him. You descend the stairs with a swiftness that catches Arthur off guard, your dress front scrunched up in your hands so you don’t trip. “Don’t fall now,” Arthur mocks, a mix of sardonic humor and genuine concern. The last thing he needs right now is for you to trip down the stairs and break your neck because you’re all wound up. You curse him under your breath, feet hurriedly taking you out into the street without so much as a backwards glance. You just want to get away , but not under someone else's instruction. “What now?” He asks, coming to a stop at your side. A look of consideration crosses your face, your brow creasing

in thought. Then, you perk up, practically glowing. “I think it’s time you meet my Ginger,” you grin, excited as you bounce on the balls on your feet. “Ginger? Who’s Ginger?” “Just c’mon!” You roll your eyes at him, already walking ahead of him. You laugh that pretty laugh you do when you’re all kinds of excited as you quicken your pace to a playful trot just to keep ahead of him, causing Arthur to smile despite his grumblings. You were already feeling lighter now that your mind was taken away from the issues at home, focused instead on the true love of your life. When you come to stop outside of the Saint Denis Stables Arthur stares up at the big painted letters, perplexed. He feels like a goddamn fool ; who in their right mind would name their kid Ginger? “There she is!” You grin, hurrying up to a stall at the far end. The scent of hay and horses is rife inside, but it doesn’t seem to faze you. In fact, Arthur swears you look more at home here than you do in that dollhouse apartment of yours. Seems that country upbringing never left you and he wonders to himself just how you looked out there on the plains, young and spirited, wrangling wild broncos to bring back home. He coughs, the image a little too good for him to be imagining. Instead, he follows after you, noticing how the stable hands all greet you by name. You must spend a lot of time there, but that doesn’t surprise Arthur, given how animated you are about your horse. True to her namesake, a beautiful chestnut Kentucky Saddler mare stands to attention in the stall, ears forward and focused on you. There’s a bold blaze of white down her face that covers her muzzle and her eyes, dark and intense, follow your movements easily as you reach your arms to her. “There’s my good girl,” you coo, giggling when she whinnies in response. The gentleness she shows you as she trots up to you, pressing herself into your awaiting arms, is compelling; the nag truly trusts you, and you clearly love her just as much. Arthur knows how good it feels to have that trusted bond with an animal, feeling the same way about his own stallion. A snort to his right catches his attention; speak of the devil and he shall appear. The Ardennes paws at the ground of his stall, none too pleased at being ignored. Arthur chuckles, moving to scratch his neck as the large beast stretches his head over the gate. “I had him put in the stall next to Ginger,” you explain, smiling warmly at the display, “I thought he’d like the company.” “I imagine he’s grateful for the fine company, thank you,” Arthur chuckles, patting his horse's neck. The display of affection sends your heart aflutter as you watch, colour dusting your cheeks. If he were to ask you’d play it off as the heat, but you knew it was more than that. You could see that Arthur had a soft spot for his horse, treating the stallion with the respect and kindness that he deserved, and you liked that about him. In fact, you were finding a lot to like about the outlaw, now that you actually took the time to think about it, and the thought unsettled you — could you really let yourself fall for a gunslinger?

#RDR2 #RDR2 Imagine #RDR2 Imagines #Red Dead Redemption 2 #Red Dead Redemption 2 Imagine #Red Dead Redemption 2 Imagines #Arthur Morgan #Arthur Morgan Imagine #Arthur Morgan Imagines #Arthur Morgan x Reader

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sciencespies · 4 years ago

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When Catherine of Aragon Led England's Armies to Victory Over Scotland

https://sciencespies.com/history/when-catherine-of-aragon-led-englands-armies-to-victory-over-scotland/

When Catherine of Aragon Led England's Armies to Victory Over Scotland

She was, in the words of historian John Edwards, Henry VIII’s “greatest queen.” But though Catherine of Aragon’s marriage to the Tudor king lasted 24 years—collectively, his five other marriages spanned just 14 years—she has long been overshadowed by her successors.

The daughter of Spanish monarchs Ferdinand and Isabella, Catherine came to England as the bride of Henry’s older brother, Arthur, Prince of Wales. But Arthur died shortly after the pair’s wedding, leaving his 16-year-old widow in a precarious position. Though Spain and England initially sought to maintain their alliance by marrying Catherine to another member of the Tudor family (both Henry and his father, Henry VII, were suggested as potential suitors), negotiations soured as diplomatic relations shifted. Ultimately, Catherine spent seven years mired in uncertainty over her future.

The princess’ fortunes shifted when Henry VII died in 1509, leaving the throne to his sole surviving son, who promptly married his alluring young sister-in-law. The couple’s loving relationship, however, eventually deteriorated due to a lack of a male heir and the king’s infatuation with Anne Boleyn.

Catherine is often portrayed as a dowdy, overly pious, stubborn old woman who refused to yield her position for the good of the kingdom. The truth, however, is more nuanced—a fact increasingly reflected in cultural depictions of the queen, including Starz’s “The Spanish Princess” and West End hit Six: The Musical, which features a fictionalized version of Catherine chiding her husband for forgetting that “I’ve never lost control / No matter how many times I knew you lied.”

youtube

Far from being the troublesome, unappealing wife of popular imagination, Catherine was actually a charismatic, intelligent and much-loved queen. Three years into the royal couple’s marriage, Henry was still so besotted with his consort that he invited a Spanish visitor to look at her “just to see how bella and beautiful she was.”

In 1513, the queen, then 27 years old, was entrusted with command of the kingdom while her 22-year-old husband waged war against France’s Francis I. Henry left behind a small group of advisors, but as newly discovered documents demonstrate, Catherine didn’t simply defer to these elderly men’s counsel. Instead, she assumed an active role in the governing—and protection—of England.

“When she is left as regent, she is in her element,” says Julia Fox, author of Sister Queens: The Noble, Tragic Lives of Katherine of Aragon and Juana, Queen of Castile. “… She has the power to summon troops, to appoint sheriffs, to sign warrants and to get money from the treasurer of the chamber.”

As Henry and his troops besieged the French town of Thérouanne, Catherine and her council readied for a clash closer to home. Just over a month into the queen’s regency, France’s ally, Scotland’s James IV, had declared war on England, bringing a period of peace between the neighboring nations to an end.

The fact that James was married to Henry’s older sister, Margaret, did little to dissuade either him or Catherine from entering the fray. According to 17th-century chronicler William Drummond, the pregnant Scottish queen pleaded with her husband to desist, noting that he was poised to fight “a mighty people, now turned insolent by their riches at home and power abroad.” But James, buoyed by the possibility of conquest (and of dealing a blow to his egotistical brother-in-law), refused.

Catherine, for her part, appeared to “relish the opportunity” to exercise her full authority, says Giles Tremlett, author of Catherine of Aragon: Henry’s Spanish Queen. In an August 13 letter, the queen wrote, “My heart is very good to it.” Wryly referencing women’s traditional role in warfare, the queen added, “I am horribly busy with making standards, banners and badges.”

Michael Sittow portrait of Catherine, c. 1502 (left), and portrait of Henry VIII around the time of his first wedding

(Public domain via Wikimedia Commons)

Though Catherine did, in fact, order the royal wardrobe to furnish two banners bearing the arms of England and Spain, as well as “standards of the lion crowned imperial,” such tasks made up just a small portion of her preparations. Working with councilors, she mobilized forces across England, communicating with local authorities to determine how many men and horses their parishes could provide. When the mayor and sheriffs of Gloucester failed to respond in a timely fashion, she gave them a deadline of 15 days and emphasized that “writing and news from the Borders show that the King of Scots means war.”

In addition to recruiting soldiers, the queen dispatched money (£10,000, to be exact), artillery, gunners, a fleet of eight ships and supplies ranging from grain to pipes of beer and armor. She had Thomas Howard, Earl of Surrey—a combat-hardened, 70-year-old veteran of the 1485 Battle of Bosworth—and his army of around 26,000 mount a first line of defense near the border with Scotland and asked Sir Thomas Lovell to lead a secondary force in England’s Midlands.

What Catherine did next was unprecedented, particularly for a kingdom where warfare was considered an exclusively male domain. As records recently found at the United Kingdom’s National Archives testify, this daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella—two famously bellicose rulers who’d spent Catherine’s childhood driving the Muslim Moors out of the Iberian Peninsula—left the safety of London and headed north toward the English-Scottish border with 1,500 sets of armor, as well as a golden “headpiece with crown” that Tremlett likens to “an armored sun hat,” in tow.

“The new details involve the queen more deeply as a director of events rather than a passive figurehead managed by those of Henry’s counselors left in England,” Sean Cunningham, the archivist who discovered the papers, told the Times’ Mark Bridges in May. “… [They] let us know that Catherine was heading for Warwick [Castle] and the Tower [of London] had pretty much been emptied of armor.”

Catherine and her troops were ready to face the Scots if James IV managed to defeat both Surrey’s and Lovell’s forces. One contemporary, Peter Martyr, reported that the queen, “in imitation of her mother Isabella,” regaled her reserve army with a speech compelling them to “defend their territory” and “remember that English courage excelled that of all other nations.”

This incident is widely referenced—including in an upcoming episode of “The Spanish Princess,” which will feature a highly exaggerated version of Catherine, clad in armor fashioned to accommodate her visible pregnancy, riding directly into battle—but many historians now consider Martyr’s account apocryphal. (Ambassadors’ correspondence indicates that the queen delivered a premature son who died shortly after birth in October 1513, but the pregnancy’s veracity remains a point of contention; in Sister Queens, Fox argues, “[I]it seems unlikely that she would have risked a much-wanted child by accompanying the army from London.”)

Tremlett deems the speech “almost certainly invented” but points out that this “doesn’t mean it [didn’t] reflect the spirit of the moment.” Fox, meanwhile, says Catherine probably made “a speech, … but whether it was quite as rousing or as wonderful, I don’t know.”

Memorial to the dead at the site of the Battle of Flodden

(The Land via Wikimedia Commons under CC BY-SA 4.0)

As it turned out, neither Lovell nor the queen ended up seeing action. On September 9, Surrey’s troops and James’ army of more than 30,000 engaged in battle. The English wielded the bill, a simple hooked weapon derived from an agricultural tool, while the Scots opted for the longer, steel-tipped pike. An afternoon of “great slaughter, sweating and travail” ensued, and by its end, some 10,000 Scots—including 12 earls, 14 lords, an archbishop, a bishop, 2 abbots and James himself—lay dead. Comparatively, the smaller English army only lost around 1,500 men.

The Scottish king’s brutal fate was, in a way, evocative of the broader blow inflicted on his country in the wake of the defeat: As historian Leanda de Lisle explains, “James’ left hand was almost severed, his throat gashed, and an arrow was shot through his lower jaw.” (Additional ignominies, including one at Catherine’s own hand, awaited the king’s corpse.) With the Stuart monarch’s passing, his infant son, James V, became the leader of a grieving, much-reduced nation.

According to Fox, the Battle of Flodden (which draws its name from nearby Flodden Edge) left Scotland “in a powerless situation.” She adds, “Not only have you just defeated them in a spectacular way, but [the kingdom is] in disarray. Scotland is practically at [England’s] mercy.”

Prior to Cunningham’s find, historians had only known that Catherine was in Buckingham, around 60 miles north of London, when she received word of Surrey’s victory. But the new evidence suggests that the queen intended to travel further north, if not directly into battle like Joan of Arc, then at least into the vicinity of combat.

“Many a queen would have quite simply hotfooted it to the Tower of London, pulled up the drawbridge and sat there fairly safely,” says Fox. “… But she doesn’t do that. She’s no milk sop. She’s not taking refuge. She really is out on the road.”

Three days after the battle, Catherine penned a letter to her husband, who had successfully captured Thérouanne and was now besieging Tournai. She began by emphasizing Flodden’s significance, writing, “[T]o my thinking this battle hath been to your grace, and all your realm, the greatest honour that could be, and more than should you win all the crown of France.” As one might expect of such a deeply religious individual, the queen proceeded to thank God for the victory—and subtly remind Henry to do the same.

Catherine’s missive then took a rather unexpected turn. She’d sent her husband a piece of the Scottish king’s bloodied surcoat (“for your banners”) but lamented that she’d originally hoped to send a much more macabre trophy: the embalmed body of James himself. Unfortunately, the queen reported, she soon realized that “our Englishmen’s hearts would not suffer it.”

This “gleeful and somewhat bloodthirsty” sentiment may seem out of character for a woman renowned for her piety, but as Tremlett points out, “Plenty of pious people were also violent, [and] plenty of people were violently pious.” Few exemplify this seemingly contradictory mindset as well as Catherine’s own parents, who waged a relentless, violent campaign against all non-Christians in their kingdom.

Catherine and Henry later in life

(Public domain via Wikimedia Commons)

Ferdinand and Isabella’s reconquest of Spain culminated in the January 2, 1492, fall of Granada, which marked the end of 780 years of Muslim rule in the Iberian Peninsula. Then an impressionable 6-year-old, Catherine witnessed the Moors’ surrender, as well as her mother’s leading role in the military crusade.

“This [stays] with her,” says Fox. “This idea of a woman involved in battles is there. And when she actually comes to the divorce question, she sees it as a battle. She sees fighting for her own marriage as just as important as fighting for the Catholic faith.”

Though Catherine was careful to praise her husband’s success in France, she and other contemporary observers knew that Henry’s triumphs paled in comparison to Flodden.

As Antonia Fraser writes in The Wives of Henry VIII, “[T]he Scottish threat was removed for a generation by the slaughter of its leaders. … Compared to this, the Battle of the Spurs won over the French, although part of an expensive campaign, was a purely temporary check, forgotten the next year when the King turned his foreign policy on its head.”

Catherine wasn’t the first English queen to assume the reins of power in the absence of a male monarch. Sixty years prior, another foreign-born princess, Margaret of Anjou, took charge of the kingdom amid the Wars of the Roses, fighting for her son’s inheritance and making major decisions on behalf of her disastrously incompetent husband, Henry VI. More recently, Henry VIII’s grandmother Margaret Beaufort—an “uncrowned queen,” in the words of historian Nicola Tallis—had acted as regent in the brief period before the young king came of age. (Years after Catherine’s death, her beloved daughter, Mary I, followed in her mother’s footsteps by rallying troops to her cause and seizing the throne from those who had sought to thwart her.)

Combined with the example set by Isabella and other relatives, says Tremlett, “Catherine had some very strong role models for women who could rule, for women who could fight.”

Whereas Margaret of Anjou’s seizure of power made her deeply unpopular, Catherine’s regency cemented her already sterling reputation. In the mid-1520s, when Henry first raised the question of divorcing his wife, he found that public opinion was firmly on the queen’s side. She viewed the survival of her marriage as inextricable from the survival of the Catholic Church, according to Fox, and refused to back down despite immense pressure.

Catherine’s legacy, adds the historian, “is that of a wronged woman … who did not accept defeat, who fought for what she believed to be right until the breath left her body.”

Henry, for his part, never forgot the tenacity his wife had demonstrated in the days leading up to Flodden. As he later reflected with no small amount of trepidation, she was perfectly capable of carrying “on a war … as fiercely as Queen Isabella, her mother, had done in Spain.

#History

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silverhyenaart · 4 years ago

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When You’re Evil

So this is something I wrote this morning for chapter 6 of Sometimes All You Need is a Friend. My first time doing a bit of a “song-fic” I do believe it’s called. I’ve got up to chapter 4 posted, if you’re curious.

https://archiveofourown.org/works/26085514/chapters/63447325

Anyways, I hope you’ll get a kick out of this. I have so much fun writing Robotnik.

***

Needless to say, after months of living off the land with nothing more than the scraps he could carry and the clothes on his back, Robotnik found himself greatly enjoying the half-demon's generosity. Room service, an actual bed, and air conditioning! Sweet, merciful air conditioning. Now, perhaps he'd over indulged on his use of the shower and private in-suite hot tub, (not to mention sleeping in well past noon,) but after being marooned for nearly a year on that fungus-riddled hellhole, the doctor let his inhibitions slip a little. After all, he was still only a human. A flawed, organic human.

“Ahhh... that almost felt as good as revenge. Almost.”

The scientist's hair was still damp and messy from having run a towel through it. Refreshed from the best night's sleep he'd had in a while and a much needed shower, Robotnik returned to work. Plotting his revenge could be just as much fun as actually carrying it out. He tapped a few times on his wrist-mounted device, taking a seat at the desk where the laptop sat on the charger. It synced up with the laptop, funneling over all of the information Robotnik could dig up on the town of Green Hills and their beloved Sheriff Wachowski. Somehow, the mad doc knew that man would have to play a part in whatever scheme he cooked up. Thomas Wachowski was willing to put his life on the line for that silly little alien. And Sonic in turn trusted that man with his. Love and trust. How human. How flawed!

“How easy to exploit!” sneered the scientist as he smirked, chuckling with glee.

Normally this was where Robotnik would spin his chair around with his arms outstretched and head tilted back while laughing, but it wasn't the kind of chair that did that. Sighing, he stood up, swiping the TV remote off the stand. He really missed his gloves; literally having the universe at his fingertips. With any luck, they'd still be inside his mobile lab with the rest of his gear and machine army.

“Until then, I guess I have to settle for using this, like a caveman.”

Robotnik snorted again; already he was adapting back into his old way of life pretty fast. Only the finer things would do to please him. (And he was a difficult man to please.) However, while scrolling through some music options of the TV to break the silence, the scientist thought long and hard about the first procedure he'd conduct on that speedy blue rat. Complete dissection was a thought, but that would also mean it would all be over too quickly. No, no, that alien was an intelligent being (not as much as he, of course,) but intelligence meant there was capacity for learning. It was still an animal. Animals could be trained. With the right leverage, Robotnik knew he could have that creature eating out of his hand if he so commanded it!

-When the Devil is too busy and death is a bit too much,- began playing on the television, causing the most evil smile to spread across his face.

Of course! While chasing that silly little creature and his cop babysitter across multiple states, the scientist had crafted various restraints and containment units for the event of a live capture. Provided none of the government gremlins had tampered with his rolling laboratory, all of the equipment should still be on board.

-To the gentlemen I'm Miss Fortune. To the ladies I'm Sir Prize,-

After checking the status of his research downloads, he couldn't help but move to the dark, brooding music that slowly became more frantic that filled the room. It just felt so... perfect. So “him”. Every step had that overcoat of his flowing behind him like a shadowy cloak.

“And it's so easy when you're evil! This is the life, you see. The Devil tips his hat to me!”

Robotnik mouthed along to the song, a finalized version of his plan already solidifying in his genius mind. Yes, all he needed was the right motivation for the creature. After all, he already knew it would do anything to prevent it's favorite human from being harmed. Then, with that blue alien's vast power properly harnessed and under his control, the mad doctor knew that he'd be unstoppable!

'Oh Tom who's dentist calls him Tim, one way or another, you're going to help me!' he found himself thinking, all the while his slick dance moves picked up in intensity.

Honestly, he hadn't been able to dance like this in a while. (Mushrooms were more judgmental then one might think.) Engrossed in his own evil plots and lavishing in Voltaire's lyrics, Robotnik didn't see the portal opening up behind him, nor the red-clad demoness stepping through with a smirk on her face.

-I'll be there, I'll be waiting 'round the corner,-

“It's a game. I'm glad I'm in it. 'Cause there's one born every minute!” came Riley's voice.

Upon realizing that he was suddenly in a duet, Robotnik turned around and let out a surprised and embarrassingly girly scream. Fumbling with the remote still in his hand, he quickly turned off the TV, stopping the music all while trying to save face.

“I'm not interrupting anything, am I?” questioned the half-demon.

“Nothing, Miss Prescott,” Robotnik sputtered, as he recomposed himself, “Let's make it an order for you NOT to sneak up on me like that! I was immersed in my research!”

At that exact moment, both the laptop and his wrist-mounted device made a little noise, indicating that the file transfer was complete. Robotnik's eyes shifted to the computer, then back to Riley.

“Oh yes, of course. So tell me, Herr Doktor, is one of your five PHDs in,” Riley began, before gracefully spinning around, letting her red silk gown flow while twirling her spear, “dance?”

Robotnik just frowned when the elegantly dressed fiend stopped in front of him, “I refuse to dignify that with an answer.”

Sighing and rolling her eyes, Riley straightened up, then gestured to the still open portal with the tip of her spear, “Well, I hope that you haven't gotten too comfortable here, Herr Doktor. Your grand chariot awaits.”

Looking through the dimensional rift, Robotnik felt his eyes grow wide. In all honesty, he had a difficult time calculating the odds of the half-demoness' success. But parked out in the desert, far away from prying eyes, was the massive black custom built semi and trailer.

Grabbing his half finished and by now lukewarm latte, the scientist stepped through the portal. Riley waved her hand once, causing the laptop to dissipate in a cloud of black mist before following after her employer. Now, the mid-afternoon Nevada sun wasn't exactly the most forgiving. However, it no longer bothered Robotnik as much as it might have in the past.

***

I know there are mixed feelings on the “Robotnik dance scene”. Personally, it was Jim Carrey being an amazing ham and I loved it. So, I thought of this. I absolutely LOVE “When You’re Evil” by Voltaire and could totally see Robotnik rocking out to that song. Here’s a link to it on YouTube, it’s amazing.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tWYCS6k1IOA&list=WL&index=42&t=0s

Of course, I claim no ownership. This is strictly fan-writing/for fun.

(It could have been worse, it could have been the “Mustache Song” from A Million Ways to Die in the West.)

#robotnik #Ivo Robotnik #Dr. Robotnik #Sonic #Sonic 2020 #Sonic Fanfic #song fic attempt #when you're evil #Voltaire is freaking awesome #I love this song #writing #she actually did it #Robotnik is not impressed with Riley's advances

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ohdeputy · 4 years ago

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100 Letters PART VII

Arthur Morgan x John Marston

Words: 5,556

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Part VI

John leaned against the structure of the barn next to the auction yard, keeping his distance as he tried to listen in on the conversation taking place between one of the auctioneers and a farmhand.

He’d been in Valentine a couple of days now, doing his best to keep a low profile while he cased the area, making sure to listen in when he could.

“We still got… some comin’ in from West Elizabeth, near Blackwater, sir. They haven’t set a time for their arrival yet.”

“Anything else?”

“The herd from Emerald Ranch will be coming later this evening. We’re expecting around twenty.”

John slightly tipped his hat up to look at the men. He’d been scoping out the area for a while after hearing about the livestock coming through to be auctioned off. He figured he might as well rustle a couple of sheep while the gang was in the area.

All that’s left is buying a rifle and finding a vantage point-

“John? What’re you doing here?”

John turned wide-eyed to where he heard his name being called from, bewildered as he saw Arthur of all people casually walk toward him only a few feet off.

“What’re you doing sneakin’ around like that,” Arthur continued advancing as he practically yelled.

“Shhhhhhh!” John brought a finger to his lips, then quickly looked over his shoulder. They hadn’t gotten anyone’s attention but John was afraid they might if Arthur continued causing a scene.

He quickly grabbed Arthur and pulled them into the nearby barn. Once inside, John faced him, “do you mind!?”

Arthur didn’t say anything as John glared into his eyes. He suddenly realized how close he stood, still latching onto Arthur’s arm.

John quickly dropped his hand and took a step back, awkwardly looking away. “I’m just on a job, so would you mind not blowing my cover?”

Arthur raised his hands up innocently, “sure. Don’t mind me.”

“Alright, well. I should really be going then. Bye.” John started to head to the opposite barn doors.

“Wait,” Arthur took a step in his direction. “Um, can I get your help with something? It’ll be quick, I promise.”

Without stopping John responded, “what.”

Arthur followed him out, trying to keep up with his fast pace into town, “you going to the gunsmith?”

“Yeah, actually.” John gave him a suspicious sideways glance, “…why.”

A stupid grin crossed Arthur’s face. “I need some ammo.”

He frowned, “and? Why don’t you get it yourself.”

Arthur looked around them, “I don’t exactly have the best reputation in town at this moment in time.”

John’s expression fell flat, “of course you don’t.”

The two made it to the side of the gunsmith shop, Arthur halting before they made it in the town any further. “Could you grab a couple of revolver cartridges for me?”

“Sure,” John replied as he took the steps up onto the porch and pushed aside the door that led into the shop. He walked up to the front counter and studied the rifles, his mind back on the job. He wasn’t looking for anything too fancy, just something to get the job done.

“May I offer you any assistance, sir?”

John pointed to a worn but sturdy-looking rolling block rifle, “Can I see this one?”

The man slid open the glass door encasing the weapons and brought the rifle that caught John’s eye out onto the counter. On closer inspection, the rifle had engravings that lined the light myrtle wood, contrasting the almost black metal that held it together.

“She’s an old one but still works like a charm, I can assure you.”

It certainly wasn’t as new and shiny as the other ones, but John held a fondness for it. He ran his hand along the barrel, “I’ll take it.”

A little while later, John returned to where he left Arthur, who he found leaning casually against the wall of the shop. “You get the ammo?”

John tossed him the cartridges then continued making his way past Arthur and back to the auction yard. Arthur whistled, “that’s quite the gun you got there, Marston. What’re you planning to use that for?”

“The job I was talking about. Gunna scope out some sheep to rustle.”

Arthur caught up to John, facing him as he spoke, “Alone? You’re gunna herd a bunch of sheep by yourself?”

He stood in front of John now, forcing him to stop. “…yeah?”

Arthur gave him a skeptical look, “no way you’ll be able to do it with one man, let me help.”

“No.” John responded coldly, moving away from Arthur.

“Why not?”

John didn’t hesitate as he answered, “because you’re unreliable for one, and two, you’ve been kind’ve a jerk lately.”

Arthur gave a sheepish smile, “that’s nothing new.”

John rolled his eyes, turning away.

“Hey, okay, wait! You’re right. What I said the day of the train heist… was out of line. You didn’t deserve that, I’m, uhh… I’m sorry.” He looked to the ground, avoiding John’s gaze.

John didn’t know how to respond at the sudden sincerity of Arthur’s apology to him. It was unexpected with the circumstance of how tense things seemed between them since they argued. And how John hadn’t seen Arthur again until now.

“I can make it up to you, let me help you with the job.” Arthur looked up again, as if not wanting to linger on the memory they last shared for too long. “Honestly, I’d be doing you a favor since there’s no way you can do it on your own.”

John squinted at him.

“Come on,” Arthur continued. “Tell me about it over a drink at the saloon, I’ll buy you a whiskey, sunshine.”

John blinked, feeling himself turn red from what he knew was only a harmless comment. He quickly turned in the direction of the saloon and started walking. “Fine.”

“Not that one, the other one,” John stopped in his tracks, looking over to see Arthur pointing in the opposite direction.

John turned to give him a confused expression, “there’s another one?”

A minute later the two walked into a small building that John never realized existed. “Huh, I didn’t even know there was another saloon.” He glanced around, “it’s pretty small. Probably doesn’t get a lot of business compared to the other one.”

He heard someone clear his throat, looking over to see the bartender give him an unimpressed stare.

John awkwardly looked away, catching Arthur’s smug expression. “Nice one, Marston.”

“Shut up.”

The two sat at a corner table away from the few other patrons that littered the place, John explaining his plan to Arthur. He talked of how he overheard that there would be multiple herds being moved in from all over the place and that he was particularly interested in the one coming from Emerald Ranch.

All the while Arthur listened intently, nodding along as John spoke. “I thought I’d set up near Twin Stack Pass and wait for them to pass by, then fire a few shots to scatter the ranchers and swoop in to take the remaining stock the rest of the way.”

“Then bring them to the auction and sell them as your own?”

John nodded.

Arthur suppressed a smile.

“What?”

Arthur shook his head, but still couldn’t help from smiling, making John frown.

“What.”

“It’s a brilliant plan but,” he gave a little chuckle, “You’ll need someone to help wrangle those sheep if they’re going to be scattering like that. Not to mention when it comes to actually herding them. Typically, there’s one man in the front and two in the back, but I’m confident we can handle it just fine with the two of us.”

He took a drink from his whiskey, then added, “you really don’t know much about ranching, do you.”

John took in everything Arthur said before responding. “No, I suppose I don’t.”

Arthur’s eyes lit up, “there, that settles it then!” He stood, and without waiting for a response exited the saloon.

John had no choice but to follow, catching up with Arthur outside as he mounted his horse, and did the same. They rode out of town and into the open, flat lands of the Heartlands. Giant pillars of rock emerged from the ground, standing like structures that reached toward the sky. As they went further out, the snowy mountains could be seen in the distance with forests that dotted the base and flowed down from the Grizzles to the west. It was quite breathtaking, being a sight to behold.

They followed along the road until John spotted a pathway leading up onto a large enough space to overlook the area around them.

“Let’s head to the ridge up there, get a better view!” he called over his shoulder, motioning to where he meant.

The two ascended together, stopping with their horses side by side to look below them. “So I’m thinking that the herd’ll make it to auction alright. But a couple of new ranch hands’ll be collecting on the sale. Doubt the town will care to notice too much.” Arthur nodded as John spoke.

The two waited patiently for the herd to arrive, scanning the valley in anticipation. John shrugged his new rifle off his shoulder to hold in his hands. He gave the ground a quick scan to look for any movement. Nothing.

“Might be here for a while.”

John relaxed his aim, giving a hum in agreement. When neither of them said anything more, he shifted in his saddle uncomfortably.

Arthur slid off his horse, taking a seat in the grass in front of them. “What’re you doing?” John asked him, wearing a frown as he did.

“Listen, it feels like I’ve been riding all day,” he responded while settling. “You’re free to join me too, Marston. Don’t think we’ll be seeing anything soon.”

John figured Arthur may be right, getting off his own horse, too. He gave Old Boy a pat before going over to sit down next to him. They sat a few more feet apart than John would’ve liked, but he knew better than to move any closer.

John sat as Arthur leisurely lay next to him, watching the clouds pass with a sun that shone brightly overhead. The wind rustled the long grass around them with a breeze that wasn’t entirely unwelcome.

Arthur reached for his hat, taking it off to run a hand through his hair. It sat just above a shoulders length, particularly sun bleached from the beginnings of the long summer days. John especially liked it like this, and the way that a few stray pieces always found their way in front of his face

He wore a relaxed expression, one that John caught himself staring at for too long. He fixed his attention ahead, but couldn’t stop his mind from returning to the image. He was so pretty, John had always thought that about Arthur. He knew that Arthur hated the thought. Pretty boy, people would call him, and he would become all red and flustered.

He would be so offended at the notion that he wasn’t some grizzled outlaw that he claimed to be. Like being pretty made him any less of a skilled gunslinger that he was.

But he was, in John’s opinion. With a perfect smile that could just about melt anyone’s worries. And of course his eyes, which was John’s favourite feature of his. The depth of their blue and how they always looked at him just right, until one day they didn’t, and he found himself avoiding them more than anything else.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to own my own ranch.” Arthur broke his train of thought, making him remember why they were here.

“I know you do,” John chuckled. “You used to talk about it when we was kids.”

Arthur smiled but didn’t look at John. It wasn’t like the same as from back in Valentine, this smile was genuine, reminding John of the past.

“It’s not an exciting life but it’s simple and rewarding.” The smile slipped from his face, “I never imagined myself in this outlaw life forever.”

John turned to look over at Arthur, seeing the sincerity in what he spoke written across his face. It disappeared just as fast as it came when Arthur squinted, pointing ahead, “that the herd you lookin’ for?”

John stood, bringing the scope up to look where Arthur pointed. “That’s them alright,” he responded. “I’m gunna fire a shot to scatter them ranch hands, then the sheep will be ours for the taking.”

He moved the crosshairs of the rifle across the ground, following the herd. He then positioned his line of fire at a safe distance to spook them without the risk of hitting anyone. Putting his finger on the trigger, he slowly squeezed. The bullet whizzed through the air, lodging itself in the dirt a few feet off from where they passed.

One of the ranch hands pulled back to still his horse, panicking as he looked around. The others halted, too.

John let fly another shot, this time causing the first man to spur his horse and hightail it out of there. The two remaining men quickly followed suit and ran after the first man, leaving the sheep long forgotten.

The sheep dispersed, too, unguided in their panic. Luckily, none seemed to run off, to John’s contentment. Now it was just a matter of collecting them, which he thought would be easy enough.

He lowered the weapon and gave Arthur a triumphant grin, who returned it. “Not bad, Marston.”

“Come on, let’s round them up.” He got onto his horse, pulling the reins to direct them down to where the sheep grazed in the open field. Once they reached the bottom, the two split up to gather the stock, their movements mirrored as they parted ways.

John took the left side, making sure to keep his distance so he wouldn’t produce any strays along the way. Looping around a cluster, he took his time in forcing them back as a group. He met up with Arthur in the middle, who waited for him.

With John’s addition, they managed to successfully gather all the sheep back together. He looked around them smiling, proud of their work.

John slid off his horse, reaching for his saddlebag to grab some oats. He held out his hand for Old Boy, who practically inhaled them. Arthur dismounted his horse, too, and John offered him some oats for his horse. Arthur took them gratefully, “Bandit thanks you kindly.”

John gave a nod, returning to Old Boy with a brush now in hand. “So why don’t you leave?”

He turned to see Arthur give him a confused expression. “The gang, I mean,” he continued, “if you don’t picture yourself doing this forever.”

“Ah,” Arthur looked away. He gently pet Bandit, taking his time to respond. “I don’t know… I think this life chose us.” He said it almost solemnly, like he mourned the idea of ever escaping the outlaw life a long time ago.

John got the feeling that Arthur was not too keen on talking about the subject. “Maybe, but that doesn’t mean you can’t try to change it. This…Dutch… he doesn’t know what’s right for us.” He quickly realized how that sounded. Awkwardly, he tried to clarify, feeling his cheeks heat up, “the gang-I mean, with everything that’s happened…” he trailed off.

Arthur shifted, fidgeting with the reins of his horse. “I won’t lie, it hasn’t been easy, but we'll get through it. We always do.”

John was slightly taken aback by Arthur’s ignorance. It almost felt as if he were just trying to disregard the severity of what happened in Blackwater. John had tried bringing it up to him only a few times and every conversation had ended in avoidance. He was determined to get through to Arthur, to talk to the Arthur he knew, who wouldn’t stand for the truth behind what Dutch had done.

“What about Nico?” John turned his body to face Arthur, “Mac, Davey, Jenny, they didn’t make it through.”

He could see Arthur’s expression turn cold. “We can’t change what’s been done… we can only move on,” there was a distance to the words he spoke, making John think he was talking about something else.

Still, he prodded further, unable to accept that Arthur didn’t have the slightest shred of doubt with how much their situation has declined recently. “You act like they meant nothing! Dutch, too, treating them as if they’re disposable, they were people.”

“Now that’s not true, you can’t put all this on Dutch. We just gotta trust in him-”

“Don’t be so naive, Arthur,” John cut him off. “You really believe all that stuff Dutch fed you about Nico? After everything?”

Arthur’s expression turned stern, “don’t.”

John couldn’t help from raising his voice, “don’t what?! Talk about Nico?” He felt a wave of surging anger at her mention, his eyes stinging. “You haven’t even said a word about her since she died. She was our friend! How could you do that?!”

“No,” Arthur turned on him, pointing a finger at John, “She was YOUR friend, not mine. I didn’t betray her, she betrayed me! Betrayed all of us! It’s because of her we ended up in this giant mess, so don’t put that on me! Don’t tell me I have no remorse when she’s the one that gave up!”

“You’re wrong, she didn’t. You knew her, she wouldn’t do that to us, just think about it-” he pleaded, desperate for Arthur to know the truth.

Arthur didn’t look convinced. “You’re turning this whole thing around-”

“I’m not!” He snapped again, aware of how the conversation was quickly descending, but John didn’t care if he was crossing a line. He’d kept everything bottled for so long, he couldn’t stop it from all coming out now.

“She was the first of us to question Dutch about his intentions! And what happened to her? He put a fucking bullet in her head and left her to rot in that damn lake, or river, or whatever the hell it was!”

Arthur’s tone was deep and steady when he responded, “that’s a serious accusation to be throwing around.”

“Yeah? Well maybe I ain’t joking.”

John could see the expression on Arthur’s face falter as he continued, “and maybe I thought you’d never trust me enough to take me seriously, did you ever think that was the reason I never told you any of this?”

Arthur went quiet, hesitating for a moment. “Of course I would take into consideration what you thought. If you truly meant it, I would, but-”

“Take into consideration?!” John almost laughed at that, “you think I could risk you considering anything after what actions Dutch took against Nico? Against me? Hell no-”

“Against you?”

“-telling you after everything that happened between us ain’t worth dying over, that’s forsure. You can’t even look at me straight no more.”

Arthur’s puzzled expression morphed back into one of anger, “yeah? Well, I wonder why that is! If I remember correctly, you were the one that fucked off for a year!”

“Oh my God,” John rolled his eyes, turning away. “Talking to you is impossible. Forget I said anything.”

“As I recall, you didn’t say anything, Marston. Like always!”

Arthur didn’t stop now that he started, “so why would you care? After everything? Mac, Davey, Jenny, even Nico! What do you care about what happens to them! Or to m-to any of us?!”

Arthur’s body was fully turned toward John now, his eyes glaring into him. He looked enraged, but there was something else that John couldn’t quite place beneath it.

“Dutch may have his flaws, but at least he was here!”

A beat of silence followed between them. The words striking John as if a they were a slap across the face.

He turned to face Arthur again, “wh-Dutch!?”

“Yes, Dutch. He is trying his best to keep us all together, where you’d rather run away from your problems. Tell me, why was it you came back, huh? Why bother!”

“Because I-I,” for you! He screamed internally, and it was the honest answer, but not one he could voice out loud. It was never about the gang. He knew that shortly after joining. If Arthur was at the other end of the earth, John would have followed him there.

“I didn’t-It wasn’t…” John fumbled through his words, eventually trailing off with the realization that there was nothing he could say without admitting the truth, leaving behind a painful silence between them.

“Hmm.” Arthur pressed his lips together, nodding his head slowly. He let out a short, frustrated breath through his nose. “After all this time and still you can’t admit the truth. Isn’t this what you wanted? To talk? Well, here we are! It’s just the two of us now! Do you have anything to say?”

John didn’t answer, composed in a forced ignorance to hide the truth.

“No!? Nothing!?” Arthur raised his arms up beside him, clearly agitated now.

“I… I can’t.” John finally said.

“Of course not!” Arthur snapped, “ ‘cause you’re a GODDAMN COWARD, JOHN MARSTON.”

John’s anger rose to match that of Arthur’s, “you know, I’ve just about had it with what people assume I am. Maybe you don’t know me as well as you thought, maybe it’s-”

John cut himself off. He was afraid of the consequences he might endure if he went on further. The conversation was turning dangerous as he let his emotion take control.

“What?” Arthur questioned him. “Maybe it’s what?!”

John didn’t answer right away. He let the silence linger for a moment before responding. “Nothing. I’m done wasting my breath.”

Arthur squinted at him but didn’t say anything.

“You know, you’re a capricious man, Arthur Morgan. One minute you’re all content, seemin’ like we could be friends again and the next you’re back to avoiding me and acting like I don’t even exist.”

“Oh, is that what you’re expecting? To be friends?”

John faltered, uncertain in that moment how to respond, “well… yes.”

John studied Arthur’s face intently. He could feel his heart beating in his chest as he waited in anticipation for a response. Arthur remained stoic, without a crack in his demeanor to show John any indication of what he was thinking.

“Well then.” Arthur’s jaw clenched, “I guess you’re a bigger fool than I thought.”

John stared, unblinking. Arthur continued, “we ain’t friends. We ain’t ever gunna be friends.

Arthur’s gaze hardened, holding a fierceness John had never known him to have. And when he looked into his eyes, he saw no familiarity, feeling nothing that he once did.

“I can’t be friends with you. Do you know why? Because when I look at you, all I see is a ghost. You’re just a memory of someone I thought I knew a long time ago.”

John stood paralyzed from his words, listening with such focus as he felt his chest tighten.

“And sure, it’s all fine and civilized when it has to be. But that’s all it will ever be.” Arthur’s voice shook as he went on, John could see tears start to form in his eyes, “so don’t you think for a second it means anything more.”

Without another word, he mounted and spurred his horse to ride up ahead of John, leaving him in the dust. John let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding and gripped onto his horse to pull himself up. His arms and legs felt shaky when he did. He didn’t want to think about what just happened. And how everything that he thought he had between him and Arthur was built upon lies. No, he didn’t want to think about that.

He kept switching between a fury and misery at what transpired, angry at how careless Arthur was and filled with sorrow from the hurtful things he’d said. All I see is a ghost.

Maybe he was right. John hadn’t felt like himself in years, and maybe he was holding onto something that was long dead, killing him in the process too.

But what hurt the most was the fact that Arthur believed John truly didn’t care. After all the sacrifices made, to think that it meant nothing to John. Did he really see him so heartless? If only he knew…

No, he couldn’t go down that path right now. He forced the thought far from his mind. He had to focus, he came out to do a job, and he was going to finish it.

With about a dozen sheep between them, the air was tense as the two rode to the auction yard. It took almost twice as long going back to Valentine, or at least it seemed like it to John, not saying a word to each other the entire time.

Arthur reached the auction yard first, getting off his horse to lend a hand opening the gate with the farmhands, funneling the sheep inside the corral. John spotted the auctioneers not far off, dismounting his horse to approach them.

The lead man leaned on the fence with his foot propped up, watching the sheep intently. “Those are some fine sheep you got there.” He faced John, “one might wonder how you acquired such.”

“Guess I should take that as a compliment, I’m quite proud of them myself,” John responded, but the man didn’t seem convinced, narrowing his eyes.

Arthur came up to stand beside John, “you got a problem with the sheep, friend?” His voice was low, staring at the auctioneer with intensity. It was clear that he was still in a poor mood from their argument before.

“Not with the sheep, friend. And I suggest you be careful.”

“Excuse me?”

A slick smile crossed the man’s face, “sure, I’ll excuse you… for twenty five percent kickback.”

Arthur looked taken aback and John was afraid he would punch the man. Instead, he took a couple of steps closer to the auctioneer, threatening him now with his voice in a deep growl, “do you want me to put another hole in your head?”

The auctioneer didn’t move, matching his tone when he responded, “folks swing ‘round here for rustling livestock. Twenty five percent.”

“Fifteen,” John interjected, making them both break their staredown between each other and look at him.

“Twenty.”

Arthur waved his hand in frustration, walking away from them.

“Eighteen,” John persisted, making the auctioneer contemplate for a moment before he answered.

“Done.” He held out his hand to close the deal, which John took. “Come back when the auction is over, you’ll get your money.” John gave a tight nod, dropping his hand.

Arthur was already at his horse and back to ignoring John by the time he walked over. He thought Arthur might take off back to camp without waiting for him, but never got the chance to find out when he heard someone come up to them.

“Gentlemen!” Trelawny strolled over to meet the two of them. He held himself up straight, looking down his nose at them like he always did. John thought about how out of place he looked amidst all the mud and animals with his top hat and pristine clothes.

“There you are! I thought I might find you around here, or more so, Dutch thought you boys had business here. He has requested your ever awaited attendance in town.”

Without stopping for an answer, he turned and walked back up the way he came. “Come, come, I’ll take you to him.”

Arthur dismounted and took the reins of his horse, turning his back to John when responding, “lead the way.”

John whistled for Old Boy to follow while Trelawny led them into town. He lingered behind the two, not wanting to encourage conversation.

“So, what were the two of you up to?”

“Auctioning sheep.” Arthur said curtly, making Trelawny glance his way. “That it, then?”

“Yup.”

Trelawny overdramatically shook, “brrr, did something happen between you two? It’s awfully cold.”

John could make out Arthur’s expression furrowing from the other man’s brash remark. “Just doing a job, nothing more to it.”

“Very well then.” Trelawny seemed to take the hint as he didn’t speak any further during their trip along the road. He stopped outside the saloon they were at earlier that day and John thought of how different things were only a couple hours prior, feeling his heart tighten.

“I’ll meet you boys inside.”

The two awkwardly made their way to where the horses were to be hitched without looking at one another.

“Nice going back there, Marston,” his voice was thick with sarcasm. “Can’t herd, can’t swim…”

John opened his mouth to retort, but Arthur cut him off before he had the chance, “oh don’t tell me, ‘we ain’t kids no more.’” He forcibly tied the reins of his horse and walked up the steps of the saloon. “We never really were…”

John’s first instinct was to yell after him, but his anger was instantly replaced with a sense of sadness. Arthur was right, they were robbed of any childhood. And the man responsible for that was sitting not ten feet away from him.

He went to hitch his own horse, taking a deep sigh before going inside to meet Dutch. It was the last thing he wanted to do, and after today, particularly so.

When he pushed open the saloon door he could see Arthur taking a seat beside Dutch. Trelawny, in turn, got up from his, “-it won’t be for long, I’ve got a good feeling about this place.”

Dutch couldn’t look more disinterested, “sure.”

“Right then, I’ll be off,” Trelawny passed by John to leave, tipping his hat as he did.

Dutch turned toward Arthur, “where have you been?”

“Workin’. Marston had a thing.” Arthur leaned back in his chair.

“A thing?”

“Yup, just waiting to get some pay on a few sheep.”

“Right.” Dutch turned to John as if he had only just noticed he was there. “John. Since you’re here, could you make yourself useful and stay outside with the horses? Make sure there ain’t no funny business out there.”

John’s eyes darted to Arthur, who quickly looked away. He gave a tight-lipped smile, “sure thing.”

He heard Dutch offer Arthur a drink before exiting the saloon, feeling like a child being sent out while the adults talked. Typical. He thought to himself how this day couldn’t get any worse, but then again each day seemed to be harder than the previous.

John stood next to Old Boy, shrugging off his rifle to put away. The town was quiet, making him wonder why Dutch was so keen on having a lookout. He could have just sent John home.

Without much distraction, his mind drifted back to their argument from earlier. It was becoming obvious where Arthur’s loyalty lay, the realization hitting John hard. Though, he didn’t know why he was surprised. What they once had was long gone. They were years past it.

The worst part was that he couldn’t even blame Arthur because it was John who avoided him for all those years. He may not have had a choice, but Arthur didn’t know that. He wasn’t aware of the circumstance that led them here. And maybe it was time for John to let go.

Combined with what transpired with Dutch last, John questioned why he still ran with the gang. After today he crossed some line in his mind telling him that he should leave. That Arthur all but despised him, that Nico was a warning and that if he wasn’t careful, he would end up the same as her. He thought about Abigail and how he should tell her everything about Dutch so that she and Jack might leave and never look back, too.

John believed he could get away with it. Slipping away and giving into the rumors of him running off like half the gang thought anyhow. He doubted Dutch cared enough to chase him, after all, it would mean that he won.

In the past there had been countless reasons that would almost convince him to go; the way people looked at him as if he were some sort of traitor. Not being able to bear the self-hatred of pleasing Dutch by settling with Abigail. Of course, nothing compared to how much it killed him to avoid Arthur, and Arthur him.

It made sense in John’s mind. And if he was being honest, leaving was the most rational thing to do. Half his life was spent living in fear of Dutch’s shadow and being marked untrustworthy by most of his companions.

He wouldn’t have been able to last this long were it not for Nico, yet now that she was gone he still felt a pull to remain. That was… until after today. Now that John was completely clear on Arthur’s feelings toward him, that there wasn’t even a shred of forgiveness that John could cling on to…

“Well, well, well. Look what we have here.”

John was so lost in thought that he nearly jumped out of his skin when he heard someone behind him. Without recognizing the voice, he turned around just in time to see the butt of a gun thrust into his face.

#morston #arthur morgan/john marston #arthur morgan x john marston #arthur/john #morston week 2020 #it been awhile since i updated my fic on tumblr and thought now was as good as time as any to post here since i have a couple new chapters

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thewanderingknight · 5 years ago

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Aside the Outlaws, Ch. 4

Life with your newfound family among the Van der Linde Gang is pretty rough and tumble, but your modest skill of riding sidesaddle could benefit the gang while infiltrating a wealthy Lemoyne estate.

Chapter I | Chapter II | Chapter III | Chapter IV | Chapter V

The day has come. Time to saddle up Godiva and show everyone that you can do this. Hopefully, the garden party heist goes off without a hitch.

Arthur Morgan & Reader Warnings: Cursing, blood. Word Count: 4,373 Oops. Notes at the end!

Where have you been darlin’, what have you done? You were out findin’ trouble again; there’s a fire in your eyes & there’s blood on your hands 🎵

((still mad that tumblr took away the line!))

One more night in this cot til the heist, you thought. Your eyes remained shut, hoping that the longer you stayed in bed, time would cease to move forward. You felt the weight of Arthur’s arm sprawled across your torso. He shifted in his sleep, his short scruff scratching your shoulder. You sighed, unable to drift back into a twilight rest. Maneuvering away from Arthur’s weight, you rose from the cot and dressed to face the day.

You rubbed sleep from your eyes as you shuffled towards the campfire and poured yourself a cup of coffee. The cicada song was quiet as a few people were shaking off sleep and beginning to tend to chores. You ambled around camp, finally resting against a large tree, watching Godiva graze next to Brown Jack. Feeling unsure, you quickly drained the hot liquid and rose from your spot, making a bee line for the log on the shoreline. The gentle lapping of water only irked you, so you shot up from the log and walked back to your tent. Arthur had only just gotten up, legs dangling off the side of the cot. He watched you dart from one corner of the tent to the next, opening your chest then closing it, rearranging the keepsakes on the table, organizing the camp’s ammo stock. He stood, silently pulled you close to plant a long kiss on your forehead, then pushed aside the tent flaps to start his day. Deciding to deal with the nervousness that possessed your body, you marched towards Godiva. If you had to look like a society woman, well then, so did she.

Godiva thoroughly enjoyed the attention. You spent the morning on the lake shore with your sleeves rolled up, covered with soap and Absorbine until her brown coat shined. Her ears and bottom lip drooped, hip cocked and relaxed while your scrubbed. You were almost jealous at how much she relished the care, not knowing what would be happening tomorrow. You covered her black hooves with an oily polish and combed out her mane and tail. She looked regal, while you were left looking like you had crawled from the depths of Flat Iron Lake.

It wasn’t fear that kept you moving around camp. Rather, it was anticipation in the wake of what you had assumed was a huge event. Robbing someone like Amos Pilot, right under his nose, isn’t this something huge? For the rest of the gang, it was just another day. You would have almost preferred to have volunteered for this job the day of, just so it would be over and done with, instead of enduring the dreaded slogging of time, filling up your mind with every possibility of what could go wrong.

Arthur strolled up to you as you hitched Godiva. “She’s lookin’ real good. You’ll blend in for sure on ‘er. You, however…” he gestured to you.

“Oh, go on an’ say it. I need a bath.” You rolled your eyes, snapping a dirty towel in his direction.

“Lemme take you into town, getchu cleaned up. Buy you a drink. You sure seem like ya need it.”

You huffed, “Actually, Arthur, that... sounds lovely. Thank you.”

He smiled, extending a hand for you to take. “We’ll take my horse. Don’ wanna mess up all the work you put into yer mare.”

He led you towards Britomartis and climbed into the saddle, holding out a hand to help you mount up behind him, both legs on tucked on the left side. You wrapped your hands around his waist as Arthur ushered Brit into a nice clip towards Rhodes.

*****

The sun burned hot in its descent to the west. You shielded your eyes with your hand as you looked on a dusty Rhodes, glowing with the dying rays.

You followed close to Arthur as he jogged up the steps, waltzed up to the bar, paid for the whiskey, and escorted you up the spiral staircase. You walked passed the Black jack table towards the veranda that overlooked the railroad out of Rhodes. A slight wind shook the ivy leaves that clung to the lattice fencing. Arthur tossed his hat onto a small table in the corner and heavily sunk into the chair.

“Now, Lenny ain’t here, so no gettin’ into trouble,” you teased.

He grumbled under his breath, “It weren’t that bad, really.”

“Oh, the money I’d pay to see something like that,” you shot back, tapping your chin and laughing.

Arthur just raised his eyebrows at you and stretched an arm out behind your back, fingers idly playing with your hair. You fidgeted with the shot glass in front of you, taking in your surroundings. Arthur’s solid warmth, the breeze that blew a few strands of hair into your face, the songbirds chirping in the trees across the rail line. Arthur caught your attention, sliding his glass across the table to meet yours. You smiled, raised your glass to clink with his, and downed the whiskey, feeling it burn on the way down.

“Maybe I don’t gotta make a big deal outta this,” you started, “you boys do this all the time.”

“‘S’your first, normal to feel nervous,” he returned, “He’s got minimal guards, and you’ll be covered on all sides. Nothin’ to worry ‘bout. I wouldn’ send you into the lion’s den if you couldn’t handle it, or if you weren’ prepared.” He tapped your shoulder that his arm was around.

“An’ Dutch would?” you shot back.

He sighed. “Well, no, but-- I don’t think that’s fair.”

“You’re probably right,” you looked back out at the rooftops of the main street. The sky was leaching into a saturated violet. “I don’t mean to sound angry at him. Or that I’m not with the gang. I’ve been a part of it for years, now. An’ he’s the man who raised you.” You glanced back at Arthur; his eyes were already on yours. “It surprised me, is all, when he said I couldn’t arm myself.”

“But you will be.”

“Thanks to you. An’ I know how he is, always preaching about keeping the faith.” You grabbed his hand in yours, and brought it to your chest. You were sure he could feel the nervous pounding of your heart. “But Arthur, I have faith in you, ya hear me?”

You could feel his fingers curl into your top. He said nothing, but moved his hand from your shoulder to the back of your head, gently ushering you forward to meet your lips to his.

“Woman-” he started.

“Just let me be silly and romantic, you fool,” you smiled at him and held his hand in your lap. You looked up to see his blue eyes searching your face. “I’ll be alright,” you sidled up tighter to his side. “Now I do believe you promised me a bath, Mister Morgan.”

Another shot of whiskey found you in the bath and Arthur sitting on a stool nearby, scribbling in his journal. You sunk your head down just enough to submerge your ears beneath the water. You closed your eyes, listening to the muted tones and tinny scrapes of your body in the water.

You opened your eyes and peaked at Arthur, still keeping his eyes locked inside his journal. You moved in the water, leaning over the edge of the tub closest to him. You called his name softly, and he looked up. You reached a hand out, silently asking.

He smirked and sighed, but stood from the stool and placed his journal and hat atop the seat. You bit a finger as you watched him undress, smiling as you felt the water shift when he stepped in behind you. When he settled, you pressed your back to his chest, laying your head on his shoulder. He looked down to steal a single searing kiss from you.

With whisky in your veins and your man behind you, steeped in the steaming bathwater, the edge of anxiety that poked your stomach had rounded, and you were finally able to relax.

*****

The next time I’m in this cot, I’ll be done with this business.

Morning had come, and brought a fierce sunshine upon camp that morning. The girls surrounded you, helping you look like a lady of distinction you were trying to be. You took Karen’s top hat and tipped it forward, the lip of the edge just touching your brow. For good measure, Mary-Beth had attached a cloth of sheer black lace that covered your face and criss-crossed your vision. Tilly had loaned you a pair of white kidskin gloves. Molly had even given you some red rouge to dab on your lips, and Abigail slipped an old brooch into your hand for good luck, which you clasped to the front of your high collar. Miss Grimshaw left a pair of her pearl earrings on your bedside table.

“Oh, it’s so romantic, isn’t it?” Mary-Beth crooned as you hugged them each in turn.

“Sure is, even if you rob’em blind,” Karen rolled her eyes.

“But that just adds to it!” Mary-Beth argued, “a gentlelady thief! That can be dark and romantic, and fun!” She giggled.

You pulled Karen aside as the girls left to carry on with their day.

“Karen? Arthur told me ‘bout a job you did with them a few years back; something ‘bout you dressin’ up as a nun?”

She snorted, “oh, yeah! That was fun. They weren’t expectin’ ‘sweet Sister Karen’ to be packin’ a shotgun ‘neath her habit!”

“I guess, it just sounds an awful lot like what I’m doin’,” you continued. “I guess what I mean is, how’d you do it? You were so sure when you left to rob the Valentine bank. Weren’t you-- don’t you get nervous?”

“I dunno, honey. I guess I just knew they’d have my back. We’d be okay. Arthur was there. That helped a lot. A shot a whiskey before don’t hurt, neither!” You smiled at that.

*****

You rolled your shoulders and straightened your back, waiting for the boys to arrive at the meeting place, just into the treeline a ways before the Pilot Plantation. You could see the top of the stoic house peeking out from above the foliage.

The high collar of your shirt was stifling in the shimmering Lemoyne heat. The faint, whispering breezes seemed like a godsend. Suddenly, velvet seemed revolting to you. Godiva shifted beneath you. You leaned forward and patted her neck. Nervously, you rearranged a part of her mane that had flipped over to the opposite side. She turned her head as she heard a horse approaching. Arthur arrived and slipped off his horse, the sawed-off shotgun hanging from his shoulder.

“You ready?”

“I think so. Can you do it, Arthur?”

“‘Course.” His hands slipped under the drapes of velvet. He gave your calf an encouraging squeeze that made you look down, suppressing a smile. “Okay, all set.”

The shotgun weighed down on your leg, you adjusted yourself in the saddle.“M’okay. There’s a slug in each barrel. Let’s hope you don’t gotta need for ‘em.” He looked up at you as you saw Dutch trotting up on The Count, flanked by Micah on Baylock.

“Is everyone prepared?” Dutch boomed, swinging his leg over the horn and walking towards you.

“Jus’ look at her,” Arthur stated proudly. You sat up straighter as Dutch circled you and Godiva. She curved her neck slightly and into the bit; always the show-off, your horse. Her blood bay coat gleamed in the shadow of the trees. The black points on her legs and hooves shone like the curves of your velvet skirt. Your hair had been put up in a delicate plait on the back of your head, and Godiva’s tack had been oiled and cleaned. You and her were a team of radiance.

“My dear, I do say, you were born for this,” Dutch nodded once. “Now, the boys have already started on the road around the plantation, you should see them from time to time. Arthur n’ Micah will stay here with a scope on you, to make you don’t get into too much trouble.”

“Don’t go drinkin’ too much of that fancy wine, Lady Godiva,” Micah interjected. “We’ll be watchin’ who you end up flirtin’ with.”

You whipped your head to shoot him a glare, but Arthur had moved closer. You reached your hand down, he took it and gently squeezed your fingers,” You’ve got this, sweetheart. And I’ve got you.” “I know you do. Alright, time for me to go. A lady of distinction such as myself can’t be seen runnin’ with a bunch of outlaws,” You squeezed his fingers in return then let go, and gathered Godiva into a trot, leaving the peripheral safety of the tree line.

Your mind blanked as your approached the gate. You glanced down at Godiva, her mane a black sheen of waves, undulating in time with her steady trot.

“Afternoon ma’am,” he said sternly. You noted the sun glint off his repeater. “This here’s private property.”

“I’m very much aware,” you coiled. “I was asked here by an Amos Pilot. He’s expectin’...my company.” A pearl of sweat slid down your back. You watched his eyes follow your hand as you reached into your waistcoat to reveal the invitation Trelawney had recovered for you. He walked forward and snatched it from your gloved hands, then peered at it suspiciously.

He waited for a moment before conceding. “Right this way, ma’am.”

“I should say,” you ruffled his way as he moved to swing the iron gate that yawned a screech. Godiva pushed into a light trot down the pea gravel path that weaved through the property.

The trimmed bushes stood stoic on either side of the white gravel path before the large two-story house. Tables with white cloth fluttered in the wind, and strings of lightbulbs criss crossed through the low hanging trees, whose droopy branches skimmed the red dirt. A small string ensemble sat in a corner of the ivy, bellowing out rolling melodies. Horses and people of all colors and sizes strolled about. You could see some heads bobbing above the straight hedges off towards the property’s edge. The faint sound of a gurgling fountain dipped between the music and conversation and horses. Godiva nodded at the new noises and smells, but quickly calmed down. You stroked her neck, unsure if it was for her nerves, or your own. You looked towards the property line, and noticed Javier and Boaz, looking like they were taking a leisurely stroll; Boaz’s head hanging low and swinging in-time with his strides. Godiva seemed to notice as well, and let out a shrieking whinny at the sight of Boaz. You quickly shushed her, hoping to blend in with the crowd.

“My, what a lovely mare you have.”

You looked up to see an older woman sidle up to you on a large dappled gray Hungarian Halfbred, his mane roached.

“Oh, thank you. She’s my pride,” you replied, continuing to stroke her neck.

“What is her lineage?” Her sharp eyes followed the well-knitted lines of Godiva’s conformation.

“I do know she has a strong Thoroughbred connection,” you started, not wanting to start a lengthy conversation. “Unfortunately, all her papers were lost in a fire. Very tragic.”

The woman frowned a bit. “Shame, she looks so regal. And you’re riding aside. Very traditional of you.”

“I could say the same of you,” you retorted.

She smiled at that. “Can’t seem to shake it! My mother was very insistent on it. Now I can’t get rid of the damned thing. And, Augustus takes to it well, he’s a good chap.” She patted the horse’s shoulder, then looked back at you. “What is your name?”

“Helen. Helen Callahan,” you extended a hand. “My mother insisted on it, as well.”

“Ebba Griffin,” she gave your hand a firm shake. “Care to accompany on a ride around Amos’ gardens?”

“I would be delighted to,” you replied, and followed her on the outer path that snaked around the house.

Ebba turned out to be a fair companion, you thought, as she rambled through stories of her adventures throughout India and China, the men she’s been with (and details that made you blush redder than a shepherds sunset), the sights she’s seen. The rides you took with Arthur were mostly shaped to the comfortable silence that you both enjoyed, but Ebba kept a hold on your attention, and you gasped and nodded at all the right moments, prying more stories out of her. She eventually slowed down after the death of her third and final husband, to where she was currently touring America at her leisure.

“So, my dear, what husband are you on?” she threw you a jesting smile.

“Oh, well actually-”

“Not married yet?” you nodded in response. “Quite unusual, I should say, but I would know, since I myself am quite unusual,” she answered her own question, and you just smiled. “But you’ve got the look of a young woman with something behind those dashing eyes. Must be some kind of love, hm?”

You fought the smile on your face and glanced over at the treeline. ”Yes ma’am,” you answered her, emboldened by the concept of talking about Arthur while he could see you, without hearing what you were saying. “I’ve got quite a man, Miss.”

“You are smitten, aren’t you?”

“Oh, quite. I tell him every day, yet he doesn’t believe me. He’s strong, and silent, and good.”

“What’s his name?”

“Arthur,” your smile widened.

“Good name, strong name!” she raised her hand in the air, and Augustus quickened his stride. “Let’s ride back, I need a drink. Let’s toast to Arthur!”

You laughed, trotting behind her.

Ebba called over attendants holding chittering glasses of champagne on sparkling silver platters. One of those could earn you a new dress, you thought as you delicately plucked a coupe from the platter the waiter had lifted to you and Ebba, still seated on your horses.

She raised her glass to you. “To men like Arthur… and my second husband!”

“To Arthur!” you echoed, and downed the glass in one swig, feeling the bubbles dance down your throat.

An attendant came and helped you dismount Godiva, leading her to a line of posts where other horses were being hitched. Ebba handed you another coupe, and you followed her towards the light and sound emanating from the party that had begun to grow as the night faded into a violet twilight.

Following Ebba became a game of catch, either catching the glasses she idly tossed the more she consumed, or catching her before she fell into bushes or other people. Your cheeks hurt from smiling, finding it great fun to be in the company of someone who seemed so opposite of everything you remembered.

You finally coaxed her to sit in a wrought iron chair, finding an attendant to fetch her some food. Over the sound of her broken giggles, you heard someone urgently whisper the name of Amos, and looked over to see a rotund man with a dark beard leaning towards an attendant who whispered in his ear, then strode towards the house, trying to hide the hurry in his step. You patted Ebba’s shoulder, then quickly followed the man.

You flitted towards the rear entrance of the house, where the road was barely visible through the trees, on the other side of the fence. You slid into the shadowy mudroom, hearing the clunk of footsteps on the second floor. Your body moved, focused, forgetting your earlier anxiety. Creeping up the staircase, you noted a flickering golden light cut into the hallway. Lightly tiptoeing forward, you crept along the walls, closer towards the open door. Peeking your head to just see through the doorway, you spotted a man, hunching over an ornate desk, pressing his knuckles into the wood.

“Amos, darling, please return to your guests! It’s rude to keep them waiting!” A female voice echoed from an adjoining room.

Amos sighed and called out to the voice, then left through the other door. You breathed out, and scurried over the desk that was littered with paper. You sorted through them, some letters, some banking notes, and one heavy handed letter from Cornwall.

“I know your name, Mr. Cornwall,” you muttered as you plucked it from the pile on the desk and began searching for the bonds Dutch had described. You slid the heavy drawers towards you, rummaging through the contents. You found a thin leather envelope that had a money clip in it, and tossed it on the rug. There was some jewelry: a pearl necklace and a few pocket watches that you tossed into the envelope.

The other side of the desk opened as a cabinet, and when you flung it open it revealed a small, burly safe. You let out a breath, and tried to remember what Arthur had taught you about opening these blasted safes.

You got down on your hands and knees, pushing your head into the cabinet and up against the cool metal, listening for the clicks.

“Shit,” you whispered, when you heard the mechanism lock, and twisted the knob a few times to restart. You closed your eyes, listening again for the clicks. On your third attempt, the safe coughed. You gasped when you pushed down on the handle and the little door swung open, revealing sitting stacks of bound bonds.

You picked one up and flipped it through your fingers. It was too much too count. Too many bonds. You smiled, stuffing the bonds into the envelope until it bulged with its contents.

Footsteps were echoing through the hallway outside. You deftly shut the safe door closed, and carefully latched the cabinet closed, tucking the envelope under your waistcoat and scurrying to the door Amos had exited from, hoping it was another way outside.

Once outside, you couldn’t stop the growing smile on your face. Was it really this easy? No wonder they did this all the time! When we return to camp Arthur is gonna get the best--

You stopped mid stride, there was a strong grip on your arm, and a cool pressure on your neck.

“Not good to wander alone in the dark, pretty lady,” you winced away from the scratchy voice in your ear, warm breath on your skin. “Ah! Don’t fight me, if’n you wanna live,” the words slithered around you, as he pushed you towards the crowd.

Ebba, still slumped in the chair, saw you walking back and waved to you. A shot rang out nearby, followed by gasps and screams. Another voice boomed above the commotion.

“Good evenin’!” A man rode through the tables on a stout Appaloosa. “We are the Lemoyne fuckin’ Raiders, an’ we are gonna relieve you of your personal propertah!”

More men on foot began to surround the patrons of the party. The man holding you pushed you forward. You found Ebba, reaching out for each other. You grabbed her arms and held on as the circle around you became tighter. You could feel the shotgun resting against your leg.

A raider holding out a sack began to weave through the crowd. Women were already reaching up to unhook necklaces; men reluctantly tossed money clips into the sack.

One raider roughly grabbed Ebba’s arm, trying to pry a gold ring from her hand. She screamed out. “No, you can’t!” she begged, “it was my late husband’s, please!”

You reached for the raider. “Let go, she don’t wanna be touched!” you yelled, trying to release his grip. Another man came up and struck his hand around your throat. You tried to claw yourself free.

“We take whatever we can get,” he spit in your face. “Let go!” you choked out.

Another shot cracked through the air. The man before you was now crumpled on the ground, blood pooling around his head. You glanced back at the darkened trees before noticing the surprise on the man still gripping Ebba.

“Ebba, get down!” You reached for her head with one hand, and with the other, snaked under your skirt and gripped the handle of the shotgun. You flung it out, aiming it into the raider’s chest and pulling the right trigger. He fell backwards, and chaos consumed you.

Raiders and patrons ran in every direction. You reached for Ebba, but she was grabbed round the shoulders by a man in a disheveled tuxedo, whisking her farther into the commotion. You ran for the rear entrance of the house, hoping someone was there already, ready to cover you. You bumped and clashed with people trying to get away. Someone grabbed your arm, and you screamed with adrenaline, ripping your jacket off to reveal the white sleeves of your shirt and ran faster, still clutching the shotgun. You whistled for Godiva, hoping she didn’t run too far when the shooting started. You scrambled under the fence to see Godiva trot up right after where John and Bill were waiting in the underbrush.

“Where...where are the others?” you huffed between breaths, leaning on your knees.

“Dunno,” Bill replied. “They shoulda been here by now. We came ridin’ when we heard the first gunshot.”

“Damnit,” you huffed.

John dismounted Old Boy and brought Godiva to you. You took her reins and pressed your forehead to her brow, holding her head close.

Micah appeared, charging up on Baylock. He swung his leg over the horn. “That was some fuckin’ mess,” he drawled, and looked at you. “Saw you enter the house. Did’ya get the bonds Dutch asked for?”

You looked around for Brit’s jagged blaze in the darkness, but neither she nor Arthur had yet appeared. You peered around Micah.

“Where’s Arthur?” your heart clenched.

“I thought he was right on my tail, princess,” Micah sneered, glancing around him.

“After he let out that rifle shot, we heard ah group of them movin’, so we started to move.”

“No, no, no, no,” you repeated, marching towards him. You pushed him with the flat of your heels. You grabbed his lapels. Tried to shake him hard.

“Micah, where is he?” you cried. Hot tears outlined your cheeks.

“Micah!” you cried again. “Micah! Where’s Arthur?”

Notes: Anon, this one’s for you!

Sorry (not sorry?) about the cliffhanger. Y’all, I’m excited. Sometimes I feel I have to streamline out all the detail I want to put in. But I’ve got a spicy epilogue brewing! Also, sometimes I’m burning the candle at both ends when I write this, and I don’t realize I’ve changed the tense. If you notice anything, please feel free to leave a comment or message me!

Also, I could have SWORN there was a piece of conversation with Karen where she describes robbing a bank dressed as a nun, but I can’t find it on youtube! Seems like something she’d do, so I kept it in. You’ll just have to take my word for it.

#aside the outlaws #rdr 2 fanfic #Arthur morgan #Arthur Morgan x female reader #Arthur Morgan x reader #red dead redemption 2 #god I hope this makes sense #my red dead #proofreading? never heard of her

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anna-morgan1901 · 5 years ago

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1. Breaking the kiss to say something, staying so close you're murmuring into each other's mouths ................................................ "Mrs. Callahan." That was the name she used when the proper-seeming fellow at the front desk cocked an eyebrow at the purchase of a single co-ed room between her and Arthur Morgan. The very idea of such impropriety between two shady-looking characters sent one bushy, dark brow sharply up, nearly hitting the ceiling with thinly-veiled judgement as he drew conclusions quicker than a gunslinger draws his six-shooter. Colette herself had no qualms with being mistaken for a working girl-reveled in it even-though Arthur, bless him, was a bit more bashful than that. Cole couldn't fault such a blunt conclusion, though, dressed as she was. She'll swear she dressed properly as to not draw attention, but her short, thick body didn't allow sharing clothes with the other girls at camp and nothing she owned of a feminine persuasion covered her chest to the neck or the tattoo of a pistol on her collarbone. It wasn't for lack of trying, though. Her blouse lost those buttons at the top long ago, the lacy collar standing around her neck, plummeting into a deep V and playing a lascivious game of peek-a-boo with her cleavage and tattoo. The skirt was a bit better, though the heavy material only further accentuated the stark difference between the width of her waist and of her hips. Her homestead heels added an inch of height to her short body, putting her at the ideal height to snake her arm around Arthur's, drop her head against a strong shoulder like a girl in love. And Cole would do anything for Arthur, including spare him the embarrassment of confrontation that she so adored. That included less hesitation than clothing worn on her part when she extended a heavy, corded arm and wiggled her fingers in a coquettish introduction, "Mrs. Cassandra Clay Callahan, how evah do you do?" in an accent decidedly more Northern than her Lemoyne cadence (not that this Strawberry bumpkin could tell otherwise as he took her hand, eyeballing the large, stolen ring on her finger but thinking it better to say nothing.) "My husband is heah on some impohtant business-" goodness she's having fun laying it on thick, in sounding like her mother-"heah in West Elizabeth and it won't do to have his little wife stayin' anywheah but the best. Isn't that right, my Arthur?" Arthuh. Cole bites back a giggle as she throws her gunmetal-grey glance up at him, eager to see him biting back laughter just the same. He wasn't. As it turns out, her little aside wasn't any easier on the poor outlaw, Cole realized a second too late, than being mistaken for a whoremonger. The top of her "husband's" ears grew red, jaw squaring and she nearly feared she upset him. Had that uppity whore Mary Linton written him again, making him sensitive to the topic? They had been engaged, hadn't they? It's a joke anyways, Arthur, Cole doesn't want to marry, you know that, don't be mad. But instead of reprimand he collects himself, gives her this: A "That's right, darlin'," in a tight tone that would sound normal to anybody but Cole. An arm tightened around hers just so-something she wouldn't mind in any other situation. A stiff nod as he takes their key. As they head up the stairs, the homey scent of lumber and acrid cigarette smoke fills her senses. Really, she wonders as her short legs struggle to keep up behind him on the stairs, is having a whore wife so bad? Least I wouldn't up and leave you. It's an odd thought, especially for somebody as noncomittal as her. She'll swear she doesn't love him like that up, down, left and right, just as she'll swear she doesn't love like that at all. It just doesn't come natural to her. Cole adores Arthur, would do anything for him, lives for fucking him and fucking lives for him but it isn't love, it's not, it isn't- He gets her in their room and in one damnably elegant motion has her swept up close, the door at her back and locked tight, and his mouth on hers. Cole is only surprised for a moment before she assumes her role, settling into intimacy like a perfectly broken-in saddle. She gets a hand on the back of Arthur's head, fingering gently the close-shaved fade at the nape of his neck as her other hand slides across his leather vest, down his side, and pulls with all her might to get him closer. He's got one big hand on the small of her back, mouth working against hers almost desperately, moaning lowly when she knots her fingers in his hair and tugs Arthur off enough to breathe for a moment, get enough room between them to shove him back towards the bed. He stumbles back, breathless and glassy-eyed as her thick, pale fingers work her blouse open with no effort at all, rutched navy-blue and lace falling away as a bird shot out of the sky. Arthur has to wonder if her riling him up was on purpose when he sees that her chemise is part of a matched set, skirt pooling around heeled boots and stepped out of with elegance to spare. Her magnolia thighs, thick and strong and tipped with pink lines near her hips, are free of any adornment, the midday sun catching like the surface of a placid lake. His eyes follow her legs from her broad calves to those tempting things to something that makes his breath catch in his throat. The accompaniment to that well-fitted chemise, a pale blue set of directoires, fit like a glove. Intentionally small and tight against her ample hips, taken in to follow the tops of her thighs and sewn with lace, taut on her soft stomach and cupping exactly what he wants his mouth on- "Arthur!" Cole said sharply, snapping him out of his stare. He had the decency to look embarrassed for the briefest moment before she pointed at her bust, "They're up here, stupid." He ducked his head, chuckling a bit as she sauntered over, pushing him to sit on the chest at the foot of the bed, taking his hat and putting it on over her crown of dark hair. She planted a heeled boot beside his thigh on the chest, hands on her hips, smirking down at him as he placed a kiss on the inside of her soft thigh. Cole sighed in delight as his hands ran along her bare skin, lips pressing closer and closer to her core as if asking permission. Denied, she thought smugly as she pushed him away with a hand to his forehead, settling instead into his lap. Arthur looked almost wounded, soft blue eyes wanting, drawing an affectionate, sympathetic smile from his lover. "Poor baby. I'm so mean to you, ain't I?" Cole sang sweetly, hips rocking gently like a sailboat. "Mean as a polecat," he muttered against her neck, biting just above the pistol on her chest. "Some wife." Cole started a bit, the admission igniting a whole new fire inside of her. The words pooled low and heavy in her stomach, a soft groan escaping through pale pink lips as she settled against his lap, grinding down and kissing him hard. One large hand grabbed her ample ass, fingers brushing along the silk and delighting in that it didn't cover her rear entirely. He canted up against her hips just to hear the way she moaned against his mouth, feel her body shudder and thighs clamp down around his to get more friction against her core. Arthur knew Cole well enough to know she was aching now, that sitting in his lap drove her crazy in the most banal of situations, much less when she was nearly naked in his arms, very aware of his cock-heavy, hard and leaking-in his pants. A hand knotted in her thick, dark hair kept her from pulling back, kept that whine of protestation against his mouth as he kissed her, got a hand between her legs, his vest being pressed back off his shoulders and his shirt being worked open and her hands on his chest melt his thoughts into an incoherent, reverent narrative as she kissed him and-oh how he loved kissing her, how she was always so ready to kiss him, so unconcerned with propriety and convention and decency and marriage, so unlike Mary and god she wasn't her, wasn't polite, wasn't restrained, she was a whole other beast, she was the untamed West, a man of a woman, ready to go off like a gun and ready to ride or die- "Take it off, Arthur," Cole finally broke the kiss, moaning into his mouth as his fingers worked against her soaked pussy. He ignored her, made her wait, enjoyed the way she played with her pierced nipples and canted against his callused hand and begged him again, whining into his mouth, the command sinking into his brain: "Arthur, fuck me!" Arthur worked a finger inside of her, kissing her before she could shout out in delight, murmuring against her kiss-bruised lips, "Yes ma'am, Mrs. Callahan."

#Red dead redemption #red dead redemption 2 #annie answers #red dead oc #colette cadence cain #arthur morgan #nsft #ask meme #seanmacguires #thanks arya!!#sorry its long as hell lol

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tilltheendwilliwrite · 6 years ago

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Blue Sky Eyes... teaser

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x OFC

The beat up truck rattled terribly as it made its way toward his house. Between the rust and the blue smoke of burning oil, Bucky was surprised it ran at all, but behind the spider web of cracks through the windshield, he could just make out the image of the woman driving.

Shy of five am by all of ten minutes, he arched an intrigued brow and leaned on the rail of his homes wrap around porch. The old farmhouse had gone through many reincarnations throughout its life, from one bedroom to two, from a single story to one and a half, and finally into what Bucky had envisioned for it all his life. Open plan, wide plank hand scraped hardwood floors, lots of glass, plenty of chrome and stone surfaces. It wasn't a typical ranchman's house of walls of wood and animal heads, but then he'd never professed to being the typical rancher. Unlike plenty in these parts, he had money. Not buckets of it, but enough to buy back the family ranch and make of it what he wished.

Still, he didn't know anyone with a truck that old or a face that pretty. When she finally pulled up in front of the house, the dogs that had been barking at the barn had made it to her door and were barking at her window.

He tilted his head and watched her stare at his two Wolfhounds and three Russian Hounds in fear before her eyes darted back to him.

Bucky let out a piercing whistle and called the pack back to the porch where a soft word of Russian had them all settling to lay alertly at the base of the stairs. He returned his attention to the woman and gave her a nod. In all honesty, they were friendly. It would take special command or act of aggression to have the hounds tearing into a person. And when she pushed open the shrieking, rusty door of her dying pickup, Bucky knew he'd never want to see his dogs sink teeth into her milk-pale skin. She clung to the door, and he noted the pink colouring her shoulders.

This was not a woman used to being in the sun. Or anywhere near a ranch if he judged her by her footwear. Flip flops were not appropriate anywhere around the grounds.

She'd yet to step out from behind the truck door, and Bucky finally called out, “Help you, ma'am?”

She took a limping step forward. “I'm… I'm looking for Mr. Barnes? Mr. James Barnes.”

It had been a lot of years since he'd been called James. Not since his mama was alive and giving him hell. “That depends on if you're lookin’ for senior or junior. If you're after senior, you missed him about six miles back when you passed Our Lady of Mercy Cemetery. If its junior you're after, you're lookin’ at him.”

She took another limping step, still clutching the door. “I suppose its junior then. I hear you need a cook, Mr. Barnes.”

He straightened and tipped his hat back. “That I do, ma'am, but I'm not one to have this sort of conversation across thirty feet of lawn. C'mon in the house and we can discuss it.”

He turned to head for the door when she called out, “Wait! What about the dogs?”

“They won't hurt you long as you ain't got a mind to hurt anyone else,” Bucky said frowning a little.

“They won't jump up will they?”

Bucky peered at her for a long moment. In the rising sun, her hair was a glow, a halo of platinum that couldn't be natural. She stood clinging to the door in a white peasant blouse and long jean shorts, her right leg slightly bent and hidden behind the door frame.

“They won't bother you if you don't bother them,” he assured her.

She looked skeptical for a moment before limping back to the pickup and pulling something from within. It wasn't until she swung the door shut with a slam and the pole landed that he realized why she'd been worried. The silver forearm crutch caught the light and sent it flashing back at him as she made her way slowly across the grass.

“Myesto. Tikho,” he murmured to the dogs, telling them to stay and to be quiet. They wouldn't move without his express permission now, no more than to catch her scent as she went by. Then he made his way to the bottom of the stairs and waited for her. When she arrived, he held out his hand.

“I know how to climb stairs,” she said still eyeing his dogs.

There was no heat in her statement, and he figured she was used to people offering her pity, trying to do everything for her because of her disability, but that wasn't his intention. “And I know a handrail would make all the difference in assisting you with that, but as I've yet to get around to puttin’ a rail up on these extra wide steps, my hand will have to do,” he said softly, his tone without condemnation or pity.

She looked up at him, and Bucky felt a fist punch him in the stomach. Her eyes were the bluest he'd ever seen. They were blue. Sky blue. Like the vast expanse above them. Big sky eyes. The kind you could drown in. The kind a man could lose himself in.

She seemed to search his for a minute before she took his offered hand. “Thank you, Mr. Barnes. I'm not used to simple kindness.”

“It's Bucky, and thanks isn't necessary if I can get your name.”

“Maybe.”

He gave a small smile. “Are you a fairy that givin’ up your name gives me power over you?” he asked, teasing her just a little.

She gave a disgruntled sigh and finished the last uncomfortable step. “No. My name is Maybe. Maybe Cole.”

That put a full smile on his lips. “Well, Miss Maybe. Welcome to Red Star Ranch. Let’s head inside, and we can talk.” He led the way and held the door before calling softly, “Faina.” One of the wolfish looking Russian Hounds lifted her head and then came to his side. “Vernut'sya v saray,” he said to the others, sending them back to the barn and to guarding his livelihood while he kept the sweet bitch with him. Out of the pack, she was the calmest yet the most fierce when it came to protecting what Bucky claimed as his.

He had a feeling about Maybe. A feeling he hadn’t felt in years. One that stirred his protective instincts while setting an alarm bell screaming. The woman was trouble with a capital T. He just didn’t know why yet.

She’d stopped to gape in amazement a few feet in the door. “Wow. This was not what I expected when they said your ranch was looking for a cook.”

Bucky chuckled softly and walked across the open expanse of living and dining room to the granite and maple kitchen where he took down a second cup and poured her a mug of coffee. “I like my living state of the art. I’m citified that way.”

Faina bumped his leg with her nose, and he took a dog biscuit out of a jar. “Sidet’.” She sat and waited patiently until he handed her the cookie. “Good girl.” Bucky scratched her ear and watched fondly as she trotted off with her treat to flop on the big pillow by the window and munch.

When he looked up, Maybe was still standing by the door. “Would you be more comfortable on the sofa?”

She seemed to shake herself awake from watching his dog and made her way across the room, her limp prominent. “Counter’s fine. I’m sorry, I’ve never seen dogs like yours before.”

“Most people haven’t. The three reds are Russian Hounds. Great for guarding and hunting. The two big greys are Irish Wolfhounds. Excellent protectors. The keep away the predators.”

She sat and nodded, accepting the coffee he nudged her way. “So… about the job?”

“Who sent you?”

“Mary, down at Sherman’s Dinner. I went in looking for work, but…” She lightly shook her cane. “People have a hard time hiring cripples.”

“Can’t image waitressin’ would be easy with only one hand.”

She frowned at him, likely trying to figure out if he was making fun of her or being serious. “I went in for a cook job. I can work just fine.”

“I’m sure you can. You taught yourself to drive with your left foot after all.”

She looked surprised before a small smile flitted across her face. “Yes, that I did.”

“What qualifications do you have?” he asked.

A shadow flitted over her features. “Big family dinners where I learned to cook at my grandmother’s elbow. I went to culinary school in New York, worked a couple of different restaurants in the big city before deciding that life wasn’t for me. Struck out west, moved around a bit, wound up in Easthallow and they sent me out here.”

“At five am?”

She shrugged. “It’s a ranch. I expected you to be up and started early. I didn’t want to interrupt a day in progress. Figured it was best to catch you at sun up.”

By the look of the bags beneath her eyes, she hadn’t been sleeping anyway. Bucky took in her face. It was delicate, elegant, like fine but brittle china with sharp angles and edges. There was a whole lot of bravado happening, but he could tell she was exhausted. Tired of life, of running, of continually being scared. He’d seen it all before. Some he’d seen on his own face when he’d looked in the mirror.

But her shoulders were straight, her spine stiff, and her blue eyes never wavered. They made her appear like the fairy he’d named her, as did the white blonde hair that matched her eyebrows. She was a bit otherworldly in her appearance.

“I’m feeding a crew of fifteen at the moment.”

“I can handle that,” she murmured.

“Just lunch though. Breakfast and dinners are only gonna be seven. I’ve five crew that live on site. The other ten have places in town. You’ll need to stay here. I can provide you with ground floor accommodations. There’s a ranch truck you can use for grocery runs. The store in town knows to put it on my tab.” He took his cup to the sink and rinsed it out. “Have a look around. If there’s anything you need, write a list. I’ll see it gets ordered in, or have someone run over to the Walmart in Gainesville. We’ll want good, hearty meals. None of that skimpy New York plating.”

“What would you know of New York plating?” she asked.

“You’d be surprised. I told you I got citified enough to do this to my house,” Bucky chuckled.

Maybe sat quietly for a moment, just observing him, her mind working hard and only Faina’s chewing to break the silence. “You’re not going to ask for references?”

“Nope.” He shook his head. “Though you’ll be gettin’ the chance to audition when you make lunch for the hands today.”

Her brows shot up to her hairline. “And my leg? You’re not at all curious?”

Bucky cocked his head to the side. “You’ll tell me when you want to. I do have one question though.”

“Shoot,” she nodded.

“Is the thing you’re runnin’ from gonna come looking for you here, and if it does, will it be dangerous?”

The blood fled her face. “It shouldn’t,” she whispered. “But if it does? Yes. There will be danger.” She rose and looked away, shame paling her further. “I shouldn’t be here. I’ll go.”

“Maybe.” He stopped her with a hand on her shoulder. She immediately stiffened causing Bucky to release her. “I didn’t tell you to go. I’m only asking to be prepared. You stayin’ in town?”

She shook her head. “Everything’s in my truck.”

“Let’s get your stuff. I’ll show you where you’ll be staying, and you can start on that list. And if you don’t have boots, you’d best add those to the list. You can’t work here without boots.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Nah, doll. It’s just Bucky.” He held the door open for her. “Sir was my pops, and he’s not around anymore.”

“Alright… Bucky,” she murmured, a smile curling her lips. “Thank you for this chance.”

“We’re gonna make you work for it, darlin’. My men eat like elephants.”

“That’s okay. I’m used to feeding the masses.” At the stairs when he held out his hand, she took it without hesitation. “My disability really doesn’t bother you?”

“Not one bit.”

A genuine, full smile broke on her lips. “Thank you.”

“Maybe,” he grinned at her, “if your cooking is half as strong as your determination, I’m gonna be thanking you come lunch time.”

***

That’s it. The plot bunny in progress. When I have more put together, I’ll start the story.

#coming eventually #blue sky eyes #no tags

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mytherapistsays-blog · 6 years ago

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SPRING TRENDS - Because floral is boring af

SPRING TRENDS - Because floral is boring af ⁣⁣ ⁣⁣ @MyTherapistSays ⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣⁣ https://mytherapistsays.ca/spring-trends-because-floral-is-boring-af/

Goodbye winter depression! Spring is here PPL. A time where the depression is still low-key there just suppressed to enjoy the sun, floppy hats and ten too many Frosés! This does mean there is some housekeeping activities upon us: 1. A long overdue shaving session (legs are back and out to play) in case you haven’t gotten around to getting laser hair removal yet. 2. Pretending you’ve been naturally tan all year round (Grab some St.Tropez & a mitt girl) – note how we said “tan” not “orange”. **We recommend blasting some Dua Lipa bc we all need that confidence while looking at how the winter months of stress eating and hiding from the outside changed us** But most importantly 3. Remembering how to even dress without just throwing on a black coat and scarf over the whole damn outfit and calling it a day. Ugh, #beautyisWORK.

After many weeks of being bundled up it’s easy to forget how to dress in the warm weather. HA jk not possible because we know you stalk yourself on Instagram at least once a week —scrolling all the way down to those summer pics thinking about how much hotter you were a year ago. Or even worse, you’ve posted a “can’t wait for warmer weather” pic from the one photoshoot you had all year in a bikini (after your week long adderall diet). Well, if you’ve been like me stalking every second of NYFW. You would already know Kaia Gerber is literally cooler than anyone, Anna Wintour and Cardi B became bffs, and the most shocking: fringe is back. Here’s what you should look out for when doing some retail therapy because lets face it, cuffing szn is about to be over. It’s #springcleaning time, say bye to (temporary) bae and hey to these new clothes and get ready to serve LOOKS.

SPARKLES

Anything Sequin, Bedazzled, Glittery

Welcome to the new age of all eyes on you. Remember the days when we were scared of sequin, not wanting to look like a Sherri Hill prom dress or a tacky Las Vegas bachelorette party? Yeah, that was until Cardi B brought that SH%* back “Diamonds all over my body, shining all over my body”. Day time, night time, hungover at brunch. Shine like the star you believe you are after three tequila shots.

LET’S GET FRINGE-Y

Not too fringe-y though. *Comeback Alert* Thank god you never actually followed the ‘minimalist’ phase and did anything with the clothes that haven’t been touched for the past three years. Deja Vu from 2015…maybe this is a sign we should text our exes from that year too? Wild West fringe means major Coachella moves are going to be made. However, it’s more of a post one pic in a fringe item (crop top, skirt, purse) so people know you are #ontrend then go back to forgetting it was ever there.

SHEER

#NewEra

This spring let your feminist rights be shown by wearing the absolute least and doing the absolute most. Support the #freethenip movement with help of your new bff, sheer fabric. We gotta give it up for Bella Hadid for constantly SLAYING this trend. Basically anything sheer is the best way to show as much as possible and get away with it. By legit sliding a translucent bodysuit on, you basically embody the classy slutty look (goals!).

RUFFLES

Calorie Free Ruffles

The only ruffles we have ever been cozy to are Lays, but maybe only since Kaia is telling us its cool. We believe it. A good tip when finding a dress or top that is ruffly is to make sure it’s fitted so you aren’t looking like an 8 year old flower girl. Just think: mature ruffles. #RuffleMeUp. (How many more times can we say the word ruffle?)

YELLOW

We all have been waiting for our “Andie Anderson” moment from How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days. If you don’t know the exact scene we are talking about, you don’t even deserve to wear satin it’s when Kate Hudson steps out in a simple, yellow, satin open back gown and does a twirl for Matthew McConaughey. She knew, he knew, we all knew she looked hot. So this spring let’s find our ‘Andie’ inspired yellow dress, which Gigi has already accomplished (duh), and live one of the best rom-com moments in the 2000s history.

BRING OUT THOSE ART HISTORY DEGREES

#Cultured #Art #Intellect

You don’t have to go to the Louvre to see Mona Lisa, just go to Louis V! Kendall Jenner approved of this art inspired trend with her Louis Vuitton Mona Lisa art purse. This trend is awesome especially because it’ll make you look sophisticated AF. You’re not educated on art history? I’m sorry… I can’t have a conversation with someone beneath me when I have Van Gough on my tote. Many designed embraced art prints this season, but the Versace outfit with the pop art image of Marilyn Monroe is probs our fave.

#Beauty #Fashion #Instagram #Style

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bangkokjacknews · 3 years ago

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Sunday Mysteries: The Bermuda Triangle

Try to See It from My Angle: The Bermuda Triangle - What is it about this infamous stretch of ocean (and sky) that causes ships and planes to vanish without a trace? At ten past two in the afternoon of 5 December 1945, five US Navy Avenger torpedo bombers took off from the naval air station at Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The commander of Flight 19, Lieutenant Charles Taylor, had been assigned a routine two-hour training flight of fifteen men on a course that would take them out to sea sixty-six miles due east of the airbase, to the Hen and Chicken Shoals. There the squadron would carry out practice bombing runs, then fly due north for seventy miles before turning for a second time and heading back to base, 120 miles away. Their plotted flight plan formed a simple triangle, straightforward to execute, and Lieutenant Taylor and his four trainee pilots headed out into the clear blue sky over a calm Sargasso Sea. Even though everything seemed set fair, some of the crew were showing signs of anxiety. This was not unusual during a training flight over open water. Less usual was the fact that one of the fifteen crewmen had failed to show up for duty, claiming he had had a premonition that something strange would happen on that day and that he was too scared to fly. And, within a few minutes after take-off, something strange did happen. First, Lieutenant Taylor reported how the sea appeared white and ‘not looking as it should’. Then, shortly afterwards, his compasses began spinning out of control, as did those of the other four pilots, and at 3.45 p.m., about ninety minutes after take-off, the normally cool and collected Taylor contacted Lieutenant Robert Cox at Flight Control with the worried message: ‘Flight Control, this is an emergency. We seem to be off course. We can’t make out where we are.’ Cox instructed the pilot to head due west, but Taylor reported that none of the crew knew which way west actually was. And that too was highly unusual as, even without compasses and other navigational equipment, at that time of day and with the sun only a few hours from setting, any one of them could have used the tried and tested method of looking out of the window and following the setting sun, which will always lie to the west of wherever you find yourself. Just over half an hour later, Taylor radioed Flight Control again, this time informing them he thought they were 225 miles north-east of base. His agitated radio message ended with him saying, ‘It looks like we are …’ and then the radio cut out. By then they would have been desperately low on fuel, but the five Avengers had been designed to make emergency sea landings and remain afloat for long enough to give the crew the chance to evacuate into life rafts and await rescue. A Martin Mariner boat plane was immediately sent out to assist Flight 19 and bring the men back; but as it approached the area in which the stricken crew were thought to have been lost, it too broke contact with Flight Control. None of the aircraft and none of the crew were ever found and the official navy report apparently concluded that the men had simply vanished, ‘as if they had flown off to planet Mars’. To this day, the American military has a standing order to keep a watch for Flight 19, as if they believed it had been caught up in some bizarre time warp and might return at any time. At least, that is how the story goes. And it would have had a familiar ring for some, as it wasn’t the first time a mysterious disappearance had been reported in the area. On 9 March 1918, the USS Cyclops left Barbados with a cargo of 10,800 tons of manganese (a hard metal essential for iron and steel production) bound for Baltimore on the east coast of America. The following day, Lieutenant Commander G. W. Worley, a man with a habit of walking around the quarterdeck clad in nothing but his underwear and a hat and carrying a cane, reported how an attempted mutiny by a small number of the 306-man crew had been suppressed and that the offenders were below decks in irons. And that was the last anybody ever heard from Captain Worley or any of his crew. The 20,000-ton Cyclops simply vanished from the surface of the sea, into thin air. The conclusion at the time was the ship had been a victim of German U-boat activity, but when investigations in Germany after the end of the First World War revealed that no U-boats had been located in the area, that theory was ruled out. Instead, speculation ranged from the suggestion – proffered quite seriously – by a popular magazine that a giant sea monster had surfaced, wrapped its tentacles around the entire ship, dragged it to the ocean bed and eaten it, to the rumour, UFO hysteria in full swing (see ‘The Famous Aurora Spaceship Mystery’), that the vessel had been lifted, via giant intergalactic magnets, into outer space. And then, in 1963, eighteen years after the disappearance of Flight 19, it happened again. The SS Marine Sulphur Queen was on a voyage from Norfolk, Virginia, to Belmont in Texas. On 3 February, the ship radioed a routine report to the local coastguard to give her position: she was, at the time, sailing close to Key West in the Straits of Florida. Shortly afterwards she vanished. Three days later the coastguard, searching for any sign of the missing vessel, found a single life jacket floating in the sea. Since then, no other evidence of the Marine Sulphur Queen, its cargo or the 39-man crew has ever been found. Back in 1950, connections had already been made between the disappearance of Flight 19 and of the USS Cyclops: reporter E. V. W. Jones was the first to suggest mysterious happenings in the sea between the Florida coast and Bermuda. Two years later, Fate Magazine published an article by George X. Sand in which he suggested that the mysterious events – thousands of them, by his calculation – had taken place within an area that extended down the coast from Florida to Puerto Rico and in a line from each of these to Bermuda, creating what he called a ‘watery triangle’. His views were shared by one Frank Edwards, who published a book in 1955 called The Flying Saucer Conspiracy in which he claimed that aliens from outer space were also operating in the same area; hence the sky was incorporated into the ‘watery triangle’, which became known as the ‘Devil’s Triangle’. In 1963, following the disappearance of the Marine Sulphur Queen, journalist Vincent Gaddis wrote an article for Argosy magazine in which he drew together the many mysterious events that had taken place within the triangular area of sea and sky. This proved so popular that he expanded the article into a book, which he called The Deadly Bermuda Triangle, thereby coining the famous expression that was to become synonymous with unexplained disappearances the world over. Eleven years later, a book by former army intelligence officer Charles Berlitz, simply entitled The Bermuda Triangle, sold over 20 million copies and was translated into thirty different languages. In 1976 the book won the Dag Hammarskjöld International Prize for non-fiction and the world became gripped by Bermuda Triangle fever – and has been ever since. But it is worth noting that even as recently as 1964 the Bermuda Triangle, as we now know it, simply did not exist. Geographically, the Bermuda Triangle covers an area in the western Atlantic marked by, at its three points, Bermuda, San Juan in Puerto Rico and Miami in Florida – although, on closer study of the locations of some ocean disasters attributed to the myth, it would be easy to extend that area halfway round the world. The Mary Celeste, for example, has even been connected to the Bermuda Triangle, which would extend its boundaries closer to Portugal! But could there be any truth in the myth – some more prosaic explanation to account for the seemingly paranormal events? Is there anything about the actual geography of the area that might cause so many ships and aircraft to vanish apparently without a trace? To start with, the sea currents in the area are heavily affected by the warm Gulf Stream that flows in a north-easterly direction from the tip of Florida to Great Britain and northern Europe. The warm current divides the balmy water of the Sargasso Sea and the colder north Atlantic and is why the climate in northern Europe is much more moderate than might be expected, considering that Canada and Moscow are as far north as England. Once leaving the Gulf of Mexico, the Gulf Stream current reaches five or six knots in speed and this affects the heavy shipping in the area in many ways, including navigation. Inexperienced sailors, especially in the days before radar and satellite navigation, could very easily find themselves many miles off course after failing to measure the ship’s speed with sufficient accuracy, especially in the days when this was calculated by throwing from the bow of the ship a log attached to a rope and timing the appearance of each of a series of knots in the rope as it passed the stern. Failing to do this often enough while sailing in the fast-moving Gulf Stream could quite speedily lead to the crew of a ship becoming hopelessly lost in the vast Atlantic Ocean. Another effect of the fast-moving current would be to scatter the wreckage of lost ships and aircraft over a vast area, many miles from the site of an accident, making it well nigh impossible for rescue teams to locate survivors. Then there is the North American continental shelf which is responsible for the clear blue water of the Caribbean Islands. After only a few miles, the shelf gives way to the deepest part of the Atlantic Ocean, an area known as the Puerto Rico Trench. And at over 30,000 feet deep, nobody has ever been down there to clear up any mysterious disappearances. And furthermore, the continental shelf is home to large areas of methane hydrates (methane gases that bubble up through the water after being emitted from the seabed). Eruptions from any of these in the relatively shallow waters cause the sea to bubble and froth, affecting the density of the water and hence the buoyancy of vessels travelling on its surface. Scientific tests have shown that scale models of ships will sink when the density of the water is sufficiently reduced, which could account for the sudden disappearance of various craft within the area. Added to which, any wreckage might be carried away by the Gulf Stream and scattered across the Atlantic in no time at all. The Bermuda Triangle is also known to be an area of magnetic anomalies, or unusual variations in the earth’s magnetic field. Indeed this area of ocean is one of the two places on earth where a magnetic compass points to true north (determined by the North Star) rather than magnetic north (located near Prince of Wales Island in Canada). The only other place where true north lines up with magnetic north is directly on the other side of the planet, just off the east coast of Japan, an area known by Japanese and Filipino seamen as the ‘Devil’s Sea’. In both these areas, navigators not allowing for the usual compass variation between true and magnetic north will become hopelessly lost, and mysterious disappearances are equally common in the Devil’s Sea. But locals there do not blame UFOs or sea monsters; they blame human error. Christopher Columbus, the famous fifteenth-century navigator credited with ‘discovering’ the Americas, was one of the first people to recognize the difference between true and magnetic north; and he wasn’t at all fazed by the odd compass readings he seemed to be getting as he sailed between Bermuda and Florida over five hundred years ago. Magnetic anomalies are also thought to be responsible for the fog that appears to cling to aircraft and boats in the Bermuda Triangle and Devil’s Sea. In such cases, the fog gives the strange illusion that it is travelling along with the craft rather than that the vessel is travelling through it, creating a ‘tunnelling’ effect for the passengers on board. Many reports have been made of the disorientating effect of this curious fog. In one of the most celebrated instances, the captain of a tug towing a large barge reported that the sea was ‘coming in from all directions’ (due to methane hydrates, no doubt) and that the rope attached to the barge plus the barge itself, only a few yards behind the tug, appeared to have completely vanished, presumably shrouded in magnetic fog. Another natural phenomenon that might be held responsible for the strange disappearances in the region are hurricanes, notorious in the area of ocean between Bermuda and the Gulf of Mexico, in the middle of which lies the Bermuda Triangle. These must take their fair share of the blame in bringing down small aircraft and swallowing boats, sending the wreckage to the floor of the Atlantic in minutes and leaving no trace of the craft on the surface. So what really happened in the case of Flight 19, the USS Cyclops and the Marine Sulphur Queen? Let’s examine the first of these disappearances in a bit more detail. Squadron Leader Lieutentant Charles Taylor, although an experienced pilot, had recently been transferred to the air station at Fort Lauderdale and was new to the area. Added to which, he was a known party animal and had been out drinking the evening before the fateful day. A very hungover Taylor then tried to find someone else to take over as leader of the training flight – the only point of which was to increase the flying hours of the four apparent novices – but no other pilot would agree to stand in at such short notice. Shortly into the flight, Taylor’s compass malfunctioned and, unfamiliar with the area, he had to rely on landmarks alone. After nothing but open sea, the aircraft eventually flew over a small group of islands Taylor thought he recognised as his home – Florida Keys. Flight 19 was in constant touch with Flight Control and was told to head directly north which, Taylor thought, would take him straight back to base. But Flight 19 was not over Florida Keys in fact; it was over the Bermudan Islands – exactly where it should have been. Heading north simply sent the stricken aircraft out into the open Atlantic. Crew members were heard to suggest to each other they should immediately head west, as their compasses were actually working, but none of the trainees dared to contradict their leader. With a storm gathering and the sun not visible through the cloud, Taylor refused to listen to his subordinates, accepting the instruction from Flight Control instead. But when told to switch to the emergency radio channel, Taylor declined, stating that one his pilots could not tune in to that particular channel and that he did not want to lose contact with him. As a result of this, contact between Flight 19 and Fort Lauderdale became increasingly intermittent. After an hour of flying due north, and with no land in sight, Taylor reasoned he must be over the Gulf of Mexico, and with that made the right-hand turn, due east, he thought would bring his team back to the west coast of Florida. But instead, an hour north of Bermuda and flying over the Atlantic with Flight Control believing them to be close to the Gulf, this manoeuvre only served to take them further out to sea. Flight 19, miles away from where anybody believed them to be, would then have run out of fuel, ditched into the sea beyond the continental shelf, and been broken within minutes by the storm. The Mariner sent to look for them was, in fact, one of two that were sent to assist. The first arrived back at base safely but the second exploded shortly after take-off. (The Mariners, notorious for fuel leaks, were nicknamed ‘flying gas tanks’.) Radio contact had been lost twenty-five minutes into the flight and debris floating in a slick of spilt oil was found in the exact location the plane was though to have come down. In short, there was nothing mysterious about the accident after all. The official report at first stated that flight leader error was to blame for the loss of Flight 19, but this was then changed to ‘cause unknown’, giving rise to the mystery. Contrary to the fictitious version of events, nobody has ever stated, in an official capacity, that the aircraft simply vanished ‘as if they had flown off to planet Mars’. The disappearance of the USS Cyclops does remain a mystery, however, although heavy seas and hurricanes were reported in the area at the time. It is now thought that a sudden shift in its eleven-thousand-ton metal cargo was to blame, causing the ship to capsize with all hands on deck and sink to bottom of the ocean. In the case of the SS Marine Sulphur Queen, something Triangle enthusiasts rarely mention is that the cargo was made up of 15,000 tons of molten sulphur sealed in four giant tanks and kept at a heat of 275 degrees Fahrenheit by two vast boilers connected to the tanks via a complex network of coils and wiring. They also do not tell us that the T-2 tankers such as the Marine Sulphur Queen had a terrible record for safety during the Second World War and that within the space of just a few years three of them had previously broken in half and sunk. Indeed, a similar sulphur-carrying ship had vanished in 1954 under less mysterious circumstances, having spontaneously exploded before any distress call could be made. But what clinches it for me is one particular detail: the fact that officers on a banana boat fifteen miles off the coast of San Antonia near Cuba reported a strong acrid odour in the vicinity. The conclusion at the time, but overlooked later by Triangle enthusiasts, was either that leaking sulphur must have quickly overcome the entire crew and a spark then ignited the sulphur cloud, causing a fire that the unconscious crew were unable to put out, or that an explosion had torn through the boat, depositing the crew in the shark- and barracuda-infested waters. Either way, investigators decided the ship must have gone down just over the horizon from the banana boat whose crew had detected the sulphurous odour. In addition to natural phenomena, there are man-made ones to consider too when it comes to the Bermuda Triangle. Indeed, the Caribbean and southern Florida have long been a favourite haunt for pirates and it’s not exactly in their interests to report the ships they’ve sunk after looting their cargo or crew they’ve murdered in the process. Many unexplained disappearances would be far better explained by pirate activity than by extraterrestrial abduction or sea monsters lurking in the deep. The pirates of the Caribbean were not heroes but vicious murderers who took no prisoners and left no evidence of their piracy, and don’t let Johnny Depp or Keira Knightly seduce you into thinking otherwise. The main explanation for the mysterious events of the Bermuda Triangle is sheer invention. Indeed there are many examples of writers bending facts to suit their stories (notably in the case of the Loch Ness Monster and the Mary Celeste) or indeed pretty much every story I’ve covered in this book), which is hardly surprising since mysterious and ghostly goings-on can be very profitable (as I hope to find out), as everyone loves a good mystery. One of my favourite examples of this is the story of the incident in 1972 of the appropriately named tanker V. A. Fogg that was said to have been found drifting in the Triangle without a single crew member aboard. Everybody had vanished apart from the captain whose body was found sitting at his desk with a steaming mug of tea in front of him and a haunted look upon his face. Read the full article

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morgansmornings · 2 years ago

Note

backseat of the car after a caught bounty

This Meme: Accepting @goodlawman

~*~

As mush as she wants to punch him for asking, she knows that he is doing what he can to lighten the mood. Still she ponders his question. She'd be struck by lightening if the thought didn't spark a near immediate series of terrible images.

Fogging windows, hands clawing at the fabric of clothing, heated breaths. The running flood of adrenaline from the chase and victory that comes from doing a job well done.

If that doesn't tickle her in someway then she would have had very large problems that had nothing to do with the terrible idea given.

"I suppose that would depend on who got the bounty and who is going into the back seat first, Marshall."

#Answers from the Goat #goodlawman #v: Tip My Hat to the Sun in the West #Danke Raylan!

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hellhuntin-blog · 8 years ago

Text

pack of matches and a postcard on the dashboard | v: AMERI.CAN GODS It’s funny, but it seems like people believe in the devil more than they believe in God. At least, they certainly do out here, out in the sand and the sun and the murderous heat. Maybe the devil’s just better suited to this climate.

When the bloodthirsty bandit known as Jackal Jill came out West, she didn’t bring any gods with her. Other settlers already had; here was the faint idea of Jesus in a story about footprints and sand, and here, everywhere, were the hoofmarks of the devil. She didn’t believe in any of that, and didn’t let it bother her either way. Certainly never let it stop her and her pack of outlaws from sinning. No point in troubling about hell or heaven; she was alive now, and what happened to her rotten little soul after she died sounded like a concern for someone else.

But she loved a girl who believed in God. Shianne talked about redemption and peace and forgiveness, and Jill didn’t know about any of that, but she sure liked listening to Shianne. They got older and she got calmer, and they settled down somewhere with a church. When Shianne bore a child by another member of Jill’s posse, she and Jill went together to have it christened in that little church, and Jill- well. Jill still couldn’t quite buy the concept of a benevolent god, but she was starting to think it seemed awful nice.

It would have been nice if that god could have protected Shianne and the child, but one night when Jill was out of town, an old enemy from her outlaw days came by with a sixshooter and a jug of kerosene, and Jill came home to ash and bones. If she’d ever believed in God, she’d have been the killing kind of angry with Him then- but she didn’t. But she could believe in the Devil instead.

He was waiting at the crossroads when she rode out of town to hunt the killer down. He tipped his beautiful hat to her; she rode right on past. He was waiting at every crossroads she passed after that, too, and he was waiting when she realized she was lost.

She knew who he was before she even saw his eyes, and she spoke before he did: Help me find that bastard. I’ve never lost my prey before and I’m not going to lose him now so help me find that bastard, help me lay my wife and child to peace, help me get my justice.

In retrospect, she shouldn’t have worded it like that.

She found the man she was looking for, and she shot him dead. As she cleaned her gun, the man from the crossroads sat down beside her. He offered her a cigar and lit it with a snap of leather-gloved fingers. She’d done impressively, he said, and he could use someone like her, someone who always found their prey, someone to hound down all the pesky little escapees… and she’d wanted to get her justice, hadn’t she?

From that night on, she was bound to his command, serving out time for her own sins even as she hunted down other sinners. A new legend entered the shadows around the campfire: tales of a woman so bad, even the Devil himself wouldn’t take her as a human, but instead gave her the shape of a beast to wear while she did his dirty work. She walked around like any other man by day, but at night she was a black dog, all glowing eyes and glistening teeth in the shadows as she stalked the desert, searching for wayward souls to drag down to hell. On two legs or four, she never let her mark escape.

These days it’s mainly two legs, and she’s lucky she can manage that. Things have changed since the day she made her deal. No one stops to talk to strangers at crossroads- hell, with all the highways that have sprung up all over the place, she doesn’t blame them. No one wants to chat at an overpass. Preachers don’t talk much about the Devil any more; even on the bad tv channels, fire and brimstone are fading from the sermons. Dark shapes in the night seem more like coyotes or strays than harbingers of unholy retribution. People don’t believe in the same things they used to- or, worse, they don’t believe in anything at all.

Boss says it’s just a temporary setback. Business is full of those, but things will come around again. Things always do. She’s not inclined to share his outlook. She’d take pleasure in watching him wither, if she weren’t withering alongside him. She hasn't seen him in a while, anyways.

She’s picked up another job, working amongst humans at a sheep farm down in Texas. No, she doesn’t think it’s funny, but it pays the bills. Still, she’s duty-bound to the old boss; she’s no fan of her first job, but she’ll do it until the job’s done. Whether that means finally reaching her atonement, or just fading away entirely… well. That remains to be seen.

#pack of matches and a postcard on the dashboard | v: american gods #american gods rp

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the-judging-eye · 6 years ago

Video

youtube

(via https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9E92tY9bY94)

"As the sun comes up, Deborah Jones takes a seat on the “throne” — a faded tapestry-covered bench supported by a scrolled metal frame and decorated on each corner with scruffy tassels lightly dusted by flecks of ash.

From her perch, she watches kindling ignite in the upright smoker. Then she shoves hickory logs into the firebox to create a combustible stew she stirs occasionally with a custom-made pitchfork.

True pitmasters: The Jones sisters are rare gems in man’s world https://www.kansascity.com/living/food-drink/article98604857.html

“I like that chair,” says one of Kansas City’s only female pitmasters, referring to the flea market find that was likely once part of a vanity set.

For more than three decades, the Jones sisters — Deborah and her sister Mary Jones Mosley — have devoted themselves to barbecue, working as professional pitmasters and owners of Jones Bar-B-Q. In its latest incarnation, the to-go-only spot has taken up residence in a former taco stand where customers step up to a window to place their orders.

Mary, whose family nickname is “Shorty,” calls out the order. Then Deborah, or “Little,” steps up on the firebox door and peers into the pit to ferret out the precise piece of meat required. With roasting pan in hand, Deborah pads back to the metal screen doors and into the kitchen. Together, she and Mary fix up a foam box and tie it up in a plastic grocery sack.

The outdoor smoker sits on a layer of bricks in the parking lot near Wild Woody’s Happy Foods West at 6706 Kaw Drive, in an industrial section of Kansas City, Kan., where freight trains from the tracks running parallel to Kansas 32 whistle loud enough to drown out conversations.

If a woman sitting on a throne in the middle of a parking lot tending fire isn’t enough to stop cars and trucks, the thick perfume of smoke wafting out of the smoker door serves as a word-of-nose advertisement.

“I can tell the barbecue is good by the way this place smells!” a middle-aged woman in a fluorescent yellow vest says while jumping back into a still-running car — sandwich in hand — to meet her next freight shipment.

“A lot of people think because we are women that we don’t have common sense,” Deborah says. But it’s clear her predominantly male customers — from construction and rail workers to truckers to police officers — believe in her barbecue sense.

— A family affair —

The Jones sisters have been around barbecue since they were old enough to stand on a milk crate and help crank out links of their family’s unwritten sausage recipe.

Their father, Leavy Jones Sr., who never made it past the seventh grade, was an electrician by day and learned the art of barbecue moonlighting at Hezekiah’s, an African-American-owned barbecue that once operated at 1805 N. 10th St. in Kansas City, Kan.

On weekends, the girls helped out at Hezekiah’s by washing dishes, wrapping sandwiches and running the cash register. But they didn’t work on weekdays because they had to get their homework done. Education was a priority: Seven of the eight Jones siblings went to college, and three brothers served in the military.

Leavy and his wife, Juanita, also sat the kids down every Sunday to talk about good manners, hygiene, sex education and the value of hard work.

“Daddy always said, ‘Nothing is free. If you ever get unemployed, you have to have other skills,’ ” Deborah recalls.

“We’ve all always worked, because nothing is free,” Mary echoes. “And if it is, you better question it.”

During college, Deborah worked summers at the Gates Bar-B-Q location down the road from Hezekiah’s. As adults, the sisters found themselves drawn back to the fire to help out their older brother Daniel, who, like their dad, worked at Hezekiah’s as a pitmaster and eventually bought the business.

Deborah was her brother’s designated backup. Soon after Daniel died, Mary joined her to run the business. They stayed on 10th Street from 1987 to 2003, then moved to 609 N. Sixth St. from 2005 to 2009. Mary began downsizing to a food cart on 12th Street for office workers and miscellaneous caterings in 2007.

Although deeply devoted to the art form, the Jones sisters have always treated barbecue as a backup: Deborah, 56, worked at the post office and Mary, 59, was a nurse. In the lull, Deborah dealt with health problems, including a heart condition that tires her easily. Mary retired to Topeka but soon got an offer to work at Reser’s Fine Foods, maker of specialty frozen foods, smoked meats and tubs of deli-style salads.

Last October, Deborah was itching to jump back into barbecue full time. She found the taco stand and, after spending most of her pit money on rewiring it to meet health and safety codes, she scrounged up an upright smoker at A-Lotta-Stuff, a thrift store a couple of hundred yards across the asphalt.

Although she is most comfortable cooking over a brick pit — Hezekiah’s had an impressive sunken pit dug into the ground — Deborah retrofitted the smoker to her specifications. “They each have their own personality,” she says. “I had to get used to the hot points and how to work the fire again.”

She put the bricks and drip pan on the right side, preferring to make her fire on the left. She also tore out the thermometers built into the door.

“They bother me,” she says.“We don’t use a thermometer. You should be able to look and know the meat is done.” In other words, a rack of ribs is done when it “flaps” but doesn’t quite fall off the bone.

— Nothing fancy —

The fare at Jones Bar-B-Q is not fancy: The ribs are untrimmed by today’s competition standards. The coarse-grind all-pork sausage is eyeballed for accuracy and hand-cranked and stuffed into natural casings that snap with each bite. The burnt ends are surprisingly fatty, charcoaled and chewy.

“Seasonings,” as opposed to trendy rubs, and an innate understanding of the “textures and smells” of the wood are what give the meat its down-home flavor. Their signature barbecue sauce is served liberally over the meat, unless a customer asks for it on the side.

Barbecue expert and soon-to-be American Royal Hall of Famer Ardie Davis affectionately labels the sisters’ style “old school”: “It isn’t fancy. It’s very simple and direct. The flavor is not oversmoked and (the meat) not so neatly trimmed you miss the fat.”

Unlike restaurateurs who display trophies and ribbons from competitive barbecue contests, the Jones sisters don’t have awards to show for their years in the trenches. Instead, Deborah’s prize is an intuitive sense for barbecue that borders on communion.

“Watch how focused my sister is when she turns that piece of meat,” Mary almost whispers one morning. “They’re communicating with each other. It’s accumulated knowledge. To make it as long as we have been doing this is not a joke. You have to be focused and want to do this. It’s an art. It’s hot. Time-consuming. You have to stay focused. You don’t wake up to be a pitmaster one day. This is years of hard work. You have to want this.”

The funny thing, Mary teases, is Deborah can’t be trusted to boil a hotdog.

“She does no cooking in the kitchen,” Mary says with a deep-throated laugh. “But now isn’t that funny! Take this right here — with more work and more heat — and she’s good at it. I love it, too, don’t get me wrong. But she’s obsessed with it.”

Mary also knows her way around a pit, but she is happy to be the exuberant cheerleader — taking orders, chatting up customers and making change. Her playful banter puts people at ease, and she aims to please.

“Mary is the only person I know who gets tips even when she’s not working,” Deborah says, shaking her head.

The sisters insist their success has to do with consistency and freshness. They buy their meats from Mies Wholesale Meats in North Kansas City. Deborah puts only a dozen or so rib tips, four racks of ribs and a couple of briskets and pork butts on the fire each day. If they sell out, she puts more meat on and tells the customer to come back in two hours.

“We have got a thing about freshness — and she’s got it bad,” says Mary, who helps out when she can but is no longer at the business on a daily basis. “You have to sit on the throne and play with this (fire) all day. It takes time if you want to do it right. We were never about the dollar bill. It was about pleasing the customer. That was my part, always the customer. My customers are everything to me.”

If there’s one signature item the Jones sisters continue to hang their hats on, it is their sausage. Michelle Briggs of Lenexa drives 20 minutes for some links on a sizzling July afternoon.

“It’s totally different than any other,” she says. “There’s a little spice and you can tell it’s homemade. I like the fact that when you cut it open it falls apart. You can put it on bread, or eat it as is.”

“I’m just crazy about the sausage,” echoes Gregory Ross of Kansas City, Kan. “It’s homemade, and I was raised up on it.” Although the new location “could be bigger,” he adds, “good things come in small places.”

— For the love of it —

In 2001, while Doug Worgul was researching his book “The Grand Barbecue” published by Kansas City Star Books, he happened to spy a hand-lettered sign for the original Jones Bar-B-Q.

“It was the jointiest joint I’ve ever been in,” says Worgul, who now works as the director of marketing for Joe’s KC. “There were a couple of folding tables like you’d find in a church fellowship hall. It was definitely the most handmade dining room you could ever imagine, but the food was good.”

Worgul dined three or four times before he introduced himself.

“He really put us on the the map, without us really knowing,” says Mary, who posed for a portrait with Deborah that closes out the book.

Worgul, who recently reconnected with Deborah after 15 years, says the sisters are the hardest working people he has ever met, and they represent an artisan approach that cannot be replicated in higher-volume barbecue restaurants.

“Our pitmasters are not pitmasters in the sense Deborah and Mary are,” Worgul says. “What our pitmasters do — which is critical to our operation — is really far less creative. Basically, they follow a procedure. It’s not mastering barbecue; it’s fulfilling that specific technique.”

Deborah’s daughter, Izora Thompson, a 22-year-old nursing student at the University of Missouri due to graduate in December, has been tapped to keep the family business going. Barbecue is definitely a family legacy she wants to continue, but she’s hoping to add a “fresh perspective.”

On her way back to college this semester, she asked her mother to make a barbecue burrito, wrapping bits of smoked sausage with beans, onions, green peppers and cheese in a tortilla. Her friends loved the results.

“I like the idea of our traditions, but I’d like to try some new flavorful dishes as well,” Izora says. “I would really like to branch out and do more with the business.”

Including bottling the barbecue sauce and figuring out a way to sell the sausage and beans at grocery stores.

“It would be nice to be in the grocery store,” Mary muses aloud, “but I guess we’re just old-fashioned, because it could never be just about the money.”

Indeed, for the Jones sisters, barbecue isn’t just a job; it is who they are.

“This is worse than a drug. It’s an addiction. It’s in your blood, and she’s really the junkie,” Mary says, eyeing her sister’s shabby-chic throne and letting out a sigh. “She breathes this, and loves it. She goes to sleep to get up for this. She doesn’t care about the money. This is her No. 1 spot.”

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