#well. lots of receding hairlines at this conference

[allroseshave-their-pricks]

oh god I'm getting OLD

[prorevenge]

Go ahead and undermine my credentials and hard work. I'll just make sure people know who you really are.

Backstory

I'm 25(M) and I work in the IT department for my company. Our IT department branches out into 6 smaller departments (Technical Support, Programming, Web Development, Computer System Analysis, IT Security, and Network Engineering). Each of these has their own boss and the boss of these all answer directly to the Director of the IT department. A couple weeks ago, I was called into the Director's office when I came into work. She’s an incredible person and mentor.

She told me that she had some good news and bad news. The bad news was that she was offered another job at a much larger company as the IT director at one of their branches in Chicago, so she’d be leaving in a couple of months. The good news was that the position for IT director at our company was open, and given my performance and reputation around the office, my immediate boss (the head of Computer System Analysis) had put my name in for consideration for the job! Each of the six department bosses in IT had to put one name in for consideration, so I have at least five other people who are competing for this job, plus any potential outside hires (It’s four now, but I’ll get to that). After our little chat, I weighed the pros and cons of the job if I get it and I decided to just go for it! I might have a pretty good shot at getting the job, since I'd consider myself a fairly likable person, a hard worker, and fairly good at my job. But there are others who are also very good candidates and I'd still be okay if I didn't get the job. It’s an honor to just be considered.

Now let me tell you about the target of my revenge. For the sake of this story, let's call this guy "Gabe". As the head of Technical Support, Gabe had the power to recommend anyone in his department for the position, but he picked himself. Now I already knew him and what he's like because a year ago I also worked in Tech Support for a short time. I was originally hired to be in the Computer System Analysis department, but I volunteered to help out in Tech Support since we were a bit short-staffed at the time. Gabe is an obnoxious, self-absorbed, arrogant, and uptight dick who doesn't listen to anyone who he feels is "beneath him". He's either in his late 30s or early 40s, but either way he has at least 10 years on me. He's a little on the chubby side, receding hairline, and a neck-beard. All he needs to achieve his final form is a fedora. Back when I worked for him, he gave me a lot of crap for so many little things. From not filling out repair tickets right to completing a repair slightly out of order, he always had something to complain about. But other than that, he seemed fine to me. To be honest, I probably wouldn't have done what I did or gone as far as I did. But then this happened:

I was just doing my work and minding my own business, as one does. I stood up to go refill my water bottle at the water fountain and guess who follows me? If you said Gabe, then congratulations. You get a cookie. Gabe walks up to me while I'm filling up my bottle and starts a conversation.

Gabe: Hey OP, what's goin' on? How are you?

Immediately I knew somebody was wrong. He's never this friendly. But I had no easy way out of this, so I rolled with it.

Me: Hey Gabe. I'm good. How're yo-

Gabe: So I heard that (Head of CSA's name) put your name in for the Director's job.

Me: Yeah! I'm really excited to interview! It's an honor to even be considered.

Gabe just laughs and puts on his normal expression of smug and gassy

Gabe: Listen to me. If you think they're gonna pick you, a lazy new kid who can't even write a fucking repair ticket correctly, over me, a team manager who's had 15 years with this company, then you're out of your goddamn mind.

I was shocked. I couldn’t believe those are actual words that a coworker, much less a coworker with a higher position, said to my face.

Me: What the hell? Why would you say that? I did nothing but good work for you last year and you know it.

Gabe: It was mediocre at best! When I become the IT director, I’m gonna crack the whip. Why anyone would think someone like you is a worthy candidate for one of the highest positions in the company is beyond me. So I’ll make sure my new department heads have better judgement than (Head of CSA’s name)

He walked away smugly and I just stood there, both shocked and honestly quite hurt. The only part he got right was that I was relatively new, being there for two years. But I also realized in that moment that I couldn’t let this kind of person be the Director. But, again, I’m just a kid to them, so what can I do?

Planning The Revenge

That same day, I went down to the building's cafeteria to take my lunch break with my girlfriend (she works in the Marketing Department). I told her about the promotion and what happened with Gabe. She made me feel better by talking me down and that was super nice. But what happened next was even better. A few of my friends from IT walked by to congratulate me as well and they sat down. A couple of them are from Tech Support and the rest are from the other departments. My girlfriend welcomed them to sit down with us and we made it a little party. We talked and then I told them about what happened with Gabe. The ones in Tech Support all groaned and, surprisingly, so did the rest of them. I was intrigued and I asked them to elaborate, and all of them have their own Gabe horror story.

Turns out that his usual condescending remarks aren't the worst of it. They had stories about him ripping into an intern for not getting his coffee order right, one story about him making transphobic remarks about an HR rep (really sweet guy. Makes incredible babka.), one of them has a couple of recordings of sexist and rape-y comments towards the female department heads in IT, and he's even come to work intoxicated on multiple occasions. Although that last part wasn't really news to me, since he reeked of alcohol frequently.

Now at this point, you’re probably asking the same question my girlfriend asked: “Why don’t you tell somebody?” Well I’ll tell ya. Our communication policy is kinda shit in IT. Rather than report a dispute or an issue immediately to HR or the Director, we have to give it to our immediate superior, which in this case would be Gabe for a lot of them. You really think Gabe’s gonna rat himself out to the Director? As much as I love my boss and think she’s going a wonderful job, that’s the one policy that she has that I don’t agree with.

At this point, we had all kinda bonded over our mutual hatred for Gabe. We had all agreed that Gabe would be an absolutely terrible boss and we needed to stop him. We were the Avengers and this was our Endgame (which is funny since Endgame would come out the next day). Just then, my genius girlfriend said something that I couldn't believe I didn't figure out sooner. She said "Y'know, this time next week, you're going to be face to face with the CEO, an HR rep, and your Director for the interview. That's your opening. You can air out all of his dirty laundry right there." The rest of our faces lit up, realizing this too and we were ecstatic. This was our chance and we weren't going to waste it. Gabe is a terrible human being and would be an even worse Director. He had to go. But I'd need proof first. So that's what I got.

Revenge Time

Along with rewriting my resumé and brushing up on my interview skills, I spent the next week being something of an investigative journalist. I asked my previously mentioned coworker to email me those recordings he had of Gabe’s rape-y comments (which by the way were absolutely sickening to listen to. I think the worst one was “I’d love to raw her over the trash can like the dirty whore she is.”), as well as spending time interviewing members of the Tech Support team as well as some of the other department heads. Almost everyone had some form of bad experience with him, ranging from unprofessional to downright abusive behavior. The head of WebDev even said that she was always uncomfortable whenever they were alone in a room together. By the time I was done, I had 3 voice recordings of Gabe, 4 pages of quotes from people around the office, and the stories I had originally heard at lunch that day when we began planning. I really wanted to prove his whole day-drinking thing, but I was afraid that going that far might cost me my job. But what I wanted to do was sneak into his office, open his drawers, and hopefully find empty liquor bottles or something to that effect. But what I had would just have to suffice.

Then the day came. We were in the Endgame now. I showed up to the work the day of interviews in my finest suit, my resumé, and literal pages of evidence to make my case. I walked into the office and saw my competition along with a bunch of other people who I didn’t recognize. Those were the outside hires. I was getting pretty nervous, especially when I saw the interview committee in the conference room through its glass walls. The CEO, my Director, and an HR Rep. I took a few deep breaths, checked when my turn was, and then I sat down to do my work, just waiting to make my move. A few of my coworkers came by my desk to wish me good luck, and that made me feel a lot better about it.

I waited and waited for my turn and then saw Gabe walking up to me from the conference room, so that means his interview must’ve just finished. I pulled out my phone and went to voice memos and began recording, just in case I got anything more out of him, and oh boy you bet I did.

Me: What’s up, Gabe? How was your interview?

Gabe: Great. Obviously. The job is as good as mine. You might as well not even try.

Me: I’m still gonna try my best, man. Who knows? I might even get it.

Gabe: Yeah keep dreaming.

He starts to get up in my face and I can smell his lunch on his breath. Too many onions. He then starts hissing at me.

Gabe: You’re absolute trash, kid. They’re not gonna pick a kid with two years of experience with an undergrad degree over me. I’ve been at this company for far too long and got my undergrad degree and my masters from Princeton! Don’t think for a second that you have the upper hand. You’re nothing to me!

I held my breath while he ranted and then he walked away to talk to another one of my coworkers who had their interview already. Coworkers around me just looked at me both shocked and confused once he walked away. I grabbed my phone, stopped the recording, and played it back. That was it. That was the final piece. I waited for a couple more interviews to finish, until they finally called me in. I grabbed my bag and my phone and walked into the conference room. As I walked, I could feel the eyes of some coworkers on me. They knew my plan, and I think they were counting on me to pull this off. Once inside, we all shook hands and exchanged formalities before sitting down and letting the interview begin. Not all of it is relative to the story, so let me just skip to the end.

CEO: Given the amount of internships you've done and how much time you've put into the company, you may have a good chance. However, we've just interviewed people with almost triple your experience. How do you stand out from the rest.

Me: Well, if I become the new Director, I already have some ideas for policies I'd like to put into place.

Director: Oh really? Would you care to give us an example?

Me: Don't get me wrong. I believe that you have done an amazing job as Director of this department, but there are some things that I think can be improved upon. For instance, our policy when it comes to HR.

HR Rep: Could you elaborate on that, please?

Me: Certainly. In the IT department, when we have any disputes or grievances to settle, we need to report them to our direct superior. Not the Director, but to the lower department heads. My goal is to streamline communication, so workers can report issues directly to the Director or go straight to HR.

Director: Alright, but can you tell us why the current policy is an issue?

I started smiling. This was it. This was my opening.

Me: Funny you should ask. Recently, I heard stories from a bunch of my coworkers about our head of Tech Support, Gabe. He's been very rude to his staff and to others on multiple occasions. In fact, I think "unprofessional" is a bit of an understatement from the stories I've been hearing.

Right then, I reached into my bag and pulled out the long list of stories and quotes I had gathered from the past week and handed them to the CEO.

Me: I care about my coworkers, so I did some digging. I really feel like this is something that you need to see.

I watched as the search committee read the quotes and stories. I watch their expressions turn to shock and disgust, which I totally get. I felt the same way when I heard all of this.

HR Rep: This is a... conflict of interest. From what I know, Gabe is also your competition for this position. How do we know that these stories aren't fabricated so that you could get an advantage? Because offenses like these could result in immediate termination. I hope you have a way to prove these very serious accusations.

Me: I had a feeling you'd say that. You are free to interview any of the people I quoted, but I can just save you some time and show you this.

I pulled out my phone and opened up the email that my coworker had sent me and all four of us listened to this neck-beard's disgusting and upsetting quotes. But I wasn't done there. I also pulled up the most recent one. The conversation between me and him. My Director just looked down at her desk and then they looked at each other. I was the one to break the silence.

Me: I'm sorry you had to hear all of this.

CEO: Could you please email those recordings to me? I would like to address this immediately.

Me: Of course. You are free to keep those papers too.

I forwarded the email to him along with my recording.

Director: Thank you for this information, OP. We'll let you know our decision when the time comes.

Me: Of course. Thank you for your time.

I shook everyone's hand again and that's when the HR Rep spoke up.

HR Rep: Can you please ask Gabe to come back? I would like to address this immediately as well.

I'm ecstatic at this point

Me: I would be happy to.

I leave the room and notice my friends in Tech Support just staring at me. My girlfriend was also sitting at my desk, since we planned on going out for lunch after my interview. I didn't want to give anything away, so I kept a straight face and walked past them and towards Gabe's office. I walked in and sighed.

Me: The interview committee wants to see you again.

Gabe just looked up from his computer and just gave me a cocky smirk, as if to say "I told you so." He got up and pushed past me towards the door. I followed behind him towards the conference room and we parted ways when he went in and I walked towards my desk. I wanted to see exactly what happened. I watched what unfolded through the glass walls. I saw Gabe's face turn white and his expression turn from smug to terrified. He turned his head to me and I had this shit-eating grin on my face. I just waved and then left my office with my girlfriend to have a nice lunch.

The Aftermath

I was feeling pretty good about the whole day. I got my revenge, did fairly well in a job interview, and had amazing chicken parm for lunch that day. I felt so good, that I decided to take the rest of the day off. I went to the zoo, saw a really cute koala bear. The next day, I came to work dressed down since interviews were over, and then patiently waited for the committee to make their decision. When I walked into the lobby of the building, my two friends from Tech Support ran over and trapped me in a bear hug.

Me: Well this is new. What's this for?

Friend 1: You did it!

Me: I GOT THE JOB?!

Friend 1: No! We wouldn't know even if you did. We're talking about Gabe!

Me: I stopped him from getting the job?

Friend 2: Oh you did a lot more than that. But you'll just have to see for yourself.

Both of them drag me to the elevator to go up to the IT floor. When we get there, they dragged me through the main office and over towards Gabe's. When we got in, all I found was an empty room with a desk in the middle of it. My jaw dropped. Apparently I collected so much evidence for Gabe's misbehavior, not only did I eliminate him from gunning for the Director's job, but he was also fired from the company and potentially blacklisted since everything I submitted for evidence against him was put on his permanent file. I'm not sure if he was blacklisted or not since I'm not entirely sure how that works, but he's definitely gone for good. I asked them about the details of what happened after I left. They told me that Gabe was so mad (probably at me), that his face was bright red. After he left the conference room, he spent the rest of the day packing up and drinking in his office, so I guess my day-drinker theory held up. He left in shame, and we won't see him again.

I was so excited. Gabe was gone and it felt like the office was a brighter place. People were so excited that a few people outside the Tech Support department brought in a bunch of desserts, from cheesecake to brownies. They were delicious, but I think what them taste better was that I did something to cause this rush of joy. I think the best part of this whole thing is that only a couple of people know that I had something to do with this. The rest of them? Totally clueless. I'm not the protector that IT wants, but I'm the protector that IT needs. Now enough humble-bragging. It's starting to make me feel like a douche.

In hindsight, I don't know what would've been more satisfying. Doing what I did or getting the job fair and square and firing Gabe. But if there's one thing I learned in life, you will do things that you are proud of that you will enjoy and you will do things that you're not so proud of but will really enjoy. This doesn't apply. I am both very proud of this and I really REALLY enjoyed this. This might come back later to bite me in ass, but for right now I think I'll enjoy it. But now the Director has to pick a new head of Tech Support. Either that or she'll give that job up to the next Director. It's been almost a few days since the interviews and we're still waiting on the results. Even if I don't end up getting the job, I still gained something from this. I have a better bond with my coworkers and got rid of the asshole in my office. If enough people like this story, I'll update you on if I got the job or not.

Moral of the story: Don't shoot an unfamiliar gun. You don't know how strong the kickback's gonna be.

TL;DR: I was considered for a job promotion but was demeaned by a superior who was also up for the job. I found out bad things about him and presented them during my interview and got him fired and possibly blacklisted from getting another job.

(source) story by (/u/KyuubiBlade)

[madpanda75]

“The Romantics” Part Three

We fast forward to the present and catch up on what Rafael and the reader were up to after graduation. Will Rafael and reader reunite? Who knows...ok actually I do cause I wrote the darn thing. 😂 Thanks to everyone who is liking and reading this fic. It means a lot ❤️

Present Day

You gazed out of your office window, watching the sun rise above the Manhattan skyline. The dark purples and blues of the night transforming into brilliant hues of orange and yellow. You sighed and sat down at your desk which was currently covered in manuscripts. Each one represented someone who put their heart and soul into a story, leaving their destiny in your hands.

Life certainly didn’t turn out the way you expected. You went to Cambridge to focus on your writing but instead discovered you rather enjoyed reading the works of others. You left the program and started working at a publishing firm in London. It wasn’t long before you ran the place, attracting attention from the firm’s sister office in New York. They were quick to offer you a lucrative position as Senior Editor and although you adored your job, it was time for a change of pace. It was time to go back home.

You were glued to your desk the whole day, reading a few pages of a manuscript before tossing it into one of two piles: yes or no. Unfortunately, the majority of the pieces you were reading ended up in the “no” pile.

You closed your eyes and massaged your temples, needing a break from reading yet another memoir about a wannabe Jack Kerouac who “found himself” while traveling across the country. You once traveled cross country to the Grand Canyon all you got was food poisoning and sleepless nights in fleabag motels.

Letting out a deep calming breath, you went back to work, grabbing a package wrapped in brown kraft paper. It was too heavy and hard for a manuscript, as if it was already bound. But who were you to question the eccentric world of writers.

You ripped open the paper, knitting your eyebrows in confusion when you saw an old Harvard Yearbook from 1993. As if someone sending you a yearbook wasn’t odd enough, it was flagged with various post-its. You opened the book to one of the pages that was marked. There was your face staring up at you in a grainy black and white photo. You were younger but it was undeniably you, smiling with a group of other tutors from the Harvard Writing Center. That’s when it hit you. Realization slowly spread across your face as you reached for your cell.

“Hello,” Rebecca answered, stepping outside of the banquet hall decked out in crimson.

“No, no, no, no, no. Oh and did I mention, no!” You replied. “I’m not going to the reunion.”

“Please, Y/N. You have to come. You’ve officially run out of excuses not to go. I’ve heard them all. I’m out of the country. I’m at a yoga retreat. I’m getting divorced.”

You winced at that last part and looked down at your hand, the tan line on your ring finger still visible. You had gotten married for all the wrong reasons. At the time you were lonely and marriage seemed like the responsible thing to do. The next step into adulthood. “Becks, I don’t know if I can get away from work right now.”

“Yes, you can. You run the place and it’s only a weekend. I’m sure they can spare you for two days. And who knows, maybe someone else will be there. Someone who happens to be named…..Rafael.” There was a lilt in Rebecca’s voice when she mentioned your former best friend’s name.

You flipped through the yearbook, stopping at a picture of you and Rafael. You were sitting under a tree on the quad, your head resting on his shoulder while he read. You loved his voice. It was soothing and smooth, like swallowing a spoonful of honey. Listening to him read always brought you comfort. You lovingly touched the photo. If you closed your eyes, you could still see his brilliant green eyes that made you weak in the knees, feel the soft silkiness of his thick dark hair under your fingers.

The first few months at Cambridge were hard. You missed your family and friends, especially Rafael. The two of you had kept in touch, exchanging letters and the occasional long distance phone call. But as time went by, the letters and phone calls became more infrequent. You discovered the reason why during Christmas that year. You had dropped by New York to surprise Rafael only to learn from Eddie that he was with Yelina. You swore Eddie to secrecy, making him promise that he would never tell Rafael that you were there. When you got back to Cambridge you stopped responding to his letters and eventually Rafael stopped writing. It was obvious that he had moved on and you needed to as well.

“He’s in New York, you know. I’m surprised you haven’t looked him up,” Rebecca said, interrupting your reverie.

You slammed the yearbook shut. “I know he’s in New York. But I’ve been busy and besides he’s probably a sleazy lawyer with a receding hairline and a big gut who’s married to Yelina and has three gorgeous but spoiled rotten children. And while she’s off getting the latest plastic surgery or high off her kid’s Ritalin, he’s probably getting a happy ending at an illegal massage parlor. Where eventually he’ll be discovered, get arrested, and then it’ll be all over the tabloids. I can picture the headline now: “Where’s the Rub? Crooked Lawyer Caught at Massage Parlor.”

“Wow!” Rebecca said after a long pause. “That doesn’t sound bitter at all. And anyways you’re wrong. He’s not with Yelina.”

“How do you know?”

“Do me a favor and google “Alex Muñoz.” Also you are going. If I have to hunt you down and drag you to Boston. You’re going. No excuses.”

You whined and rested your head on the table. “Fine,” you mumbled. “I’ll see you there.” After you got off the phone with your old roommate, you immediately went to your laptop and looked up, Alex Muñoz. During your search, an article popped up about the mayoral candidate who was caught up in a sexting scandal. The events took place several months earlier and by the time you moved here it was old news, the press already in hot pursuit of the next big story.

“Why am I not surprised,” you said out loud, clicking through several photos. What you were surprised to find was that Alex had married Yelina. A picture popped up showing the tall, gorgeous woman, playing the role of the dutiful wife and standing by her man. In the far corner of the photo, you noticed a handsome man in a sharp tailored suit, standing with a group of people. It was Rafael.

Your heart skipped a beat. It was amazing how he could still have that effect on you. Your theory about your college friend was squashed the minute you googled “Rafael Barba.” You fell down a rabbit hole, learning about the ADA and his work with Special Victims Unit, clicking through pictures and interviews. The man had aged like a fine wine. You felt your face flush, watching a clip of him at a press conference, his powerful voice demanding justice for the victim.  

It was worse than you had imagined. Rafael Barba was a good guy. He was Superman, fighting the scum of the Earth, and to top it all off, he looked sexy doing it. You closed your laptop and stood up from your desk, in desperate need of fresh air and more coffee.

As you walked outside, you tried to quiet your brain and stop thinking about Rafael, but it was too late. In reality, he never really went away. Rafael was your first love, he had always lived in your heart. Even on your wedding day, the man you wanted to be waiting for you at the end of the aisle was Rafael. In some ways, no man could ever compare to him. Now faced with the possibility of seeing him again, you weren’t sure what to do. All you could do was hope he wouldn’t show.

*****

Rafael couldn’t believe he was back in Boston. In fact he never would have gone to this reunion at all if it wasn’t for your old roommate, Rebecca. She had called his office one day, practically begging him to attend. When she mentioned that you would be there, he caved and said yes.

Rafael was desolate after you left for Cambridge. He threw himself into school, but Harvard just wasn’t the same without you. He wasn’t the same without you. It felt like a piece of him was missing.

At his lowest point, he went back to New York for a weekend visit to take his mind off of you. Rafael sat in an empty bar, getting drunk on cheap scotch, reading your letter again. The condensation dripping off his glass and falling onto the sheet of paper in his hand causing your words to bleed together until they were just incoherent ink smudges.

Rafael was so caught up in drowning his own sorrows that he failed to notice Yelina come in. The woman immediately set her eyes on him, sauntering over like a cougar about to pounce on its prey. “Guapo, is this seat taken?” She purred, running her hand up his arm.

Rafael took Yelina home that night in the hopes that her soft supple body would help soothe his broken heart. They became a couple not long after that. As the relationship continued, Rafael found he had less time to write. Either he was too wrapped up in Yelina or he didn’t want to upset her by mentioning your name. The few times she had caught him writing to you had led to some heated fights.

When he stopped receiving your letters, Rafael was devastated. He didn’t understand why. Sure he may not have called or written as often as he used to but that was no reason to stop communicating all together.

Yelina scoffed while Rafael moped around his apartment. “I don’t know why you’re so upset. She probably met someone, spread her legs, and moved on.” She rolled her eyes and began to file her nails. “Good riddance, I say. That little crush she had on you was so annoying. I honestly don’t know what you saw on her.”

“She’s not like that. You don’t even know her!” He snapped back.

“I saw the way she looked at you at your graduation. If you’re so upset then go after. I don’t care, you’re not even worth it.” She grabbed her purse and left, slamming the door behind her.

Rafael jumped at the abrupt sound, letting his head fall back against the couch. He pinched the bridge of his nose, not even bothering to go after her. The relationship didn’t last much longer. By the time summer arrived, Yelina had left him for Alex. He had caught the pair in bed together one day.

Rafael was upset but not surprised. There was a time he thought he loved Yelina, but after meeting you he realized that wasn’t love. Yelina was selfish and vain, never giving of herself. She wasn’t capable of love. She wasn’t you.

He had thought of going to England to find you but Yelina’s words haunted him. What if you had moved on? Instead Rafael chose to give up on love and focus on his career but it was becoming a losing battle. Not a day went by that Rafael didn’t think of you so when the opportunity arose to see you again, he couldn’t say no.

Now Rafael sat alone at a table, nursing a scotch while his classmates were socializing around the big banquet hall. His eyes scanned the room, hoping to spot you among the crowd, but you were nowhere to be found. He was just about to give up and head back to his hotel when you suddenly appeared in his line of vision.

You were across the room, walking towards the bar. Rafael couldn’t help but stare. For years he had imagined what it would be like to see you again. In his naivety, he had pictured you to be the young girl he had known in college and not the beautiful woman you had become. You were dressed in an off-the-shoulder blush colored cocktail dress that hit right below your knees. Your hair had been swept up in a chic chignon, several loose tendrils framing your face. Your makeup was minimal, just enough to enhance your natural beauty. It was still you, but a more sophisticated version.

Rafael got up and slowly made his way over to where you were standing, his pulse quickening with every step he took until he stood directly behind you. Your back was to him and for a split second his eyes raked over your body, drinking in your curves while you ordered your drink. “Glenlivet on the rocks, please.”

Letting out a nervous breath, he finally said your name. “Y/N?”

@glimmerglittergirl @southern-magnolia @delia26 @obfuscateyummy @sass-and-suspenders @eclecticminded @sweetcannolicarisi @thatesqcrush @katmstanton @amirightcounsellor @beltzboys2015-blog @letty-o @sonnysdoll @lyssa1385 @sweetsummertime99 @burningsorr0ws @gibbs274 @izzythefanfreak @riodallas @babypink224221 @livxrafa @esparza-army @ottosuricato @obsessionprofessional @raulmonamour @tropes-and-tales

[haddonfieldproject]

<<PREVIOUS⏺<<CONTENTS>>

1.2.3 HALLOWEEN NIGHT/NOVEMBER 1st 2:10 AM

Haddonfield, Illinois

As the Tate family continued eastward through Missouri in the rain, Officer J.T. Swain pulled his police cruiser into the parking lot of the Warren County Sherrif's Office. Swain jerked the hood of his rain slicker up, took a long and shaking breath, and braced himself for the deluge from above as he gripped his door handle. He quickly exited, shutting the door with his hip, and sprinted toward the doors, kicking up large splashes as he sloshed through the puddles in the parking lot---a parking lot that had been empty a few hours before when Samantha Nguyen had entered it.

It was now full.

His fellow officer, and friend, Greg Mullenix, met him at the front entrance, and held the door open for him as he stepped inside. “Where the hell have you been man?”

Swain threw his hood back, “I had to escort the Tramer's from the police station to the park.”

Mullenix winced as he opened the glass door on the inside annex.

“It was horrible,” Swain continued, “that boy's mom kept crying and crying, and I had to hold an umbrella over her while they ID'd their son.”

Mullenix put a hand on his friend's back. “I'm sorry man.

“What did I miss?” Swain asked as they headed through the lobby, passed the plastic chairs, and to the right of the front counter with it's frosted glass window...still shut. They could hear Officer Williams and another voice, a female voice, talking away from behind the glass. The phone still rang incessantly.

“It's a shit show.” Mullenix replied, pulling his wallet out of his pocket and tapping it to the little white square beside the large metal door that read: AUTHORIZED PERSONELL ONLY. His little plastic keycard inside reacted to the pad and a light at the top of the square went from red to green. He jerked the door open.

A cacophany of voices hit them immediately. The first door on the left gave way to a large conference room. The overlapping conversations were emanating from there. Six or seven Officers sat about the large mahogany table and about the same number stood in various places around the room. As Officer Mullenix and Officer Swain entered the doorway, they were bumped from behind by two other men. Deputy Sheriff Ben Meeker had exited his office from across the hall and pushed through the crowd. He was holding a manilla file folder in his hand. Another man, with a receding hairline and smart black and white business attire, followed him.

“Feds?” J.T. Mouthed to Mullenix as they moved to get out of the way of the two men.

Greg shrugged.

“Alright everyone!” Meeker rose his voice to a level that could be heard over the other conversation. “Everyone shut up!”

The conversations ceased.

“So as you know, Sheriff Brackett is of course in the hospital with his daughter so all operations has been handed over to me.”

He looked around the room, took a deep breath and then said, “Look---I know tonight has been,” he stopped for a moment, looking down at the desk, trying to fight the urge to get emotional. “Well,” he continued, “let's just say it, tonight's been really shitty. I know and you know we're stretched to the breaking point right now as it is, but US Marshals have something else we need to pay attention to, so this is Deputy McGrath out of the Springfield outfit, I need you to give him your full attention.”

The room was dead quiet, save for a solitary cough from the back corner of the room. Meeker switched places with the man who had come in with him. He cleared his throat and when he spoke, a sharp New England accent came through,

“Hello,” he said, pausing for a moment, thinking about what to say. “Deputy Meeker here has been telling me about the clusterfuck of a night you guys have had,” he looked around the room at the tired faces of the officers, “and I want you to know that the last thing I want to do is add to the little shitstorm you guys got going on in this little town tonight, but I'm afraid I'm gonna have to.”

Meeker handed the file folder to the officer next to him, a fat, snow white young looking kid with pink cheeks and frosty blonde curls all over his head. The kid's name was Kip Kinnerly, but all the other guys called him “Doughboy.”

“Kip, look at this and then pass it.”

“Yes sir.” Doughboy replied curtly as he took the folder.

Meeker raised his voice. “I want everyone to take a good look at this!”

The man in the suit cleared his throat again. “As he told you, I am Deputy Mark McGrath from US Marshals, and as most of you have no doubt already heard, we have been hunting two extremely dangerous persons and we believe they may have just arrived in your back yard, that is, in the general area of Warren County.”

“Are you fucking serious?” An Officer who stood in the corner of the room spat. “Are you talking about those two shits from Mississippi?”

“Let's watch the language Spaulding.” Meeker snapped.

“It's alright Sherrif Meeker,” McGrath smiled. “Two little shits are exactly what they are. Their names are Lloyd and Lee Chumway of Biloxi Mississippi. And we are requesting---hell we are begging—for your assistance so we can nab these sonsabitches and at least give y'all a silver lining to this terrible night.”

“Oh fuck.” Officer Malcom Donald breathed as he looked into the file folder. “I thought I'd seen enough of this kind of shit tonight.”

The photograph of the Chumway brothers had reached Mullenix and Swain. They had already seen their faces on the television the days before. Hell, all of America had.

“Someone snap pics of that with their cellphone and text it out to everyone. I want everyone to have those two faces burned in their brains.” Meeker said.

“I got you boss.” Swain replied. He passed the picture back to Mullenix and began to dig in his pocket for his cellphone. “Here, hold this.”

“Who is this chick?” Spaulding asked, taking another pic from Doughboy and handing it to Officer Emrah Lagenbruner next to him who had just squeezed himself into the circle that was forming around the conference room. .

“Whoa,” The young African American officer said upon seeing the picture, “Gonna be a closed casket for sure.”

McGrath pointed to the photograph in his hand.

“Her name was Marina Madden, Lee Chumway's brother...he's the younger of the two. On Thursday afternoon, around 13:30 Central Time, these two upstanding citizens apparently brutally raped this woman, and then pummeled her with a bedside lamp.”

Mullenix took the picture from Lagenbrunner. The aforementioned Marina Madden was sprawled out on burgundy carpet, near the foot of a bed-frame, her lifeless eyes gazing upward at a ceiling that was out of view of the camera. Blood was congealed on the side of her head, a broken bedside lamp lay beside her, a dark spot in the carpet spread out from beside her head. The darkened puddle was flecked with bits of brain matter.

Mullenix passed the picture to Swain.

“Who's this?” Spaulding asked, holding up another picture before passing it to Lagenbruner. “Whoa, hello sexy!” Lagenbruner quipped again upon seeing the picture and passing it to Mullenix. It was a circa 1977 Olan Mills portrait of a woman, wearing a bright floral print dress, cat-eye tinted glasses and a large brown bee-hive hairdo in front of a tacky painted background with a sunset, trees, and ducks. Two young boys in white suits and red ties sat on her knee.

McGrath answered, “That is the mother of these two fine citizens. Melba Jean Chumway. Aparently they grew bored of Miss Madden and decided to drive over to their mommy's house. They beat her to death with a hammer.”

Lagenbruner whistled as he saw the next photo. “Good night,” he breathed as he passed it to his left.

Mullenix's stomach tightened as he saw it. Even though she was face down on a linoleum floor, you could tell it was the same woman. Her dress was different, but an equally as offensive floral print. Her bee-hive was gray now, and a different, more modern pair of glasses lay broken beside her. The side of her head was split open, and old darkened blood was pooled on the tile beside her. Large shoe tracks were printed in blood all around her as well. A blood soaked hammer lay just beyond her elbow.

For not the first time tonight, Mullenix was feeling nauseated. As the wave of sickness washed over him and through him, he closed his eyes, gulped and opened them again to receive another photo. The time, a pretty but a little chunky woman in a Lynyrd Skynyrd t-shirt and camouflage pants was sitting atop a tractor. A field of snowy white cotton gleamed in the background. An older gentleman stood beside the tractor with a cigarette handing out of his mouth and a battered confederate battle-flag hat laying crooked on his head. He wore a simple blue shirt with the words TRUMP in bold white letters, along with the tag-line in red below it: Make America Great Again.

“I'm guessing this one is their engagement photo?” Swain tried to quip as he took the picture from Mullenix. It came out hollow as his voice cracked.

McGrath guestered to him. “They then left for Lloyd's apartment where Lloyd's unfortunate girlfriend Kelly Willis-Ross was living. They nearly decapitated her with a kitchen knife.”

Another grizzly crime photo was passed over. Poor Miss Willis-Ross lay in a bathtub, soaked red. Her head lay disjointed on her shoulders, her chin impossibly almost touching her right breast. Swain felt another surge in his stomach. He tried to focus on something in the picture so that he would appear to be looking at the slide, but not really looking at the carnage itself. His eyes fixed on a blue bottle which sat on the side of the tub next to the unfortunate carcass of Lloyd's now ex-girlfriend. HERBAL ESSENCES CONDITIONER. BLUE RASPBERRY.

“Jesus Christ,” Mullenix breathed.

Swain shot him a glance. His friend and partner's face was caught in a grimace.

“I know,” Swain whispered, “good luck sleeping tonight.”

“I don't think I'm ever going to sleep again,” Mullenix mumbled.

McGrath continued, as more horrific scenes of gore was paraded down the line.

“They then drove to their place of employment: a Papagayos Mexican Restaurant. These two star employees were on the clock for only 53 minutes before they murdered their boss and everyone in the store with kitchen knives. They have been on the run every since.”

“How do we know they're coming here?” Meeker asked, taking a seat on the edge of the conference table.

McGrath answered, “On Thursday night around 20:00, 911 operators at a Southern Star Gas Station near Oxford Mississippi were alerted to a robbery and homicide, and closed circuit cameras in the store captured the Chumway brothers. Two of the men they beat to death inside the store were concealed carry operators who were overwhelmed before they were able to withdraw their weapons. The Chumways stole the weapons and are now considered armed and dangerous....well...more dangerous.”

A few more cops trickled into the conference room from outside, looking pale and cold, shaking off the rain. McGrath paused as they took their place around the room, then continued, “Early Friday morning, around 02:30 we got a bead on to what direction they were heading in when 911 dispatch got word of a robbery at a Dixie Donuts outside Memphis Tennessee. Again surveillance at the location confirmed that the Chumway brothers were perpetrators of the crime. They were tracked to a strip club in the area and then to a motel, but apparently just missed the grasp of Memphis police. Their pursuit was also put off by trick or treating traffic, something I heard you guys had trouble with as well as you were tracking your own psychopath through the town.”

A few of the cops nodded and murmuring in agreement. Agent McGrath paused , rubbing his chin, his eyes clouded over, as if he were lost in his thoughts. After a moment he said, “We have every reason to assume they continued north, and would be entering this vicinity very soon if they continued at their assumed rate of speed. Unfortunately we have no idea what they could be driving now, they keep switching vehicles, but we just need you boys to keep an eye out.”

There was another cough and a few moments of heavy silence. Then Doughboy snapped to attention, his blue eyes wet, and barked: “Sir yes sir.”

The others officers followed suit, but all were less exuberant and most were merely mumbling. Deputy-Sheriff Meeker sat up from the edge of the table and approached Agent McGrath, and placing a hand on the shorter man's shoulder. McGrath gave a half smile, shooting a glance to Meeker and then back to the assembled officers. “Well okay then, we know what to look for, and we'll do our best to nab these sonsabitches.” Meeker extended his hand and McGrath took it.

Officer Mullenix yawned. Officer Ted Mitchum came in to the room with a large WANTED poster of the Chumway brothers. He lifted a stapler and stapled it to the wall next to the whiteboard at the far end of the conference room. Mullenix fixated on their face.

They look so normal, he thought, like just two simple men....two...really normal simple men.

NEXT>>

[fiftyshadesofsoas]

Quarantine

Their eyes met across a crowded Zoom. 

It was Wednesday. It was quiz night. It was the peak of the lockdown quiz trend, and he’d been looking forward to this all week. The Group™ was back together again, and that meant that she’d be there too, a pixellated minx grinning at him from the corner of his laptop.

The Group™ had started their first year years ago, but nobody could quite figure out how they actually knew each other. She’d done an anthropology unit with her, and she shared a flat off Holloway Road with him, and he knew that guy somehow, the guy who was with her for a bit before splitting up and insisting they were still friends even though they all knew they were fucking on and off for years, and she knew him through protests, probably? It was something like that.

They’d meant to do some kind of reunion thing back in September to mark ten years since they’d first met, they had set up a WhatsApp group called “reUNIon?” and everything, but everybody’s busy, everybody’s so fucking busy, and it almost happened in October but then so-and-so had to go to New York for work that weekend and then in November what’s-his-face moved abroad and went almost totally AWOL and then Christmas was obviously out because everybody had gone “home” even though they hadn’t lived there for years and then half of them were doing dry January and then what’s-her-name had twins (fucking twins!) so that was that for a while, and then coronavirus hit and suddenly nobody had anything to do. And they started spending time together again.

His palms were sweaty. He was the host, and he was the only one on the Zoom so far. Hopefully somebody else would join soon. As long as it wasn’t the guy who had got really into sourdough during lockdown, and couldn’t talk about anything else exc-

shit. There she was.

It was just the two of them, for the first time in years. It was time to show her how he’d grown into a confident man with a career, and a pension, and a hairline that wasn’t receding that much for his age, who was comfortable in his own (now slightly wrinkly) skin.

“Hi. Uh, how’s working from home this week?”

Fuck’s sake, man. You’re thirty. You’ve got better chat than this.

“Same as ever. Lockdown, right?”, she said. 

She scanned her screen. It was still just the two of them. 

“You know, while it’s just the two of us, it’s funny,” she continued. “I don’t think you ever knew, but I had a massive thing for you back in the day.”

He felt a maelstrom of feelings all at once. It was like his brain was his inbox and his emotions were frantic emails coming from all sides like the SOAS alumni relations team asking for donations. This was good, right? She liked him! But wait, she had a massive thing? Had in he past tense? That’s not a good tense.

“Oh right?”, he said. 

“Yeah, I often wondered if we’d end up together.”

“Well”, he said, seizing the moment, seizing it harder than he’d seized the first and only job offer that came his way after graduating in the worst patch of austerity imposed by the Tory/LibDem coalition, “better late than never, right?”

He smoothly enabled the waiting room that would stop the rest of The Group™ from joining the call. It was like suavely, suggestively locking the door, but with an added air of conference calls. Unlike a conference call, he started to take his shirt off. She saw where this was going, and quickly moved from the kitchen, where her housemate was heating up a frozen pizza for the fourth time this week, to her bedroom. She got the impression of firm pecs - or perhaps some burgeoning moobs, it was hard to tell at this resolution. It left a lot to the imagination, and she liked it. She thought of six packs past, the lithe torsos and unblemished skin of her uni conquests, spirits eager, not distracted, bodies willing, not wobbling. She took her clothes off hastily, partly through untrammelled desire, partly because she hadn’t worn a bra for months. She adjusted her laptop screen to an optimal angle and lay back carefully, self-consciously, her elbows pinned to her sides to stop her breasts flopping into her armpits, hoping her camera wasn’t good enough to pick up the odd rogue hairs which defied plucking, determinedly worming their way back to the surface, yearning for destinations unknown. 

She reached for the lube, gave it a couple of vigorous pumps, and started squelching in and around her enraptured flaps. Maturity had brought expertise and efficiency, and she was soon arching her back as she skimmed her fingertips across her greasy love nubbin, feeling herself splurt and splutter as she spasmed. And as she watched him grapple with his own moistened meat, contorting his face like a dog eating a lemon, she felt the thrill of the experience mix with the relief that it was her and her alone doing this. Back at SOAS, the boys she fucked were young and taut and in their slim muscular prime, but the sex itself was terrible, all bitten nails and unwashed fingers scraping away at her clit, scratchy stubble against her inner things, sloppy uncertain tongues and stilted arrhythmic heaves. Yet as soon as the boys grew up, became men who listened and sensed and responded, men who took pleasure in pleasing, men who learned to love, they sagged and faded and stressed. What use was a delicate and skilled tongue tip, a virtuoso of vag, an artisan of arse, if he wasn’t fully in the moment, if his mind was on meetings and his waistline on the wane?

But here it was just her, doing what she knew, watching him on the screen, imagining him how she used to want him, imagining him doing what she imagined he could now.

Suddenly, he froze. Out of the corner of his eye, he’d seen his own video in the corner of his screen. His pre-cum-flecked snail trail, sweaty and matted against his stark white belly, which hung ponderously over his birds’ nest pubes, the occasional grey glinting in the light from the screen. His hand, jerking erratically, beating a rhythm against his work laptop, the IT department asset tag sticker lifting the corner and scraping his knuckles. His wizened ballbag, skin folds hanging like curtains, swaying with the motion, too loose against his dangling jizz orbs like the wrinkled surface of an old mouldy apple, uncannily soft, sprouting wiry tufts of pubes, a beige nightmare made flesh. And his straining glans, gleaming in his grip, peeking out like a shy tortoise, coyly withdrawing, tasting the air again. 

He tried to block it from his mind, his disgust at the absolute state of himself. But the more he tried, the more he was drawn to it, and as he finally made eye contact with his own mirrored image, he withered, his puckered pecker limp and slippery and unfulfilled in his frothy fingers.

He groaned, and pulled his laptop towards him.

“I’m so sorry,” he explained hurriedly, “I just... I guess I’m distracted, I accidentally made eye contact with my video, it weirded me out, and it’s also been a long day, I keep thinking of work, and the whole pandemic, and... can we try again? Not now, we’ve got the quiz, but another time, can we be in each other’s support bubble? Can we drive to Barnard Castle and check our eyesight together? Can we make up for lost time, can we refind ourselves? I love you, I think I always have, and I feel so trapped and scared here in my flat, watching the news and watching the deaths, I’m scared I’ve wasted my life, I’m scared of death and I’m scared it’ll be me and I’m scared it’ll be you, and I’m scared I’ll never say or do what I think matters. Can we start again properly, can we give this a go? Can we isolate together, quarantine together, can we help each other through this? Because all I know right now is that I’m alive and you’re alive and we’ve missed chances before and I never want to miss a chance again. What do you think?”

“Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t get that. You’re on mute.”

[myassbrokethefall]

Your 792 chapter coffee shop AU sounds like a new art form. I really think you should take on this challenge.

I would just like to say, for the record, that I DO have a healthy embarrassment over (a) the fact that I wrote this and (b) how much time today I spent on it.

CHAPTER 1

“My expectation is we will not have something next season. It isn’t impossible, but the clock is getting pretty tight.”

Hear that? That doubtful voice, those killjoy words? That’s me. Sigh.

Let me introduce myself. I’m Gary Newman, and I work for Fox. That’s me explaining to IndieWire that SOMEONE got some facts confused. About MY project. I’ve only been working on it for months and months, and I was starting to feel like I was really getting somewhere – and now David Madden might have screwed it all up.

Here’s me again: “It’s not easy to find time. We would love to do it again, and I believe there will be a time when it happens, but it does not feel imminent to me.”

OK, PAUSE. REWIND. Let me start at the beginning.

David and I both work at Fox. He’s the president of Fox Entertainment, and I’m co-chairman/CEO of Fox Television Group. We don’t even know each other that well – we pass each other in the halls sometimes, but we don’t have that many meetings together or anything. Yesterday was the TCAs – only the biggest TV press event of the year. And David wanted to come present with me. I was a little doubtful at first – did he know my project? Hell no, not like I do. But I figured it would be good to have some backup up there. Everyone likes David M. He’s good-looking, 71, medium build, obviously does a lot of NordicTrack. Whatever. He’s all right. I don’t really know him that well, like I said. He has amazing eyebrows. Ugh, please forget I just said that.

Anyway. My project. What’s it’s about? Glad you asked!

Our network used to have this show, The X-Files. Back in the day, everyone loved it. And last year, I brought it back. (Well, me and my bestie, Dana Walden – we’re co-chairs/CEOs. We do everything together.) It took a ton of work! First I had to get the creator, Chris “Old Man” Carter, on board. He’s this eccentric guy who lives in a beach house and surfs all the time. He has longish hair, sort of like an MTV VJ. He was up for it. But THEN, I had to convince the show’s stars, Gillian Anderson and David Duchovny. Don’t even get me started on them. They are both weirdos. But, super long story short, they finally agreed to work with us. We did the show, and it did great! Sure, the plot didn’t make any sense and the emotional arc was nonexistent (that’s Old Man Carter for you), but everyone liked it anyway. (Except the AV Club, but everyone knows they’re dicks.)

So we – me and Dana – were going to do another season. Once again, we talked to Old Man Carter and he was all for it. I think he has a lot of free time. That’s cool. But you know who doesn’t have a lot of free time? David D. and Gillian. They are both super popular, and BUSY. It was kind of a miracle that they agreed to help last time. So I’d been working on both of them – slowly and carefully. Figuring out schedules. Proposing deals. You know, executive stuff. And – things were moving forward. Slowly. And carefully. We’d had some setbacks, but I was still optimistic.

Cut to yesterday afternoon. There we were at the TCAs, talking to basically every entertainment reporter in the US of A. I’m all ready with more cautious optimism – the last thing we need is for the press to get prematurely excited and start reporting that the new season is a done deal. That could screw up negotiations in who even KNOWS how many ways. So David Madden, who basically horned in on my presentation, is up there with me. And here’s what he says:

“Sure, the deal-making is complex, but we expect to have an announcement shortly. Heck, we were hoping to reveal it today! But the deals aren’t QUITE done. I’ll tell you this, though – it’s going to be way more than six episodes! Not as many as 22, but still a lot.”

What??!?!

Oh, OK. I’ve only been working my BUTT off to keep everything moving forward, this delicate balance, trying not to promise anything or step on anyone’s toes. Can I just tell you – I have woken up nights thinking about this. Worrying that Bryan Fuller was going to steal Gillian away to NBC (our big rival) to be the lead in a series about a gay shoe store on Saturn run by ghosts or something. (You probably think I’m exaggerating, but you haven’t met Bryan Fuller.) Worrying that David D. would decide to stop acting entirely because now he’s super into being a singer-songwriter. (Here’s a secret – and it’s kind of mean, sorry – David D. CANNOT EVEN SING. But you did NOT hear that from me.) Worrying that Old Man Carter will just disappear into the jungle one day and never return. (Actually that might uncomplicate some things, but you did not hear that from me either.)

So that’s what he said, and that’s why after the press conference I had to set the record straight. And so, I come off looking like the bad guy. Me, Gary Newman! I love X-Files! I’m the one who’s been working so hard to bring it back! I am so ticked off right now I can’t tell you.

Next day. Dana and I were at our after-work job. We work at a coffee shop called The Twentieth Cup. It’s a pretty chill place, a lot of execs and middle managers, some talent. You might think being co-chair/CEO of a major television studio would be enough of a time commitment, but I guess I’m kind of an overachiever sometimes, plus I like having that extra pocket money. I still get about three and a half hours of sleep, so it works out OK.

We had just gotten on shift. I looked around, and sighed when I saw who was sitting at her usual table near the door. Anne Simon is Old Man Carter’s best friend. She helped him with his part of the project last year. But sometimes she just parks herself at Twentieth and sits there with her laptop and barely orders anything. I swear, one day she had a single biscotti and a cup of water and she was there for my entire shift. And she used about 50 napkins. (She draws on them. Science stuff, I guess.) She’s OK, but she’s kind of a gossip. I was NOT psyched to have her there when I was still steaming about what David M. had said.

“I wonder if we’ll see you-know-who today,” said Dana.

“Who?” Sigh. I knew who.

“David M., of course.” Dana had a funny grin on her face. Oh, for pete’s SAKE.

“I do NOT want to see that guy,” I said, teeth gritted, and as quietly as I could manage so Anne wouldn’t overhear.

“Do you really think what he said was that bad? What’s wrong with getting people a little excited about more X-Files? We can definitely close those deals, eventually. Don’t you think?”

“It’s not going to make it any easier having the press up our butts about everything! Not to mention, what if it scares David D. and Gillian off? You know how prickly they can be about people just assuming they’ll do a project.”

“Will you relax? I doubt Gillian and David D. even pay attention to the TCAs.”

I sighed. Loud. Anne glanced over at me. I lowered my voice. “I just can’t believe him,” I said. “Why would he SAY that? He’s just so…so…”

“So what?” Dana asked, wiping down the counter. Dana is a great multitasker. Not to mention my rock.

“Ugh! I don’t even know!” I clenched my fists. I could see David M.’s face in my mind’s eye. That receding hairline. That smirk. Those EYEBROWS. I felt my cheeks flush.

“You know,” Dana said mildly, “for someone who can’t stand David Madden, you sure talk about him a lot.”

“Shut up, Dana,” I said, but my voice came out with less force than I intended. She grinned and went to put the rag back. “YOU brought him up!” I added, but even to my own ears I didn’t sound too convincing.

From outside, there came a faint sound of breaking glass. I looked up. An old GM EV1 had pulled up and collided with the streetlight, breaking one of the headlights. “Oh boy,” Dana muttered.

The shop door opened and David Duchovny and Gillian Anderson swept in, having a muttered argument. As usual, all heads in the place turned toward them, and also as usual, they barely noticed. “I’m SORRY!” Gillian was saying. “You can barely see that bloody pole. It’s tiny. You’re OK, right?”

“I should never have let you drive my car,” David D. grumbled. “They don’t even make EV1s anymore. I don’t know where I’m going to get a replacement headlight.”

“Just look on eBay! I’ll look for you. Someone will have one.” Gillian dismissed him with a wave of her hand. He rolled his eyes as they approached my register.

“Hey, Gary,” David D. said. He didn’t take off his sunglasses. Sometimes he wears them inside. I heard one of his pupils is bigger than the other one, which is crazy. Dana told me it was a basketball accident. Yikes.

“Hi David,” I said. “Hi, Gillian. What can I get for you guys?”

“I’ll have a large kale smoothie,” David said. “With double kale, please.”

“Double kale, you got it.” I nodded at Dana, who went off to the refrigerator. David was getting out his wallet, which was just a plastic bag with dollar bills in it that he had stuffed in his pants pocket. He started to uncrumple his money. I cleared my throat.

“Hey, so, you guys are still maybe thinking about doing the next X-Files, right?” I tried to sound super casual. I THINK I pulled it off.

“Perhaps,” Gillian said. She was speaking in her British accent. Sometimes she’s British, sometimes American. It’s called bidialectical and it’s a real thing, I swear. Gillian has a new British boyfriend so she’s been speaking British more often lately, and dressing fancier, and talking about the Queen all the time and stuff. (Her new boyfriend is SUPER into the royals.) She glanced at David D., then back at me. She has an intense gaze. I looked away first and fiddled with the cash register buttons, waiting for her to say more, but she didn’t.

“Sure,” said David. “If we have time.” David D. is more laid back than Gillian – most of the time – but he can get contrary if you come on too strong. He went vegetarian a few years ago when he was working on a book about talking farm animals. (I know. It was a good book though.) He’s not preachy about it though, which is cool. He handed me 14 dollar bills, mostly straightened out.

I glanced over at Dana, who was working on David’s smoothie. She made a face.  

“How about for you, Gillian?” I asked, turning back to her.

“I’ll have a cinnamon caramel nutella whip frappuccino with COLD whole milk, please. With chocolate sprinkles and some kettle corn if you have it. And a slice of that flourless chocolate cake, and this bag of pretzels. Thanks, Gary. Oh, and could you make the drink a double shot? I have to write a whole novel by tomorrow.” I raised my eyebrows. Gillian likes to stay busy, all right. (That’s half the problem.)

“Sure thing,” I said. “I’ll bring it over to you guys.” They nodded and grabbed a table in the corner. David pulled out a battered paperback and Gillian plunked a laptop onto the table. On the other side of the cafe, Anne Simon was tapping something intently into her phone.

(No, David and Gillian are NOT going out, and never have, or if they have no one has told ME about it at least. You wouldn’t know it sometimes though by how they act around each other. Sometimes it’s like they’re married, and then they won’t talk to each other for six months. Like I said – they’re weird.)

I was breathing a little easier. They weren’t bubbling over with enthusiasm or anything, but at least they didn’t seem ticked off by what David Madden had said. That was a relief.

Speak of the devil – I had just gotten back to the counter after delivering David and Gillian’s drinks when the bells on the door sounded again. I looked up, and there he was. David Madden, Fox Entertainment president, wearing a white button-down, dark brown Cole Haans, and a smirk. He met my eyes and I felt the flush creeping up my cheeks. Damn it.

He settled at a table not far from the counter. David D. and Gillian didn’t notice him (of course), but Anne did, and I saw her reach for her phone again.

“Hey, David,” Dana called out. “The usual?” David M. smiled and pointed finger guns at her. Ugh. Who does that?

Dana prepped his regular order, which is a large coffee, black, with extra sugar. (That’s David M. in a nutshell.) She put it on the counter, then looked at me.

“What?” I said testily.

She tapped the counter in front of the mug. “Gary, come on,” she said. “Bring it to him.”

Dana is my bestie, AND my rock, but sometimes she drives me absolutely up a wall. “Why?” I asked, hoping Anne couldn’t lip-read. “What makes you think I want to talk to David M.? Now or like, ever again?”

In answer, she just turned away and started loading the dishwasher. I sighed loudly, again. I picked up the mug, made my way to David M.’s table, and set it in front of him. He looked up when he saw me, lifted his amazing eyebrows, and smiled.

“Hi,” I said.

TO BE CONTINUED*

*EXCEPT NOT REALLY

Disclaimer: This is silliness, silliness, and silliness again. No harm or offense is intended to anyone parodied (even that is a stretch for this ridiculousness) here. Please don’t punish me by not making more X-Files. (Or by suing.)

Also I have no idea how old David Madden is or whether he does NordicTrack. He does have cool eyebrows though. 

[scripturientsoul-s-blog]

Unforgettable

“Sweetie, who are you again?” My grandmother, Susan, asked with a blank, yet amiable expression on her wrinkled features. I smile sadly. “I’m no one important.” “I’m sure that’s not true, darling!” She exclaimed, swatting me playfully on my shoulder with impressive strength for a grandmother. “Just because you’re of no relation to me doesn’t make you unimportant.” I did not know whether to laugh or cry. “Now, why don’t you tell me a little about yourself,” Susan requested as an nurse came over to check her vitals. “Well, I’m a history major at Princeton University,” I tell her, mustering up as much enthusiasm as I could, knowing exactly how she would reply. We have had this conversation many times over, after all. “A history major!” She cried out gleefully. “Now, that brings back some memories. I was a history major myself, you know.” I knew. She had told me over and over again, day after day, year after year. “Really?” But it was not that hard to fake the surprise. For her sake. Because seeing her dull, crystalline blue eyes light up when I asked was priceless to me. “Yes, I am! My favorite thing to study is—” World War Ⅱ. “—World War Ⅱ. In fact, I may still have it. Let me check…” Susan shifted over slightly in her bed, and I became increasingly worried that the IV in her arm would fall out. Pulling out a small, red book form her tableside drawer, she wiped off the dust with quivering fingers so pale, they were almost translucent, and you could easily see the veins underneath, transporting blood from her fragile heart. “This is my brother’s diary,” She explained with pride tinting he trembling voice. “He was a soldier who fought World War Ⅱ.” She handed me the journal, and I gingerly began flipping through the pages. Even though I’ve read through it thousands upon thousands of times, I never ceased to be amazed when I saw it. My great-uncle Sherman was an pretty incredible fighter and an even more incredible peacemaker. He was the mediator of his squadron, judging by what he had written. It was regrettable that he had died before his time. “He was there on the shores of Normandy during Operation Doomsday. His plane had been shot down. There were no survivors.” She stared intently at the notebook in my hands. “It was a miracle that one of the soldiers had managed to recover that diary. A miracle.” She paused for a moment, as if contemplating something weighing heavily on her alzheimer's-diseased mind. “Why don’t you keep that book, sweetie.” This was a new twist to an normarily ordinary conservation that I’ve had every day for the past couple of years. “Are you sure about it? This sounds like it’s really important to you.” “I’m sure. You know…” Her voice trailed off, before returning with more strength than I ever heard in her since before her diagnosis. “You remind me of my granddaughter.” My breath hitched in my throat. “Her name was Jessica. Though I’ve long forgotten what she looked like,” She looked at me straight with her dull, crystalline blue eyes. “You remind me a lot about her.” That night, when I returned to my cramped apartment, I cried for the first time in a long, long time. … Susan Williams passed away the very next day, age eighty-two. I was given the small, red book by one of the nurses. I would carry it everywhere I went. I would read it all the time. I would read it during lectures; I would read it on the bus; I would read it right before I fell asleep at night, and I would read it first thing in the morning. And then, on a certain day, Inspiration would strike me like a lightning bolt sent straight from the heavens. Straight from her. Then, I would have an idea. ... I became overwhelmed by the blinding lights flashing from the audience and the question swarming around me like wasps around their hive, desperate for someone to sting. Today, that someone was me. “What are your thoughts about your main character, Sherman?” “How did you decide to write a historical fiction novel? “What are your thoughts on how your book about World War Ⅱ was name a New York Best Seller? Suddenly, I heard a question that piqued my interest. “Hold on,” I cried into the microphone. The buzzing instantly died down. I pointed to a man sitting in the front row, his receding hairline causing the lights to reflect off of his forehead in a blinding manner. “Can you please repeat your question?” Though he looked slightly startled that I had pick him out from the hundreds of reporters there, he continued on without hesitation. “You said your stories were inspired by a real person. So tell us: what were they like?” I smiled, suddenly feeling a steady yet comforting hand on my shoulder, though I would watch the press conference back later and see absolutely no one. “She was unforgettable.”

[type2diabetestreatments-blog]

Partner Follies: Valentine's Day Reflections on Love and the 'Diabetes Machine'

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Partner Follies: Valentine's Day Reflections on Love and the 'Diabetes Machine'

Welcome back to our periodic Partner Follies series here at the 'Mine, in which we feature guest posts by spouses, romantic partners and loved ones about their POVs on diabetes. And as today's Valentine's Day, we thought it was a perfect time to share a very special story from our D-Community.

We're proud to welcome Mike Norton, who's married to well-known DOC friend Anna Norton who lives with type 1 and heads up DiabetesSisters. This Chicago-land couple's been together since 1993 and their son Patrick was born a decade ago in 2007.

While Anna leads the non-profit organization for women, Mike works as a government agency analyst, but of course he also helps out as a handyman, package-lifter, and facilitator at various diabetes events -- including this year's joint DiabetesSisters-Diabetes UnConference in the Washington D.C. area planned for October.

With that, please welcome Mike here at the 'Mine, as he shares their story.

Partner's POV from Type Awesome Hubby Mike Norton

My experience having a wife with type 1 diabetes is not so different from any other marriage, with the exception of having a a complicated, treacherous sidekick along for the ride. Yes, I’m talking diabetes.

My wife, Anna, was up front with me regarding her type 1 diabetes from early on in our relationship. I realized right away what a burden it is to tell a boyfriend that you have a serious, life-altering issue, knowing full well that it might scare off a lot of guys.

A silver lining could be that it might help point out the wrong kind of man to date. I was worried that Anna wouldn't like my receding hairline; she was worried I wouldn't like her life-sustaining insulin pump, not quite the same level of seriousness.

Anna's aunt vetted me by asking her, "Did you tell that boy about your machine?" Maybe something is lost in the Spanish-English translation, but it asks much more than it seems: “Can he handle it? Is he the right kind of guy to date?”

A few years after we met, we decided to get married and had a long conversation about starting a family. Anna was determined to be a mother and together, we forged ahead. Still, this choice to have a child was a major source of worry and of reward for Anna and I as a couple.

Anna worked long and hard at preparing to get pregnant, knowing full well that she needed to have her A1C below a target number that she’d decided on with her endocrinologist. So basically, for months, Anna had a part-time job as her own A1C mechanic, doing her best to ensure that when the test was taken, her numbers would be the very best they could be.

The process itself is a sobering one, as it presents an awareness of how type 1 has a stranglehold on the life of one's wife as well as the health of your unborn child. Usually the only concerns about when to try and get pregnant are related to money or careers, but when the quality of life of the unborn is the main factor, it makes all other considerations pale in comparison.

I still recall Anna getting the good news and the green light from her endocrinologist; for us it was the best news we had received to that point. From that point forward, all I needed to worry about was being handsome and having appropriate mood music at the ready.

It’s been nearly a decade since we started a family and over 15 years since she told me about “her machine.” My hairline is still receding and Anna still has diabetes. Despite that, it’s the years we’ve spent building a life together that matter most. Yes, a receding hairline and diabetes can put a damper on things. But they also teach you dedication, adaptability, and unconditional love for one another.

While it’s more than just diabetes, I am excited to help facilitate both the DiabetesSisters’ conference Partners’ Perspective Program and the upcoming Diabetes UnConferences in the PLU (People Who Love Us) sessions.

The shared moments of a partnership – a successful one – are the ones most cherished. I am excited that we can share a life together. On Valentine’s Day, and every day, I am lucky to love Anna.

Thanks for sharing your story, Mike! We love hearing how you two have made it work, even with diabetes on board. Happy Valentine's Day to you both, and of course... to everyone in the Diabetes Community!

Disclaimer: Content created by the Diabetes Mine team. For more details click here.

Disclaimer

This content is created for Diabetes Mine, a consumer health blog focused on the diabetes community. The content is not medically reviewed and doesn't adhere to Healthline's editorial guidelines. For more information about Healthline's partnership with Diabetes Mine, please click here.

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