#whatever the fuck harold wilson was on

[measureformeasure]

october reads

due to reasons i spent basically all of october reading fervently. i can feel it slowing down but dude i thought i was just going to eat books forever. this is not normal for me. (* if it was for class, bolded if it was special to meeee)

books

finished the odyssey*

everything under, daisy johnson

rouge, mona awad

between the body and the flesh, lynda hart

alcestis, katharine beutner

novellas/whatever anne carson is doing

michael kohlhaas, heinrich von kleist trans. michael hoffman

the penelopiad (reread)*

the beauty of the husband, anne carson

the pleasure of the text, roland barthes

short talks, anne carson

plays

far away, caryl churchill*

hecuba, euripides

zadie's shoes, adam pettle*

intimacy, thomas bradshaw* (this play SUCKS)

penthesilea, heinrich von kleist (INSTANT fave. this play fucks hard)

amphitryon, heinrich von kleist

people, places & things, duncan macmillan

the hothouse, harold pinter

the oresteia, trans. sarah ruden (probably? a reread? but damn. plays of all time)

venus in fur, david ives

the vermont plays, annie baker (the aliens, circle mirror transformation, nocturama, body awareness - my favourite was nocturama)

the effect, lucy prebble

"daddy": a melodrama, jeremy o. harris

articles/nonfiction

emily wilson talking about translation choices (here)

interview with anne carson in the paris review (here)

currently reading

stories under occupation: and other plays from palestine

henry henry, allen bratton

love is the greater labyrinth, sor juana inés de la cruz* (possibly for a final project)

ovid's heroines, clare pollard

tbr

piranesi

lolita

sex changes with kleist

[bjfinn]

HARRY'S QUEST

Disclaimer: I don't have a Shuar dictionary or grammar, so I had to make up the language spoken by the tribespeople, but I have tried to make it similar to the small sample that I've seen on YouTube. Also, fair warning: since the story is set in Ecuador, there's quite a bit of Spanish dialogue, untranslated -- Harold doesn't know what's being said, so why should you? Lol

Tw: death, murder by execution

Beej did a double take when he got to the office and saw the new arrival. The guy was a good eight or ten inches taller than the demon, and he was wearing a safari jacket and pants with the cuffs tucked into a pair of black hiking boots -- and he was carrying a hunting rifle.

But it wasn't the guy's height, or clothing, or even the firearm that took Beej by surprise -- it was the guy's head. It was tiny -- about a quarter the size it should've been. The black hair had been pulled up into a severe topknot and tied with a red cord, and the guy's lips had been sewn shut.

"Holy crap! " Beej exclaimed. "What the fuck happened to you, pal?"

The guy looked at Beej with bulging eyes -- they were normal sized and therefore too large for their sockets -- and tried to speak, but all that came out was, "Mmm! M-mmm-mmmmmm-mm-mmmmmmmmm! "

"Sorry, buddy," Beej said, clapping him on the back. "I didn't quite get that. Anyway, whatever happened it looks like a pretty shitty way to die. Tough luck, pal. Well, I can't stick around -- I gotta get up to Florida for my next job. They just executed the guy who tried to assassinate Roosevelt -- name of Zangara. I'll see you around!"

*****

Harold J. Wilson III had been in Guayaquil a week before he managed to find someone who was willing to take him into the jungle.

He'd come to South America in search of a creature that would guarantee his name would live forever -- the mapinguari. Supposedly extinct for thousands of years, but there were rumours -- based on accounts by the local Indians -- that it was still alive in the deepest part of the Amazon. And he was determined to bag one and bring it back to the Smithsonian.

"Sí, señor," the guide, a short, stocky man in his fifties named Pedro Morales, said. "I know the jungle -- but it is not a safe place for un americano, especially a rich americano like yourself."

"I've been in plenty of dangerous places," Harold told him. "Congo, in search of the mokele-mbembe, for instance."

"Did you find it, this ... mokele-mbembe?"

Harold shook his head. "Unfortunately, no," he said. "But I'm sure I'll find the mapinguari. Now, will you guide me or not?"

Pedro looked at the American. He took a deep drag on his cigar, blew out the smoke and nodded. "One hundred American dollars."

Harold pretended to consider the amount for a moment, and then he smiled and held out his hand. "You have a deal."

Pedro grinned. "Muy bien," he said. "We should leave tomorrow, at dawn. Before the heat becomes unbearable, sí?"

*****

"Lawrence!"

Beej, startled, whirled around at the sound of Juno's voice. "Hi, Mom!" he said, panicked. He hurriedly tried to hide the files he was holding behind his back. "You, uh ... you got another pickup for me?"

"What are you doing with those files?" she asked, cigarette smoke billowing from the hole in her neck. She took another drag.

"Huh? Oh, you mean these files? I, uh ... I was just curious about the new guy ... how he died, that's all."

"Oh, but sweetie," Juno said, smiling, her voice gentle, "you don't know how to read very well." Then she looked at him contemptuously. "Hand them over!"

"Sorry, Mom," he replied, chastened, and gave her the files.

"Now get back to work, and no more screwing around! "

"Yes, Mom," Beej said in a voice that was barely above a whisper.

"I can't hear you! "

"Yes, Mom," he said again, louder this time.

Juno nodded. "That's better." She stuffed the files back in the drawer and limped away, the thump-slide, thump-slide of her footsteps loud in the sudden silence of the office.

Beej looked around. The others, who had no doubt been watching the exchange, quickly put their heads down to focus on their work.

Beej blinked back the tears and shuffled out of the Processing Department to his next assignment.

*****

The sun was just beginning to stretch its first rays over the rooftops when Harold was awakened by a knock on the door of his hotel room.

"Buenos dias, Señor Harold," Pedro said when the American opened the door. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Let's go," Harold replied with a nod. He grabbed his gear and followed the guide out to the waiting Jeep. He tossed his bags in the back and climbed into the passenger's seat as Pedro turned the ignition, and then they started off, down the dirt road towards the jungle.

"We will have to stop at San Ignacio and continue on foot from there," Pedro said. "No hay caminos en la selva."

Harold nodded -- he knew enough Spanish to understand what the other man had said. No roads in the jungle.

"This village -- San Ignacio -- how far is it?"

"Two hours, más o menos," came the reply. "We will stop for lunch, and then hike in."

"How will we know where to go?"

"A village elder, Tío Chako, says that he has seen the mapinguari when he was a young man," Pedro told him. "We will follow his directions." He looked at his passenger. "But that was many years ago, señor -- who can say if it will still be there?"

"I understand," Harold replied.

*****

In fact, the drive to the Otavalo village of San Ignacio took nearly three and a half hours, and by the time they reached the village the sun was already fiercely hot.

The guide stopped the Jeep in front of a small, single-storey house with whitewashed mud walls and a thatched roof. They got out of the vehicle, and Pedro knocked on the wooden door.

A moment later, it opened, and a wizened old man in a dingy tank top and baggy trousers looked out. "Hola," he said -- Harold saw that he was missing his lower front teeth. "¿Quién están ustedes?"

"Soy yo, Pedro. Y eso es Señor Harold, de los Estados Unidos."

"¿Un americano?" Tío Chako was incredulous. "¿Aquí?"

"Él quiere trover el mapinguari," Pedro explained.

Tío Chako shook his head. "¿El mapinguari? No, es demasiado peligroso -- los Jívaros ..."

"Lo sé, pero es un americano rico ... y tonto."

"Pedro, no es bueno -- irás al infierno por esto."

"¿Y él? Él quiere matar el espíritu de la selva por un trofeo." Pedro smiled. "El Santo Padre me perdonará, creo."

"What's going on?" Harold asked -- his Spanish wasn't good enough to follow the exchange between Pedro and Chako.

"We are just discussing the preliminaries, señor."

"Por favor, entran ustedes," the old man said.

"Gracias, tío," Pedro replied. To Harold he said, "Unfortunately, Tío Chako does not speak English -- I will interpret for you."

Harold looked around the abode. It appeared to have only two rooms -- the kitchen in which they were standing and another that was probably the bedroom. At the table, a woman who was almost as old as Chako sat peelig potatoes.

"Mi esposa, María," Chako said.

"¿Visitantes? ¿Por qué no me dijiste que teníamos compañía?" María asked.

"María, ¿te acuerdas de Pedro?" Chako said. "Y este es el señor Harold, un americano que está buscando al mapinguari."

María's eyebrows shot up in surprise, but she caught herself and said, "Bienvenido, Pedro. Y bienvenido, Señor Harold. ¿Se quedarán a almorzar?"

"Gracias, tía," Pedro replied. "Tenemos un largo viaje por delante."

*****

After a lunch of seco -- goat stew served with rice and plantain -- Pedro and Chako looked over a map of the region, discussing the most likely places to find the elusive mapinguari.

"Yo lo ve aquí," Chako said, pointing to a spot where the Rio Negro looped around like a noose. "Pero no sé si eras allá esos días."

"Lo entiendo," Pedro replied. "¿Y los Jívaros? ¿Donde es su territorio?"

"Casi todo el este es el territorio de ellos." He looked at Pedro. "Rezaré a San Cristóbal para que todos regresen sanos y salvos."

*****

"You know," Beej said, "I don't think I've ever seen anyone else who had their head shrunk before -- how'd it happen?"

The guy looked at the demon with his bulging eyes and drew a thumb across his throat.

"Yeah," Beej said with a nod. "That makes sense -- I mean, it'd be kinda difficult to shrink just your head if it was still attached, right?" He elbowed the guy in the ribs. "But how come it's attached now? I've seen others who've lost their heads, and they're always carrying them, you know?"

"M-mmmm-mmmm," came the response.

"Yeah, of course you don't know. Anyway, I'm wondering how they did it -- shrunk your head, I mean. But I guess you don't know that, either -- you were already dead."

The guy nodded.

Just then the door to Juno's office opened. Beej leapt to his feet. "Well, nice talkin' to you, pal -- see you!" And he scurried away before his mother could see him.

*****

It was an thirteen day trek through the jungle to get to the area where Tío Chako said that he had seen the creature. Harold had long since run out of citronella oil, and he was covered in mosquito bites, but that wasn't the worst of it -- every night was spent pulling leeches, ticks and other bloodsuckers off his exposed skin. He would've liked to bathe more often in one of the rivers, but he didn't dare -- the waters were home to flesh-eating piranhas, as well as anacondas and caimans. And other, more fearsome things.

"Candiru," Pedro told him. "It is a tiny, tiny fish that smells the piss and swims up your ..." He motioned to his crotch. "¿Entiende?"

Harold nodded grimly.

*****

At long last, Pedro set down his pack and said, "Es el lugar."

Harold looked around. It seemed exactly the same as the rest of the jungle -- trees and plants growing in riotous profusion in the eternal twilight, the silence occasionally punctured by the squawk of a bird or the screech of a monkey, or the sound of something larger making its way through the undergrowth. It felt like he and Pedro were the only two people in the entire world -- Harold would have been unsettled if he weren't so drenched and weary.

They set up camp as they had every night for the past two weeks, and Pedro built a fire with sticks that he gathered, smearing them with pitch from a rubber tree -- the smell of broiling latex was terrible, but it allowed the damp wood to burn.

Sunset comes quickly in the depths of the jungle. They had just finished their supper -- boiled mote corn and ch'arqui made from llama meat -- when it arrived and they were plunged into darkness. As always, the jungle came alive then with the sounds of nocturnal wildlife.

"You should sleep, señor" Pedro said. "I will take first watch."

Harold nodded and gladly slipped into the tent. He lifted the mosquito netting strung over his hammock and settled in.

He'd just drifted off when Pedro shook him roughly. "Señor," the guide whispered urgently. "Señor, wake up! I think I hear the mapinguari!"

Harold sat up, instantly awake, and rolled out of the hammock. "Where?" he asked. "Are you sure?"

"I can smell it -- can you not?"

Harold sniffed the air -- a rancid odour, like that of soured compost, filled his nostrils. "Let's go," he said, grabbing his rifle.

The two men exited the tent and headed in the direction of the odour, training their flashlights on the ground in front of them.

A few minutes later they heard a deep snuffling sound. They raised their flashlight beams ...

The mapinguari was scratching itself against an acacia. Harold gasped as it turned its head to look at them -- the beast had to be eight feet tall, with long, shaggy, reddish-brown fur. The three claws on each of its front paws were massive, easily capable of shredding a tree. The beast had tiny eyes and ears, and a flexible muzzle that reminded Harold of a tapir's. He caught a glimpse of the massive tail trailing on the ground behind it -- thickly muscled, like that of a kangaroo.

"I knew it!" Harold crowed. "It's a giant ground sloth!"

The creature made a low, rumbling noise that sounded for all the world like it was saying huuuhhhh?

"I've got you now!" Harold crowed as he raised his rifle and took aim. He pulled the trigger, and the sound of the weapon instantly caused a pandemonium of noise in the jungle as bird, bats, monkeys panicked and took flight. The mapinguari bellowed in pain as the bullet ripped into its flesh, and it turned toward the two men, its powerful forearms raised threateningly.

It lunged at them, roaring in confused fury. Pedro screamed and fled. Harold readied himself to take another shot, but the huge beast was too close. He dropped the rifle and ran, stumbling over tree roots, desperate to avoid those massive claws.

The beast was gaining on him -- he could practically feel its hot breath on the back of his neck. "Shit shit shit shit shit! " he wheezed.

He took a tumble then, rolling down a short embankment into the river. "SHIT! " he yelled, and scrambled back onto the bank before something in the water got him.

He trained the beam of his flashlight upwards, grateful that he'd managed to hold onto it.

The mapinguari was looming over him, looking down at Harold. Its tiny eyes looked ... almost sad. Harold felt a twinge of regret for having caused it pain.

"I-I'm sorry," he said softly. And bowed his head, ready to accept whatever punishment the beast -- this jungle god -- saw fit to mete out.

But then he heard voices -- human voices shouting in a language he didn't recognise. The mapinguari heard them, too, and it calmly settled back down on all fours, turned and ambled off into the jungle.

"Hey!" Harold called. "Hey! Over here!"

Within seconds he was surrounded by a dozen or so spear-carrying warriors, wearing feather headbands, beaded bandoliers and red face paint.

"Wiñámishi jṵna kimiijusiai!" one of the warriors shouted. "Jikanyi ústa kanimuistaiyi! Uukanta!"

"I'm .. I'm sorry," Harold said. "I don't understand --"

"Uukanta!" the warrior shouted again. "Uukanta!"

Three of their number hauled Harold to his feet, and they bound him, tying his hands together behind his back and fixing a noose around his neck.

"Iijintaiyi nan chanwaarka ujaantaiyi na! "

And they led him through the jungle.

*****

Beej couldn't get the shrunken-head guy out of his mind. Or more accurately, he couldn't get the question of how breathers could shrink somebody's head out of his mind. He could do it easily, of course -- but he was a demon.

He decided to go back in time to see for himself -- after all, the information could prove useful someday.

He looked around to make sure that no one was watching, and then he snapped his fingers.

Instantly he found himself in a village in the middle of the Amazon jungle. Fortunately, since he was invisible, his arrival went unnoticed by the inhabitants. But he didn't think they would've noticed him anyway -- there seemed to be some kind of celebration going on.

A crowd of people were circling a large bonfire, singing and shuffling to the beat of drums as the thin, high notes of a couple of flutes threaded through the air. He could smell roasting meat and vegetables, and his stomach grumbled.

"Looks like fun," he said to himself, and moved closer.

Off to the side he saw someone tied to a post -- he recognised him as his new buddy, the shrunken-head guy. Same clothes.

He continued to watch, glad that he'd arrived at the right place and time.

Beej didn't even think of intervening on the guy's behalf -- what the fuck did he care about saving a breather? Eventually every one of them died anyway.

At last the drumming and dancing ended -- just as the first rays of the sun began to paint the treetops with golden light.

The prisoner was cut down, and he crumpled to the ground, unconscious.

He was lifted up by several warriors and laid out spread eagle on a stone slab, his wrists and ankles tied to wooden posts. Then one of the warriors, strode up, a machete in his right hand. He raised the weapon high, and bellowed, "UKAIYIII!!!"

"AAAIYIIII!!!" the others shouted in response.

The warrior brought the wicked-looking blade down and severed the prisoner's head with one blow, and the women of the tribe began ululating in applause.

The executioner reached down and picked up the head by the hair, holding it aloft for all to see.

Beej was impressed -- it took some skill to sever a head with a single blow, even with a machete. Clearly this wasn't the warrior's first time.

The warrior gently handed the head to another man -- this guy was older, with grey hair. They exchanged a few words -- Beej heard them say muisak several times, and tsantsa. Two words he'd heard before. They meant "soul" and "shrunken head" in the Shuar language.

He nodded to himself.

Beej had heard of the Shuar, or Jívaro. Fearsome headhunters, they were famous for shrinking the heads of their enemies -- he didn't know if there were any other tribes that did that, though. Always wondered how they shrink the heads -- looks like today's the day I get to find out!

He followed the shaman into one of the thatched huts -- a large pot of water simmered over a fire in the middle of the room. The shaman picked up a knife with a blade of chipped flint, sat cross-legged on the floor beside the fire, and set to work, chanting as he did.

Beej squatted down beside him, still invisible, as he sliced into the back of the head, cutting the flesh from neck to crown, and carefully removed the flesh from the skull in a single piece. When he was done, he sewed the eyelids shut and forced three sharpened pegs through both lips.

The old man then took a baseball-sized sphere carved from wood and placed it inside the skin, and dropped it into the boiling water. He continued chanting, shaking a rattle made of shiny black seeds, as the de-boned head cooked.

This was going to take a while, Beej knew, so he headed outside to see what the tribe was going to do with the body. He was disappointed to see that they were burying it, rather than cooking and eating it. What a waste, he sighed. Ah, well -- can't have everything.

*****

A few hours later the shaman removed the head from the pot -- Beej was surprised to see that it had shrunk to about a third of its original size, and the skin was dark and rubbery.

The old man carefully turned the head inside out and began scraping the flesh and fat from the skin. Once it was completely clean he turned it rightside out again and sewed up the slit in the rear.

"Okaaay," Beej muttered.

With wooden tongs, the old man took several small rocks out of the fire and dropped them into the neck opening, followed by a few ladles of hot sand from the smaller pot.

"Why are you doing that?" Beej asked, knowing that the shaman couldn't hear him.

He watched, amazed, as the head shrank further, the skin contracting from the heat.

The shaman emptied the head and refilled it with more sand and rocks, holding more hot rocks against the outside to shape the features. This process was repeated several times, until at last the head was the size of a fist.

"Wow!" Beej exclaimed. "That's so fuckin' cool! "

Now that the head was fully shrunk, the shaman rubbed the skin all over with charcoal ash, and then he hung it over the fire to dry.

Finally, the shaman removed the pegs from the lips and sewed them shut with cotton string, making long, decorative tassels, and presented it to the warrior who'd made the kill.

Beej, grinning, took that as his cue to head back to the Netherworld.

*****

"I gotta tell you," he said to the shrunken-head guy, "it was fuckin' amazing! You shoulda been there! Uh, well ... I guess you kinda were, weren't you? Anyway, I'll tell you all about it sometime -- maybe we can grab lunch. Oh -- uh, right. Never mind."

"Lawrence! " Juno bellowed from her office. "Get in here right NOW! "

"Be right there, Mom!" he called back. "Anyway, I gotta go. See you soon, buddy!"

[vital-information]

"And it’s no accident, I’d add, that the transsexual is the only thing that trans can describe that queer can’t. The transsexual is not queer; this is the best thing about her. Take Agnes, the pseudonymous transsexual woman who famously posed as intersex at UCLA’s Gender Identity Clinic in the late fifties in order to obtain access to vaginoplasty. Agnes’s case was chronicled by Harold Garfinkel ([1967] 2006) in an article that’s now taught in trans studies courses. (It’s the sixth entry in The Transgender Studies Reader.) Agnes is regularly celebrated as some kind of gender ninja: savvy, tactical, carefully conning the medical-industrial complex into giving her what she wants (see, e.g., Preciado [2008] 2013: 380–89). What no one wants to talk about is what she actually wanted: a cunt, a man, a house, and normal fucking life. Whatever intuition she may not have had about gender as a “managed achievement” was put toward a down payment on a new dishwasher (Garfinkel 1967). If there’s anything Agnes “reveals” about gender, it’s that actually existing normativity is, strictly speaking, impossible. Norms, as such, do not exist. (If Gender Trouble knew this, it did a poor job explaining it.4) That doesn’t mean that norms don’t structure people’s desires; what it means is that the desire for the norm consists, in terms of its lived content, in nonnormative attempts at normativity. Agnes was a nonnormative subject, but that wasn’t because she was “against” the norm; on the contrary, her nonnormativity was what wanting to be normal actually looked like. Like most of us, Agnes was making do in the gap between what she wanted and what wanting it got her.

We can argue, and people have, about whether queer theory is possible without antinormativity (Wiegman and Wilson 2015). But whatever comes after trans studies—can I suggest transsexual theory?—will be impossible with anti-normativity. The most powerful intervention scholars working in trans studies can make, at this juncture within the academy, is to defend the claim that transness requires that we understand, as we never have before, what it means to be attached to a norm—by desire, by habit, by survival."

Andrea Long Chu in conversation with Emmett Harsin, "After Trans Studies"

[useless-englandfacts]

there’s actually something quite comforting in thinking about how balls to the wall insane british politics was during the 1970s

[wordywarriorwrites]

Chapter 3: Defenses Shattered

Series Master List | A03 | Rating: M​ Summary: Bogged down by duty and somehow always in her younger sister’s shadow, Katherine D’Beaux has lived a luxurious, albeit utterly directionless life. Bucky Barnes is a no-frills, no-nonsense business owner who cannot afford any personal distractions. When an embarrassing and costly incident brings their two, completely different worlds together, they’ll soon discover there are still some things that money just can’t buy. Series Warnings: Language, violence, alcohol, smoking, explicit sexual content, illegal activities.

When their grandfather died, Katherine and Isobel’s father, Harold D’Beaux, inherited the family mantle. With the help of their mother, Charlotte, he guided everyone into the future with a combination of consideration, shrewdness, and high moral principles.

All had gone according to plan for nearly two decades, but then, a car accident upended their lives. Harold D’Beaux, beloved father and husband, had passed away at the age of 58. He’d been taken well before his time and the loss had affected everyone differently.

Charlotte developed a taciturn, exacting temperament. Isobel became wilder and more callous. As for Katherine? She’d been unmoored, and even though it had been five years since his passing, she was still so angry with him.

He’d left behind a legacy and duties that his wife hadn’t been prepared to take on by herself. His untimely death was the reason why Katherine had to carefully navigate her mother’s mood, protect her sister from herself, and be in control at all times. She knew it was irrational to blame her father for her loneliness and unhappiness, but she did, and she felt like a terrible daughter for doing so. 

It had been fanciful of her to presume that her life had ever been her own, and when Katherine stepped into the foyer of her childhood home, she saw the family portrait on the wall, and was reminded of her lack of free will all over again. The harsh reality of her situation, in conjunction with everything else she had to deal with, made her even more anxious and upset.

The housekeeper received her, took her coat, and informed her the lady of the house and her sister were waiting in the library. Katherine’s mouth was bone-dry, and when she arrived at the door, she stopped, let out a shaky breath, and took a moment to compose herself. When she finally did go in, her mother greeted her curtly, and said she’d arrived almost too late for tea. Then, after the maid who had served her was dismissed, Isobel called her a “fucking tattletale.”  

“I will thank you not to use that kind of language,” Charlotte snapped. “And as I’m the one who will be paying for your mistakes, I have the right to be kept informed.”  

Isobel crossed her arms over her chest and huffed, “Whatever.”

Charlotte narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, “Isobel Grace D’Beaux, you should be ashamed of yourself. You did something outrageous and I’m very disappointed in you.”  

As her mother prolonged the lecture, and her sister continued to protest against it, Katherine remained silent, and kept her eyes focused on her cup. Dragonwell Pre-Qing Ming with a slice of lemon – that’s what mother favored. It went without saying that she was expected to prefer it, too, but she didn’t.

In fact, she’d never liked tea, and while Katherine had gotten used to things that she didn’t like a long time ago, she knew she wouldn’t be able to force the green leaf down this time. Her stomach was roiling, and when she heard her mother say, “You’re fortunate Mr. Barnes chose not to press charges,” the churning worsened.

She silently concurred with her mother – Isobel was lucky, but it wasn’t because Mr. Barnes had chosen to back down. Instead of giving in, both he and his attorney, Steve Rogers, had put up one hell of a fight.    

The meeting had taken place at the law offices of Stark, Rogers, and Wilson, and had started promptly at nine o’clock. The D’Beaux family lawyers had become accustomed to getting their way and had anticipated it to be over before noon. However, Mr. Rogers had been a formidable and rather intimidating opponent, and had made his position very clear from the moment they’d gathered on opposite sides of the conference room table.

In his opinion, Isobel was nothing more than an unrepentant delinquent, and if it had been up to him, he’d have preferred to see her prosecuted. Mr. Barnes had suffered substantial losses professionally and had been wounded personally. They fully expected and would accept restitution, but no amount of money could ever repair the damage caused by what Mr. Rogers had called, “a traumatic and hellish experience for Mr. Barnes and his employees.”

Mr. Rogers knew they didn’t have a leg to stand on, so, he did what any attorney worth his salt would do -- he took advantage of their indefensible position, and put the screws to them until he got Mr. Barnes what he believed he was entitled to. By the time the meeting had ended, it had been past six o’clock, Isobel had been reduced to tears, and their attorney looked as if he’d gotten the stuffing knocked out of him.

“Katherine has graciously and generously agreed to escort you every day until this over. In the meantime, you will not socialize in public,” Charlotte commanded. “And you will do whatever Mr. Barnes instructs you to do. Is that quite understood?”  

“He told Little Miss Perfect over here to call him James,” Isobel taunted snootily. “It seems to me like they’ve become quite familiar with each other.”

Charlotte’s cup clattered against the saucer, “Katherine, is that true?”

With the attention now focused on her, she was obligated to participate in the conversation, and was required to provide an appropriate explanation. Katherine forced the lemon beneath the tea with her spoon, passively commented that he had indeed requested to be called James, and stated the only reason he’d done so was because formalities made him uncomfortable.

But what she left out – what she didn’t dare mention – was that he actually preferred to be called by his nickname, Bucky. She also didn’t divulge that he’d asked her to join him for lunch on the day of the meeting and that she’d accepted the invitation.  

Over a surprisingly decent meal at the law firm’s on-site café, Katherine learned his full name was James Buchanan Barnes, and that he’d been called Bucky since he was a boy. She also found out the only people who had ever addressed him as James were his dearly departed parents, Winnifred and George. Much like she’d confessed something private to him, he’d also disclosed something personal to her, and Katherine felt she needed to safeguard it.  

“This has been a very awkward and uncomfortable situation,” she murmured. “And I suspect it was his way of trying to be polite and diffuse the tension.”

“Yes, I suppose that is true,” Charlotte acknowledged. “But I hope you are not taking such liberties with Mr. Barnes, even if it is at his request.”

“No, of course not, mother.”

She nodded arose from her seat, “Now, girls, I must fly. I have to chair a committee meeting for the Fire and Ice Ball.”

Katherine got to her feet as well and shouldered her purse, “We need to get going, too, or else Isobel will be late for her first day of work.”

Quick goodbyes were exchanged all around, and while their mother headed uptown, Katherine and Isobel headed downtown. The early morning traffic was a nightmare, but they had managed to arrive at The Sidecar before the appointed time. Katherine pulled up to the curb and told Isobel to text her when she was ready to be picked up.

“But aren’t you coming in with me?” she spluttered.

Katherine had believed her sister’s churlishness was directly related to her being forced to put her party lifestyle on hold. Isobel liked an audience, and never did anything or went anywhere by herself, but this was the first time she was being tasked to do something on her own. She’d also returned to a place where she was reviled, and her uncharacteristically timid tone suggested she was scared to enter the lion’s den alone.

Katherine took pity on her, parked, and turned off the car, “Come on, I’ll walk you in.”

The first thing they heard when they got inside was a series of curse words colorful enough to make any sailor proud. A few seconds later, the door to the kitchen was flung open, and a woman with dark red tresses and icy blue eyes stomped out. She was quickly followed by two men – one sported a faux hawk and had a series of tattoos up and down his arms, and the other had salt-and-pepper hair and wore thick, black-rimmed glasses.

Apparently, someone had accepted a delivery of supplies and hadn’t sorted or stored them properly. Someone else had ripped out the old fryer and installed the new one, but hadn’t cleaned up after themselves, and now, the floor was caked with grease. The toilet in the women’s bathroom still wouldn’t flush, the ice machine smelled like something had died inside of it, and worst of all, the sound system had stopped working.

The quarrel had started to get really heated, but the sound of shrill whistle brought it to a resounding halt. Katherine nearly jumped out of her skin, and when she turned to see who had startled her, she found Mr. Rogers standing by the bar. Instead of a suit and tie, he was dressed casually, and appeared to be amused by the shouting match he’d silenced.  

“Natasha, Bruce, Clint – do I need to separate the three of you?” he chastised jokingly. “Or can you behave long enough to welcome your temporary new co-worker?”

The way the three of them glared scornfully at Isobel suggested they’d met her and didn’t care to repeat the experience. Still, Steve introduced them to each other, and when Katherine’s name was called, they openly stared at her.

Natasha, Bruce, and Clint exchanged furtive glances, then, looked to Steve, who nodded slightly. The gesture seemed to have confirmed her identity and indicated the approval of her presence, because they all stepped forward, took turns shaking her hand, and also invited her to stay.  

“Oh, no,” Katherine insisted. “You’re all busy, and I’d just get in the way.”

Natasha put her hands on her hips and smirked, “Yeah, I somehow doubt that.”

It wasn’t so much what she said, but how she said it, and Natasha’s tone inferred something Katherine didn’t want to acknowledge or examine too closely. She knew it was time to make a hasty retreat, but before she could, the kitchen door swung open again, and Bucky walked in.

Scuffed work boots. Frayed jeans. Well-worn t-shirt. Backward baseball cap. He had a towel draped over one shoulder and a box of what appeared to be disinfectant balanced on the other. His brow was furrowed, his eyes were fixated on his phone, he clearly hadn’t bothered to shave, and when he absentmindedly drew his tongue across his lower lip, Katherine was pretty sure every, single nerve in her body came alive all at once.

Katherine’s mind screamed, “warning, warning, warning,” but when he looked up and grinned at her, she forgot herself entirely, blushed profusely, and smiled back.

Chapter 4: Fever​

[babybottlepop96]

Manananggal (Chapter One)

Summary: Captain Levi Ackerman of the Trost Town Police Department, TTPD, find himself stuck in a peculiar case Now he has to catch a potential serial killer while trying keep the ones he loves and cares about safe.

 The breeze wafted through the open apartment window, the curtains blowing softly in the wind that entered the pale green room. The lights have been off for a few hours, the early morning barely letting anyone stay awake. Everyone was too tired, with the weekend finally coming to a close and the parties and bars having closed for the night, everyone was tucked safely under the warmth of their blankets, snoozing softly against their plush pillows. The man lying in the green room felt like the rest of the town, tired beyond exhaustion and his head had the pillow, falling asleep instantly, still in his party clothes. He was usually very cautious, making sure doors were locked and windows were sealed, but tonight? He couldn’t be bothered, besides, nothing bad has happened in his hometown in the last decade, he felt safe inside the comfort of his apartment. 

When morning came and the time for work came, the man never woke up. Not for his alarm, not for the missed calls from his coworkers for the next three days. Not even for the sound of a fist pounding against the wooden door. “Mr. Wilson! It’s Annie! Open up! I found your cat! Little bastard tried sneaking into my home this morning. Poor thing looks like he hasn’t eaten in days!” Annie paused as she scratched the cat’s ears, causing the small animal to purr in delight at the welcomed affection. “Mr. Wilson?” Annie opened the door to room thirty-seven. She wandered into the apartment, curiosity getting the better of her. “He probably left for work early today.” She entered the bedroom, a blood curdling scream escaped her lips as she spotted a very deceased Mr. Wilson, his body looked pale and sickly.

“So, Levi,” The short ravenette looked towards his superior with a questioning gaze. “What do you think happened?” The blonde haired, blue eye male asked his captain.

“Well, Mr. Smith, I’m not entirely sure. There seems to be no visible signs of foul play, and he was in relatively healthy condition, but we will know more once the coroner takes a look.” Levi spoke as he wrote down a few details about the scene in front of him. 

“Very good, Captain. Let me know what the coroner says as soon as you find out, understood?” 

“Roger. Oh, Petra is having a housewarming party this Saturday. She asked me to invite you.” Levi spoke, his monotone voice always a delight to Erwin Smith’s ears.

“Sounds fun, tell her I’ll be there.” He smiled as he walked out, heading back to the office to await the coroner's report.

“Levi~!” A voice rang out amongst the police crowded room causing Levi to flinch and internally groan.

“Hange, about time you got here, get Mr. Wilson out of here, I need his report ASAP.” Levi spoke, turning to leave before he caught up in another two hour long story about how they dissected a guy to find out he died from some strange disease that hadn’t been discovered, or about what she did for a date night last night.

“Roger, Captain!” Hange spoke happily, making Levi wonder how in the world someone could be so cheery all the damn time. Levi exited the apartment and briskly walked towards his favorite little cafe to grab a hot cup of tea and a biscuit before he made his way to the police station.

“Hey, Captain~!” The voice of his favorite employee rang out the almost empty room. Only a few patrons occupied a few booths along the far wall, all idly chatting away about their day.

“Hello, Eren. The usual, please.” Levi spoke, a small smirk forming on his otherwise neutral face.

“Right away, sir.” Eren smiled, his emerald eyes sparkling as he made the man his black tea. Levi placed the amount owed on the counter and the brunette poured the tea into a freshly cleaned cup. “Another case?” He asked, placing the cup in front of the shorter male.

“Unfortunately.” Was the only word he spoke before taking a sip, eyes closing at the delectable taste dancing around his taste buds. “Well, better be off to the office.” Levi downed the rest of the remaining burning liquid and made his way to the door.

“Will I see you for lunch?” Eren called and Levi turned to see a hopeful glimmer in the young man’s eyes.

“Of course, I can't say no to those eyes.” Levi smiled faintly as the green orbs shone as brightly as Eren’s smile. Levi exited the establishment, smiling to himself. ‘Eren really is something else.’ He thought to himself, accidentally bumping into someone as he strolled down the town streets.

“Oh! Captain! I’m so sorry!” The young, sandy blonde, hazel eyed male apologized. 

“It’s fine, Kirstein.” His voice back to the monotone, face stoic as ever. “There should be a phone and computer heading your way back at the station. Get whatever you can from those and I’ll be by in about three hours for a report.”

“Understood, Sir.” Jean spoke, pushing his thin framed glasses up his nose. “See you later, Sir.” Jean hurried along his way, weaving his way through the crowd that was quickly forming. Levi sat down in his office, folders opened as he looked through Mr. Wilson’s history. 

“Mr. Harold Wilson, age thirty-one, no living relatives, works a mediocre job at a telemarketing company, no spouse or any romantic relationship.” Levi spoke as he read the file aloud, thought quietly, to himself. “Used to play baseball in highschool, fairly good at it until he got a concussion from a ball hitting him in the head, suffered minimal brain damage but ultimately ended his baseball ‘career’. Fairly good grades, not many friends though.” Levi continued to scan the history file when a knock came to his door. “Enter!” He called, not bothering to take his steel grey eyes off the papers in front of him.

“Levi~!” Hange called through the open door, their glasses making the bright eyes all the more bigger through the thick lenses. 

“What, four-eyes?”Levi looked irritatedly at his best friend and coroner. “If it isn’t about the case, I don’t want to hear it.” He said as he looked back at the file.

“Oh, don’t worry! It is about the case.” Hange smiled as they walked closer to the oak desk and stood in front of the captain.

“Well, spit it out! What did you find?”

“That’s the thing, I didn’t find anything.” Hange’s smile turned from happy and bright to confused and slightly wicked. 

“What do you mean you didn’t find anything?” Levi raised an eyebrow while waiting for further explanation.

“There was nothing to examine. All the victims' organs were missing! Every last one of them! There were no incision marks either to indicate that he was cut open, nor were there any puncture wounds to suggest he was drugged. Blood reports came back negative for everything we have in the database.” Hange explained, eyes held a certain curiosity for how this could have happened. “I even looked back at files, ones in the computer and hard copies, there was only one other case of a dead body missing there organs that dated back to the early 1920’s. Even then the case went cold.”

Levi was awestruck, there was no indication of foul play but yet, every last organ inside the deceased male was missing. 

Eren continued his work, making tea and fancy coffees for his less than interesting customers. “Eren! It smells like the coffee is burning!” The owner, Miche, Yelled from his office. 

“How the hell can he smell burning coffee from all the way back there? I’m standing right here and I don’t sme- Shit!” Eren ran over to the coffee overflowing and burning away on the burners. “Connie! You were supposed to be watching the fucking coffee!”

“Dude, I said I was going on my smoke break!” Connie grumbled as he made way back into the shop. He helped Eren clean up the coffee and spray some lavender scented febreeze into the air. 

“Eren!” Eren turned his head towards the front of the mostly empty cafe to spot a familiar blonde haired, blue eyed male smiling excitedly from the front counter.

“Armin!” Eren smiled right back and left Connie to finish up the rest of the pastry decorating. The two chatted for a moment before Jean walked up to the counter. “Aug, what are you doing here, Horseface?” Eren sneered at the tall male who wrapped his arm around the blonde.

“Saying hello to my boyfriend and to tell him that I may be a bit late to dinner tonight.” Jean spat back.

“Late to dinner?” Armin asked, looking up at his lover.

“Yeah,” Jean said as he scratched the back of his neck. “There is a new case and I have to go through the computers and phones of the victim. When the captain came by for the reports, I had nothing to give him. There was nothing on the mans shit, nit even fucking porn. So he wants me to do a deep sweep of everything.” He groaned as Armin rubbed his back soothingly.

“It’s okay, Jean. We can reschedule or-” But the blonde was cut off.

“No! I’ll make it! I’ll just be a little late, that’s all. Commander Erwin won’t  make me stay too late.” He smiled reassuringly at the shorter male. Eren gagged at the public display of affection.

“Get a fucking room you two, don’t do that shit in front of me!”

“Jealous, Eren?” Jean smirked at the brunette’s attempt of hiding the jealousy everyone knew he had.

“In your dreams horsefa- Levi!” Eren smiled brightly as the raven hair captain of Trost Town Police Department entered the cozy cafe. Levi smiled tiredly at the green eyes male as he sat down at a booth to the far corner. “Connie! I’m going on my lunch break!” Eren grabbed a fresh pot and recently cleaned tea cup and made his way to the grey eyes man he had his eyes on.

“Aw, Eren’s in love.” Jean cooed at Eren, who in return, turned, glared and flipped the bird to his best friend’s boyfriend. 

“Stop teasing him, Jean! You can be so mean sometimes! You know that since Mikasa turned him down he has had trouble finding someone he liked.” Armin scolded the taller of the two.

“Sorry baby, I’ll try to be nicer from now on.” 

“Thank you.”

“So, Levi, how is work going?” Eren asked as he poured a cup for the stoic man. Levi looked up at him and smiled.

“Eren, I need your help.”

[flauntpage]

Losing in Style – Ten Takeaways from Titans 26, Eagles 23 (OT)

Dilly Dilly!

The Eagles choked on the road and looked bad doing it, blowing fourth quarter and overtime leads en route to a walk-off touchdown loss.

That has to be the worst defeat of the Doug Pederson era, yeah? I can’t think of anything else that matches Sunday in terms of overall disappointment and distaste. Maybe you can look at the Detroit game back in 2016, when the Birds were 3-0 and coming off a bye week. That was a deflating loss that started the eventual tailspin, though expectations then weren’t even close to being what they are now.

Last year featured only one real clunker, the road loss in Seattle, but that was wiped out by a bounce-back win against the Rams just one week later. The season finale didn’t count for diddly poo and the Kansas City loss took place in week two, so whatever with those games.

Therefore, I think we’ve reached the following conclusion –

Yes, this was the worst defeat of the Doug Pederson era.

1) The secondary

Easy to point fingers at these guys, so we’ll start there.

First, the personnel was different with Rodney McLeod on the shelf. Jim Schwartz brought in Corey Graham as expected but decided to use Avonte Maddox at safety in dime looks while leaving Rasul Douglas on the bench. That amounted to 20 snaps (28% of the game) for Maddox, who had the big interception early but slipped on the Corey Davis touchdown. You saw several instances of confusion in the secondary with Maddox covering the deep middle third of the field and playing a position he says he never played before. 

The tackling was poor, the Titans found some holes in the zone coverage, and you were just waiting for someone to step up and make a play, which didn’t happen, not in the fourth quarter or overtime at least. Ronald Darby missed tackles. Jalen Mills got beat deep a few times. Graham was culpable on the horrible 4th and 15 conversion. Sidney Jones and Malcolm Jenkins committed overtime penalties.

Individually it was poor, but I also don’t think they were set up the correct way, and that’s on Schwartz.

I honestly do think Douglas would make more sense as a 6th defensive back out there or converted safety, and I know what you’re thinking, ‘here goes Kinkead with his West Virginia shit again,’ but just hear me out:

Avonte Maddox has the body type and skill set to be a slot corner. 6’2″ Douglas played in an unorthodox 3-3-5 defense in college where he moved around in a nickel base. He’s taller, more rangy, a ball hawk who doesn’t have great speed but has soft hands and goes up and attacks passes. 5’9″ Maddox played hard-nosed stuff on the inside at Pittsburgh. I personally believe, as Miss Teen South Carolina once said, that you could use Douglas to cover for McLeod, move Sidney Jones to the outside, and play Maddox on the inside, where he competed during training camp and preseason. I really don’t understand using him as a dime safety.

It’s important to point out that Tennessee came into this game throwing the 2nd fewest passes in the NFL. Last week they ran it 35 times and only threw it 21 times in the win against Jacksonville. This time around they threw it 43 times and ran it 22 times, numbers that do skew a bit due to the extra minutes provided by the overtime period, but that’s pretty close to a 66% pass to run ratio, which is not their game at all.

In more simple terms, the Eagles got torched through the air by a running team.

2) Jalen Mills

Not a great game. I especially enjoyed the finger wagging after the dropped pass that literally had nothing to do with his play at all.

On the afternoon, he gave up 99 yards on three targets, including a 20 yard pass interference play where I thought he did a good job to recover from a stumble before wrapping the receiver prior to the ball arriving:

It’s really not bad coverage. He stays with Davis there, he just has to drop the hands, specifically the off-hand in front of the ref, which killed him last week.

I do wonder where the safety help was on the pair of plays where he got beat deep. That’s hard to identify without the all-22 film, which is released by the league on Wednesday, but here’s what I found going through the regular video:

That was the 51 yarder to Davis. The Eagles were in cover 3 and Graham bit on a shallow route, leaving Mills with no cover over the top.

Also this:

The Titans run a couple of receivers on the strong side and Davis hits Mills with a double move on the outside. Graham can’t help because he’s trending to the side with multiple route runners.

Otherwise that’s it, Mills wasn’t targeted beyond those three times, not that I see when I go over the game film.

I wrote a column last week that basically amounted to  “Jalen Mills is what he is,” which is a 7th round draft pick, a solid tackler, a physical overachiever who really does not have elite speed or elite athleticism. I think people have to remember that he beat out guys like Leodis McKelvin and Ron Brooks and Aarony Grymes for a spot, which brings us to where we are now.

The thing with Mills, is that when he gets beat, it looks bad. Ronald Darby got beat yesterday and Sidney Jones committed a horrendous penalty in overtime. Those plays are killers, but they don’t happen 35 yards down the field. When Mills bites on a double move in space with no safety help over the top, the optics of his fuck ups just look worse than the optics of other people’s fuck ups, even though everyone is fucking up.

Is that a fair point?

I’m not saying he’s an amazing player, I’m just trying to come at it from an angle other than “omg Jalen Mills sucks cut his ass right now.”

3) Personnel and play calling

I thought Carson Wentz looked pretty good on the day. I wouldn’t put too much of the fumble on him since Lane Johnson did his best turnstile impersonation on that play.

Defensively, I mentioned the Maddox deployment earlier. Fletcher Cox played 60 snaps for an 85% mark and Haloti Ngata was up to 52%. He and Michael Bennett (51%) have been preferred to Destiny Vaeao on the inside and Bennett has been playing a lot of time there also because the depth at DT is not what it is at DE.

Offensively, they gave Jay Ajayi 15 carries, nine of which took place later in the game. Wendell Smallwood carried the ball five times and Josh Adams was given zero carries while Corey Clement missed the game through injury. The Eagles really did not run the ball much through the early part of the game, just six times out of 25 play calls through the Birds’ first four series. Doug didn’t commit to the ground game until later on.

Pederson also only showed eight under center sets on the entire day. Most of the running came out of the shotgun, and a lot of the under center play-action passes were disastrous, with the offensive line struggling to allow those slow-developing sequences to flourish against a strong Tennessee pass rush.

As for special teams, DeAndre Carter had a really nice punt return doing spot duty back there. The Eagles had zero kick returns, which would have gone to Smallwood if Ryan Succop hadn’t booted every single thing into the end zone.

4) Offensive line

Poor game from the Eagles’ best unit.

I don’t feel like this was talked about much during the week, but Tennessee was the first 3-4 base defense the Birds played against this year. I don’t know how much that played a role in the O-line struggles, but I want to think it did. Harold Landry and Jayon Brown had good games on the left side of that D, and they really do show you a lot of looks that fluctuate from a front three to a front four or five, with guys coming at you from different angles than what you’d get in a typical 4-3.

Here’s an example of one of those slow under center play-action passes that just took too long to develop:

I have no idea what Lane Johnson is doing there. He sticks a hand out and holds position while Brown runs right by him, so it makes me think they were trying to set up some sort of screen.

But look at this Titans’ front –

They’re only running two defensive linemen here, a pair of tackles in DaQuan Jones and Bennie Logan. They put three linebackers on the line of scrimmage and rush five while using Rashaan Evans and safety Kendrick Lewis in shallow coverage:

Looks like some 2012 Eagles wide-9 shit there. I like the 3-4 base because you can do a lot of different things with hybrid defensive end/linebacker tweeners, which Tennessee has plenty of, studs like Landry, Brian Orakpo, and Sharif Finch.

Carson Wentz was sacked four times Sunday, which follows five sacks allowed last week and three the week before. Wentz was hit 11 times total on 52 drop backs and the line conceded six tackles for loss.

5) One-dimensional?

The Eagles defense held Dion Lewis and Derrick Henry to 24 rushing yards.

Seriously.

Marcus Mariota accounted for 46 of the Titans’ 70 rushing yards, which was their lowest total of the year, even with an extra overtime period to pad their numbers.

Again, it’s not really a defensive line thing. They make teams one-dimensional, and when they do, the secondary should be able to clamp down in nickel assuming you can get a decent pass rush going or throw some different blitz looks at the opponent. They sacked Marcus Mariota three times, flushed him from the pocket other times, hit him on six occasions, and did do a decent job overall, decent enough to the point where that game should have been won in regulation.

The Eagles generally have trouble with Russell Wilson type quarterbacks who can run around like a chicken with their head cut off then heave a 50 yard ball to one of five receivers running a route. That wasn’t Tennessee yesterday, but there were a few occasions where Mariota was able to extend plays with his feet and they rolled him and bootlegged him about 6-7 times during this game.

I think the line was pretty gassed by the time the Titans were on their 34th and 35th minute of possession in overtime. You can’t sustain a pass rush against a team going 66% to 33% in a pass/run ratio for five periods of play. It just doesn’t happen. At some point, the secondary needs to make a play, and they didn’t.

Also, can people stop saying the Titans suck? They don’t suck. They were 9-7 last season and won a road playoff game. They are 3-1 this year. They are a decent team.

6) Zach Ertz

He’s on pace to have a million targets this season, or at least it seems that way.

Seriously though, he’s been targeted 33 times through four games, so he’s projected to receive 132 targets over the course of 16 games.

For context, DeAndre Hopkins led the NFL with 176 targets last season. Travis Kelce was the top tight end with 123 looks. Ertz hit 110 on the season, so he’s well on pace to shatter that mark.

I drew a diagram of what I believe was his route chart and heatmap:

Ertz just kept finding that soft spot in the middle of the zone, and Wentz hit him there over and over and over again.

Ok, here’s the real thing.

White lines are completed passes and green is yards after the catch:

Close enough.

Ertz caught 10 of 14 targets for 110 yards Sunday, though Wentz didn’t find him in the end zone.

That honor went to:

7) Alshon Jeffery

Gotta be the biggest positive from otherwise shitty afternoon.

He just makes plays that other receivers can’t make. I’m talking about tough sideline grabs, contested back shoulder throws, jump balls in the corner, and key red zone receptions.

Alshon caught eight balls for 105 yards and a score, and while the touchdown might have been his best grab, he really had a couple of early snags to get himself and the Eagles going. Particularly, there was a great 34 yard reception he made on a 3rd and 4 to keep the chains moving. He caught another one later going up against Malcolm Butler and the only blemish on the day was the catch and fumble that disallowed a first down in Tennessee’s half of the field.

Welcome back Alshon Jeffery, or “Jefferies” if you’re a moron and still can’t get his name right.

8) Doug’s best call?

Probably the decision to pound the ball with the running game to begin overtime.

That’s about it.

9) Doug’s worst call?

Obviously I hated the choice to punt with three minutes left in the fourth quarter on that fourth down and four. The Eagles got the stop and got the ball back to force overtime, but that punt felt antithetical to everything we’ve seen from Doug over the last year or so.

I also did not like the third down draw play right before halftime, the run on 3rd and 3 at Tennessee’s ten yard line. You’ve got Alshon matched up 1v1 in the red zone. Throw him the damn ball.

That felt like the same shit Penn State did on Saturday night in their Ohio State choke job, running the ball when everyone knows you should have thrown it instead.

This just didn’t feel like a Doug Pederson type of game. Mike Vrabel was the coach making gutsy fourth down decisions on the other sideline.

10) Like deja vu all over again

We got Chris Myers and Daryl Johnston and Laura Okmin for the second straight week. Shouldn’t that be a violation in and of itself? Why not just rotate the crews so they aren’t calling the same team two weeks in a row?

The good thing was that Myers was unable to mispronounce “Clement” this time, since Corey Clement didn’t play. It did sound like one of the pair kept saying “Ajayi” wrong, but I honestly did not pay much attention to the broadcast. This group is fine, but they just don’t do anything to get me super excited OR super annoyed. They just sort of exist, which isn’t the worst thing in the world.

My only real complaint with the broadcast is that we got that commercial with the hypnotist sitting in his front yard. He snaps his fingers and asks some guy to clean his gutters, then says this:

“Todd, you go make me a “fertata”

I don’t know why he pronounces it that way because the dish is a “frittata.” It’s an Italian egg-based casserole type of thing, and it’s spelled with the F-R-I, not F-E-R. There’s no such thing as a “fertata.”

Anyway, that annoys me, but not as much as the Eagles losing on a 16 play, 75 yard drive in overtime.

The post Losing in Style – Ten Takeaways from Titans 26, Eagles 23 (OT) appeared first on Crossing Broad.

Losing in Style – Ten Takeaways from Titans 26, Eagles 23 (OT) published first on https://footballhighlightseurope.tumblr.com/

[flauntpage]

Losing in Style – Ten Takeaways from Titans 26, Eagles 23 (OT)

Dilly Dilly!

The Eagles choked on the road and looked bad doing it, blowing fourth quarter and overtime leads en route to a walk-off touchdown loss.

That has to be the worst defeat of the Doug Pederson era, yeah? I can’t think of anything else that matches Sunday in terms of overall disappointment and distaste. Maybe you can look at the Detroit game back in 2016, when the Birds were 3-0 and coming off a bye week. That was a deflating loss that started the eventual tailspin, though expectations then weren’t even close to being what they are now.

Last year featured only one real clunker, the road loss in Seattle, but that was wiped out by a bounce-back win against the Rams just one week later. The season finale didn’t count for diddly poo and the Kansas City loss took place in week two, so whatever with those games.

Therefore, I think we’ve reached the following conclusion –

Yes, this was the worst defeat of the Doug Pederson era.

1) The secondary

Easy to point fingers at these guys, so we’ll start there.

First, the personnel was different with Rodney McLeod on the shelf. Jim Schwartz brought in Corey Graham as expected but decided to use Avonte Maddox at safety in dime looks while leaving Rasul Douglas on the bench. That amounted to 20 snaps (28% of the game) for Maddox, who had the big interception early but slipped on the Corey Davis touchdown. You saw several instances of confusion in the secondary with Maddox covering the deep middle third of the field and playing a position he says he never played before. 

The tackling was poor, the Titans found some holes in the zone coverage, and you were just waiting for someone to step up and make a play, which didn’t happen, not in the fourth quarter or overtime at least. Ronald Darby missed tackles. Jalen Mills got beat deep a few times. Graham was culpable on the horrible 4th and 15 conversion. Sidney Jones and Malcolm Jenkins committed overtime penalties.

Individually it was poor, but I also don’t think they were set up the correct way, and that’s on Schwartz.

I honestly do think Douglas would make more sense as a 6th defensive back out there or converted safety, and I know what you’re thinking, ‘here goes Kinkead with his West Virginia shit again,’ but just hear me out:

Avonte Maddox has the body type and skill set to be a slot corner. 6’2″ Douglas played in an unorthodox 3-3-5 defense in college where he moved around in a nickel base. He’s taller, more rangy, a ball hawk who doesn’t have great speed but has soft hands and goes up and attacks passes. 5’9″ Maddox played hard-nosed stuff on the inside at Pittsburgh. I personally believe, as Miss Teen South Carolina once said, that you could use Douglas to cover for McLeod, move Sidney Jones to the outside, and play Maddox on the inside, where he competed during training camp and preseason. I really don’t understand using him as a dime safety.

It’s important to point out that Tennessee came into this game throwing the 2nd fewest passes in the NFL. Last week they ran it 35 times and only threw it 21 times in the win against Jacksonville. This time around they threw it 43 times and ran it 22 times, numbers that do skew a bit due to the extra minutes provided by the overtime period, but that’s pretty close to a 66% pass to run ratio, which is not their game at all.

In more simple terms, the Eagles got torched through the air by a running team.

2) Jalen Mills

Not a great game. I especially enjoyed the finger wagging after the dropped pass that literally had nothing to do with his play at all.

On the afternoon, he gave up 99 yards on three targets, including a 20 yard pass interference play where I thought he did a good job to recover from a stumble before wrapping the receiver prior to the ball arriving:

It’s really not bad coverage. He stays with Davis there, he just has to drop the hands, specifically the off-hand in front of the ref, which killed him last week.

I do wonder where the safety help was on the pair of plays where he got beat deep. That’s hard to identify without the all-22 film, which is released by the league on Wednesday, but here’s what I found going through the regular video:

That was the 51 yarder to Davis. The Eagles were in cover 3 and Graham bit on a shallow route, leaving Mills with no cover over the top.

Also this:

The Titans run a couple of receivers on the strong side and Davis hits Mills with a double move on the outside. Graham can’t help because he’s trending to the side with multiple route runners.

Otherwise that’s it, Mills wasn’t targeted beyond those three times, not that I see when I go over the game film.

I wrote a column last week that basically amounted to  “Jalen Mills is what he is,” which is a 7th round draft pick, a solid tackler, a physical overachiever who really does not have elite speed or elite athleticism. I think people have to remember that he beat out guys like Leodis McKelvin and Ron Brooks and Aarony Grymes for a spot, which brings us to where we are now.

The thing with Mills, is that when he gets beat, it looks bad. Ronald Darby got beat yesterday and Sidney Jones committed a horrendous penalty in overtime. Those plays are killers, but they don’t happen 35 yards down the field. When Mills bites on a double move in space with no safety help over the top, the optics of his fuck ups just look worse than the optics of other people’s fuck ups, even though everyone is fucking up.

Is that a fair point?

I’m not saying he’s an amazing player, I’m just trying to come at it from an angle other than “omg Jalen Mills sucks cut his ass right now.”

3) Personnel and play calling

I thought Carson Wentz looked pretty good on the day. I wouldn’t put too much of the fumble on him since Lane Johnson did his best turnstile impersonation on that play.

Defensively, I mentioned the Maddox deployment earlier. Fletcher Cox played 60 snaps for an 85% mark and Haloti Ngata was up to 52%. He and Michael Bennett (51%) have been preferred to Destiny Vaeao on the inside and Bennett has been playing a lot of time there also because the depth at DT is not what it is at DE.

Offensively, they gave Jay Ajayi 15 carries, nine of which took place later in the game. Wendell Smallwood carried the ball five times and Josh Adams was given zero carries while Corey Clement missed the game through injury. The Eagles really did not run the ball much through the early part of the game, just six times out of 25 play calls through the Birds’ first four series. Doug didn’t commit to the ground game until later on.

Pederson also only showed eight under center sets on the entire day. Most of the running came out of the shotgun, and a lot of the under center play-action passes were disastrous, with the offensive line struggling to allow those slow-developing sequences to flourish against a strong Tennessee pass rush.

As for special teams, DeAndre Carter had a really nice punt return doing spot duty back there. The Eagles had zero kick returns, which would have gone to Smallwood if Ryan Succop hadn’t booted every single thing into the end zone.

4) Offensive line

Poor game from the Eagles’ best unit.

I don’t feel like this was talked about much during the week, but Tennessee was the first 3-4 base defense the Birds played against this year. I don’t know how much that played a role in the O-line struggles, but I want to think it did. Harold Landry and Jayon Brown had good games on the left side of that D, and they really do show you a lot of looks that fluctuate from a front three to a front four or five, with guys coming at you from different angles than what you’d get in a typical 4-3.

Here’s an example of one of those slow under center play-action passes that just took too long to develop:

I have no idea what Lane Johnson is doing there. He sticks a hand out and holds position while Brown runs right by him, so it makes me think they were trying to set up some sort of screen.

But look at this Titans’ front –

They’re only running two defensive linemen here, a pair of tackles in DaQuan Jones and Bennie Logan. They put three linebackers on the line of scrimmage and rush five while using Rashaan Evans and safety Kendrick Lewis in shallow coverage:

Looks like some 2012 Eagles wide-9 shit there. I like the 3-4 base because you can do a lot of different things with hybrid defensive end/linebacker tweeners, which Tennessee has plenty of, studs like Landry, Brian Orakpo, and Sharif Finch.

Carson Wentz was sacked four times Sunday, which follows five sacks allowed last week and three the week before. Wentz was hit 11 times total on 52 drop backs and the line conceded six tackles for loss.

5) One-dimensional?

The Eagles defense held Dion Lewis and Derrick Henry to 24 rushing yards.

Seriously.

Marcus Mariota accounted for 46 of the Titans’ 70 rushing yards, which was their lowest total of the year, even with an extra overtime period to pad their numbers.

Again, it’s not really a defensive line thing. They make teams one-dimensional, and when they do, the secondary should be able to clamp down in nickel assuming you can get a decent pass rush going or throw some different blitz looks at the opponent. They sacked Marcus Mariota three times, flushed him from the pocket other times, hit him on six occasions, and did do a decent job overall, decent enough to the point where that game should have been won in regulation.

The Eagles generally have trouble with Russell Wilson type quarterbacks who can run around like a chicken with their head cut off then heave a 50 yard ball to one of five receivers running a route. That wasn’t Tennessee yesterday, but there were a few occasions where Mariota was able to extend plays with his feet and they rolled him and bootlegged him about 6-7 times during this game.

I think the line was pretty gassed by the time the Titans were on their 34th and 35th minute of possession in overtime. You can’t sustain a pass rush against a team going 66% to 33% in a pass/run ratio for five periods of play. It just doesn’t happen. At some point, the secondary needs to make a play, and they didn’t.

Also, can people stop saying the Titans suck? They don’t suck. They were 9-7 last season and won a road playoff game. They are 3-1 this year. They are a decent team.

6) Zach Ertz

He’s on pace to have a million targets this season, or at least it seems that way.

Seriously though, he’s been targeted 33 times through four games, so he’s projected to receive 132 targets over the course of 16 games.

For context, DeAndre Hopkins led the NFL with 176 targets last season. Travis Kelce was the top tight end with 123 looks. Ertz hit 110 on the season, so he’s well on pace to shatter that mark.

I drew a diagram of what I believe was his route chart and heatmap:

Ertz just kept finding that soft spot in the middle of the zone, and Wentz hit him there over and over and over again.

Ok, here’s the real thing.

White lines are completed passes and green is yards after the catch:

Close enough.

Ertz caught 10 of 14 targets for 110 yards Sunday, though Wentz didn’t find him in the end zone.

That honor went to:

7) Alshon Jeffery

Gotta be the biggest positive from otherwise shitty afternoon.

He just makes plays that other receivers can’t make. I’m talking about tough sideline grabs, contested back shoulder throws, jump balls in the corner, and key red zone receptions.

Alshon caught eight balls for 105 yards and a score, and while the touchdown might have been his best grab, he really had a couple of early snags to get himself and the Eagles going. Particularly, there was a great 34 yard reception he made on a 3rd and 4 to keep the chains moving. He caught another one later going up against Malcolm Butler and the only blemish on the day was the catch and fumble that disallowed a first down in Tennessee’s half of the field.

Welcome back Alshon Jeffery, or “Jefferies” if you’re a moron and still can’t get his name right.

8) Doug’s best call?

Probably the decision to pound the ball with the running game to begin overtime.

That’s about it.

9) Doug’s worst call?

Obviously I hated the choice to punt with three minutes left in the fourth quarter on that fourth down and four. The Eagles got the stop and got the ball back to force overtime, but that punt felt antithetical to everything we’ve seen from Doug over the last year or so.

I also did not like the third down draw play right before halftime, the run on 3rd and 3 at Tennessee’s ten yard line. You’ve got Alshon matched up 1v1 in the red zone. Throw him the damn ball.

That felt like the same shit Penn State did on Saturday night in their Ohio State choke job, running the ball when everyone knows you should have thrown it instead.

This just didn’t feel like a Doug Pederson type of game. Mike Vrabel was the coach making gutsy fourth down decisions on the other sideline.

10) Like deja vu all over again

We got Chris Myers and Daryl Johnston and Laura Okmin for the second straight week. Shouldn’t that be a violation in and of itself? Why not just rotate the crews so they aren’t calling the same team two weeks in a row?

The good thing was that Myers was unable to mispronounce “Clement” this time, since Corey Clement didn’t play. It did sound like one of the pair kept saying “Ajayi” wrong, but I honestly did not pay much attention to the broadcast. This group is fine, but they just don’t do anything to get me super excited OR super annoyed. They just sort of exist, which isn’t the worst thing in the world.

My only real complaint with the broadcast is that we got that commercial with the hypnotist sitting in his front yard. He snaps his fingers and asks some guy to clean his gutters, then says this:

“Todd, you go make me a “fertata”

I don’t know why he pronounces it that way because the dish is a “frittata.” It’s an Italian egg-based casserole type of thing, and it’s spelled with the F-R-I, not F-E-R. There’s no such thing as a “fertata.”

Anyway, that annoys me, but not as much as the Eagles losing on a 16 play, 75 yard drive in overtime.

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