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jwowwsboobs · 1 year ago

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Gimme Yer Love, Angel in the Night

The thing about LA is, it's fucking weird. I mean, Los Angeles, city of angels, full of people lookin' to rip you off, rob you dead, take yer boots. And the sun is always fuckin' shining. It never fucking rains. It's like heaven for people with big dreams, but they all come and die. It's the home of the rich, the famous, the megastars. And there are broke people, homeless people, hookers and their pimps, winos and wash-outs fuckin' everywhere.

And me. I guess I'm broke people. I work at a shit job, washing plates, trying not to fuck up my hands or hair, so when I get off, I can kick out the jams in half empty clubs with guys I don't really like or party with people I know well enough to know they don't lace their shit, and then come back home, chick or two on my arm, crash on the couch and get woken up by my roommate, Tripp, AKA the nicest guy on earth, so I get to work on time. Rinse and repeat.

I was headed to the club that night, paycheck in cash in my pocket and brand new leather pants on my ass. Maybe to meet a chick. More likely to have a few and pick one up. I shoved my way through the crowd of people to a guy I knew on door duty, who let me in for free, much to the annoyance of the lame-ass and his girlfriend I'd cut in-front of. Sucks to suck! The club was dark, the air was thick and hot with smoke, sweat, spilled beer, shrieking guitars and thudding drums and bass. The stage was like a setting sun, people crowded around it, almost blocking out the band. You could still see them, but barely. I shoved my way to the bar, squeezing in next to two beautiful blondes, perfect butts, tall as trees, hair as big as the sun, two feet from the smokers corner and the bathroom doors. They side eyed me and rolled their twelve pounds of eyelashes and eyeliner at each other, pouting their big red lips and twirling their hair around their perfectly manicured fingers. Tough crowd, but I always like a challenge. I flagged down the bartender, asked for a beer. As the bartender went to grab a glass and fill it up, I turned to the girls.

"Y'all want anything?" I shouted at them.

The one next to me looked at me like I was a new species of sidewalk slime that she'd just found on the bottom of her brand fuckin' new 500 dollar heels, but her friend smiled and pointed at their glasses.

"Refill for these ladies," I gestured to the girls, and the bartender took their glasses away to make whatever overpriced, fruity shit they'd been drinking. I turned to the stage, drank my beer, waited for the right moment to grease them up. Turns out they had me beat.

When their drinks came, they split before I could say "You're welcome."

Tough break.

I knocked the rest of the beer back, and was about to flag for a refill, when I felt cold breath on my neck.

"Some people have no fuckin' manners, huh, sunshine?"

I looked over my shoulder into cold, dark eyes peering over mirrored sunglasses, almost covered by shaggy black hair. He slipped into the open space next to me. Stage lights dimmed.

"Uh-"

He held up his hand, sliver and black rings sparkling in the club's flashing lights. "Another beer?"

"Shit, sure man," I said, digging in my pockets for some cash. He snorted.

"On me."

"Hey, thanks man! I'm Lani."

"Ryan." We shook hands, his hands like ice against my sweaty and damp palm.

"You new to town?" I asked, as we waited.

"Hardly." He blew his bangs out of his face. "Are you?"

"Not really. Been here a coupla months. Where are ya from?"

"Far away. Why'd you come here, farm boy?"

I blinked. "How'dja know I grew up on a farm?"

Ryan glanced up and down at me. "You've still got a farmers tan. And you just told me."

I rubbed my bare shoulders, suddenly cold in my cut off. "I coulda gotten that here, man, that doesn't mean anything!"

Ryan laughed at me. I couldn't tell if it was a mean laugh or not. It sounded mean. But it really didn't matter. He was hot. I could take a little denigration from a guy like that. "But you didn't."

I huffed. "Yeah alright, whatever, man. At least I look like I've seen the sun. Haven't you seen any movies recently, man? Pasty is out, tanned is in. Gotta look like yer livin'!"

He rolled his eyes. "So you wanna be a movie star."

"Hardly." I shrugged. "I mean, don't get me wrong, I wouldn't mind! Can't act for shit though. I'm gonna be a rockstar. Bigger than Morrison and twice as hot."

Ryan looked intrigued. "Morrison, huh?"

"Fuck yeah man, great fuckin' poet, rock STAR to a T, heartthrob...all that shit."

His eyes flicked up and down my outfit. "Where's the concho belt?"

I laughed. "I don't needa be carbon copy, that'd be boring and lame as fuck. Anyway, what are you here for?"

He shrugged, playing with his rings. "Just lookin' to have a good time for the rest of time. Figured what better place than LA."

I grinned and slapped him on the back. "Hell yeah man! Party never fuckin' stops here, it's like heaven."

Ryan half smiled and raised his glass. I hadn't noticed the beers had come. "Cheers."

We clinked glasses, and I drank.

I woke up with a roaring, pounding headache and a mouth drier than a 40-something in a loveless marriage looking at her fat, ugly husband. Which wasn't that weird, until I realized I was in my bed, and it was late afternoon, almost evening. I fumbled around, looking for some shades, trying to block out the too-bright sunlight, and fell out of my bed onto a pile of clothes and shoes. I groaned, and Tripp's footsteps came down the hallway and into my room.

"Jesus, dude, are you okay?"

I tried to say something that would have been, "Yeah man, I'm cool! Just need sunglasses and an Advil and possibly the greasiest cheeseburger known to man," but what came out sounded more like "Urugggggghhhhurnr."

"Man, you look like friggin' hell, lemme call yer boss 'n' tell him yer sicker than a dog and would probably die if you went in." He started out of the room.

"Sunglasses." I finally managed to croak out.

He didn't hear me. I groaned, and crawled back into my bed, pulling the blanket over my head and sending me into mostly darkness. It musta been a hell of a night, since I could barely fuckin' remember it. Except for that guy. Long, dark, messy hair. Dark eyes, perfect lips set in a slight sneer. Tarnished silver rings and piles of necklaces. White open button shirt and black jeans. Black and blue cowboy boots. Heaven's fallen angel, all in black. Ryan. I hadn't gotten his FUCKING number. I buried my face in my pillow. Maybe I'd smother to death and never have to worry about not ever seeing the world's hottest guy ever again.

"Good news man!" Tripp said loudly, walking back into my room. "Yer boss says you don't gotta go in t'day!"

I groaned.

"Bad news is, he says ya can't go in ever again."

Figures.

"It's all cool though man! I can get'cha another job, don't even worry about it. I'm goin' to work 'n' then to Michelle's birthday party. Left some money on the counter if you wanna order yerself something hot like pizza or Chinese food. Noodles are probably yer best bet. I'll be back like, tomorrow morning. Feel better man!"

Tripp left, and I stayed wrapped up in my blanket. Ryan's dark eyes swum in my head. His mean little laugh. I wanted to know that guy. Needed to love him. I was already in love, and it'd only been like 12ish hours.

I dragged myself out of bed as the sun finally sank behind the buildings, the streetlights and corner stores' neon lights flickering on. I shuffled into the bathroom, no shirt, still wearing my pants from the night before. I stared into the mirror. My hair was matted and tangled from the teasing and hairspray and sleeping in it. My skin looked much paler than the day before, but I didn't think much of it, cuz of how fucking SHITTY I felt. Hickies covered my neck, but there were none on my chest. Which struck me as weird, cuz usually when I'm with someone who's gonna give me hickies, they give 'em all over. Not stingy with the lovin'. I turned to look at my back. Covered in scratches.

"Guess we had fuckin' fun." I said to myself.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, pulling out all my money from yesterday (All of it? Hadn't I spent some of it?) and a crumpled up piece of paper. My hands shook as I unfolded it.

268-7886‬. R ☆

Of course he'd have fancy handwriting, perfectly formed cursive letters. I carefully folded it back up and stuck it back in my pocket, along with my cash, and stripped to shower.

The whole time, Ryan's face floated infront of me, his laugh echoing through my head.

I dried my hair, and wrapped the towel around my waist. I didn't feel hungover, but I felt this deep, gnawing hunger itching at my insides. Like when you've had sex for the first time and you want it again. I snatched my pants off the ground and went back to my room, pulling on clean (probably) boxers and grabbing the phone number. I took a beer from the fridge and sat on the couch in the living room, staring down the phone. I cracked it, chugged it, and before I could psych myself out of it, I picked up the phone and dialed.

It rang twice before he picked up.

"Hello?"

"Hey Ryan, it's Lani, you gave me this number yesterday night."

"Oh yeah," Ryan laughed breathily into the phone. "You wanna meet tonight?"

"Sure, where? The club?"

"No." Ryan paused. "Evergreen."

"Evergreen? The cemetery?"

"Mhm. Listen, ah...Lani. I've got to go. I'll see you there tonight. Midnight?"

"I-"

He hung up. I groaned, bashing the receiver into my damp hair.

"FUUUUUCK." I dropped the receiver back on the hook and buried my head in my hands. I had no choice.

It was eleven by the time I finally got the balls to get dressed and go out. I'd left my hair to air dry. Well, mostly air-dry. I blow-dried and hairsprayed my roots for a little of whatever the girls called volume when they did my hair. Found a loose, colorful button up that I half buttoned and didn't tuck in, tight jeans, cowboy boots. Smudged eyeliner that a girl had left behind in the bathroom across my lower lash line. And drank.

The taxi driver dropped me off half a block from the cemetery, like I asked him to. He watched me in the rearview, clearly trying to figure out why I wanted to go to a fuckin' cemetery this time of night, dressed like that. I tipped him extra for keeping his mouth shut. He took off, fast.

I waited til the street was empty and jumped the fence. And prayed it wouldn't take too long to find him.

As heaven would have it, it didn't.

Ryan sat on the steps of the mausoleum overlooking the chapel, wrapped in a tiger-striped fur jacket, cigarette hanging from his long, ringed fingers. He watched me approach like a hunting dog watching a bird. I could have sworn his eyes were yellow.

"Hey," I called.

"Hi." He dragged on his cigarette. "Thought you wouldn't show."

I shrugged and sat next to him. "If I didn't, what would you have done?"

Ryan shrugged and put the cigarette out on the sole of his star-covered platform boots. I studied the stars, red and sliver on black leather. "Dunno. Wanna go in?"

"What, in the mausoleum?"

He smiled at me, teeth glittering like stars in the dark. "Why not? The dead are good at keeping secrets, sunshine."

He stood up and slipped in. I looked up at the starless, black sky, and followed him. It was dark, and the side walls were lined by barred doors, leading to crypts. He turned around, fast, and pushed me up against the marble wall, breath cold against my neck.

"You want this?"

"Yeah."

Ryan licked my neck, and I winced from the pressure on the still sore hickies. His fingers slipped up my half-buttoned shirt, hand pressing against my rapidly beating heart.

"Feel good?"

"Mmhm." I moaned as he kissed my neck, gently, softly. I reached to grab his hip, to pull him closer. He grabbed my wrist and pinned it against the wall above my head. I squirmed a little, not liking the gap he kept between him and me, the cold air on my slightly exposed chest.

"Don't like that, huh?" He teased, tightening his grip on my wrist. His other hand slipped down my shirt, pressing against my hip.

"Man," I whined. "C'mon-"

"Shhh." Ryan pressed his hand against my mouth, muffling my whines. I squirmed, wanting him up against me. He laughed, pulling his hand from my mouth, but letting his index and middle fingers brush against my lower lip. "Suck."

I tentatively licked the tips of his fingers. His teeth and eyes glittered in the dark and I felt my dick twitch. I grabbed his hand, and pushed his fingers into my mouth, licking, sucking, moaning, working them the way I would have worked his dick, lost in it.

With a pop, he pulled his hand out of my mouth, and grabbed my face, smearing my spit all over my cheek.

"You like that, huh? Little slut."

I groaned, and he laughed softly, and kissed up my neck to my mouth. He was barely touching me, and I felt like I was burning up. I could barely think. He kissed me, working his tongue into my mouth, dropping my wrist to grab my hips, pushing me against the wall, and him against me. I moaned into it, twisting one hand into his hair, one around his shoulder, pulling him closer. He pulled away, and I gasped as the cold mausoleum air hit my face and my chest. He watched me breathe heavily. I knew my face was flushed, but I couldn't tell if his was.

"Ditch the shirt."

I licked my lips, wanting to push his buttons. "If you want it gone so bad, you take it off."

"Yeah?" He said softly, with a hint of amusement.

"Yeah."

He moved close to me, hands barely brushing against me, unbuttoning the shirt. "Gonna regret that, sunshine."

"Make me."

He laughed softly, sliding the shirt off my shoulders. I pulled it off the rest of the way and he trailed his fingers down my chest. I breathed heavily.

"Take off my belt."

I knelt on the floor, fumbling with the cold metal and leather of his belt. I found the end of the tongue as his hand tangled in my hair. I looked up at him. His face was obscured by his dark hair and shadows. I pulled it out of his belt loops and felt the buckle open and smiled. He traced circles in my hair. I pulled his belt off, laying it on the ground.

"Keep going," he said.

I undid the top button, trying to keep my touch light. His grip on my hair tightened. I looked up at him.

"Keep going?"

He sucked his breath in quickly. "Yes."

I slowly unzipped his jeans, and he huffed impatiently. I grinned in the dark.

"Don't like that, huh?"

Ryan pulled his hands out of my hair roughly and pulled his dick out of his boxers. I could barely make out the shape in the dark.

"Open." He said, grabbing my hair again.

I did, wrapping one hand over his as he pushed into my mouth. He sighed, tangled his hand deeper in my hair, moaning, pulling on it with every movement. I moved up and down slowly, and he pushed his hips forward into my mouth. My dick twitched in my jeans, but I couldn't think about anything but him.

He groaned, gripping my hair tighter, sliding in and out of my mouth. I moaned as he hit the back of my throat and his hips bucked.

"Oh god. Do that again," He said, breathless.

I moaned again as he hit the back of my throat. He groaned, pounding into my mouth harder and faster.

The tightness in my jeans, him fucking my face, his heavy breathing, the random pretty little moans, was driving me crazy. I gripped his thighs and looked up at him. His hair, shaggy and long, mostly covered his face.

I couldn't think. I closed my eyes again, relaxing my throat as he fucked me. My throat. Whatever. I felt my spit dripping down my chin, falling on my bare chest. He pulled on my hair. I felt him tensing up.

"Lani," He moaned breathlessly. "Lani, I'm close."

I groaned, my dick uncomfortably hard.

"Lani," he whined. "Oh god, Lani, I-"

He moaned, and his dick twitched as he came. I swallowed, and pulled away, wiping my mouth. My knees hurt. He panted above me, one hand on his dick and the other on my chin.

"You looks so good like that," he said. "C'mere."

I stood up slowly, knees hurting, and he pushed against me. He bit my bottom lip, slid his hand up my ribs, resting on my heart.

I moaned as he situated his thigh between my legs, rubbing it against my crotch. I pulled on the front of his jacket, wanting him closer. He smiled against my mouth, rocking his hips against me, and I closed my eyes, moaning into his mouth. I pulled on his hair, wrapped my arm around his neck, grabbed his bare hip.

He pulled away just before I came, and I whined in frustration.

"Shhh, baby," he whispered in my ear, fumbling with my jeans button and zipper. "I'm not gonna let you go that easy."

I panted, squirming as he trailed his fingers over my stomach. "Ryan, please, I need, I-,"

"What'dya need, sunshine?"

I moaned and he scoffed.

"C'mon, use yr words."

"Fuck me," I whined. "Fuck me!"

He kissed me. "Anything you want."

I squirmed as he pulled my jeans and boxers down, the cold air hitting my aching dick.

"Turn around, grab those bars right there and relax."

I did as told, breathing slowly and deeply. He rubbed some lube onto my ass and started to prep me. I moaned as he worked his finger in and out and in and out, adding another, stretching me out. He rubbed my back, telling me how good I was doing, how well I was taking it, how good it was gonna feel. I closed my eyes, letting him, his smell, his voice, his touch, wash over me. I was in heaven in that dark cemetery, about to get fucked by an angel of the night.

I heard a condom wrapper crinkle.

"I'm gonna take it slow, baby." He kissed my neck as he pushed in slowly.

I moaned.

He grabbed my hip with one hand and jacked me off with the other. While fucking me slowly. I couldn't think, much less comprehend exactly how good his touch felt. The minutes became one continuous moment, nothing existing except for him. His voice. His hips against my ass. His mouth on my neck. His hands on me. Him. Heaven-sent.

He kissed my neck, licked it, moaned into it. His thrusts got more and more rough and uneven, his moans increasing in frequency against my neck. I whined, feeling my orgasm close in on me, unable to keep my eyes open. He bit me as I came, and I screamed. He let go of my dick to grab my throat, keeping me from squirming, my cum warm on his hand, still pounding into my ass as he sucked blood from my neck. And darkness ate away at my vision.

I woke up to a cop shining his flashlight in my eye and a dog's head on my chest. A brindle pitbull. Like home. It was still dark out as the cop roughly escorted me out of the cemetery, grumbling something about the city's "fuckin' bum problem." The dog followed. I flagged a cab, half to prove that I was not a "fuckin' bum" despite missing my shirt, shoes, and my pants being half unbuttoned and half to get home fast. Ryan had disappeared completely, and I felt like hell. Worse than yesterday. Everything about me fuckin' hurt. The dog clambered in the taxi with me, and the cabby didn't bother trying to kick either of us out.

It took forever, but the dog and I got home before Tripp. The dog almost didn't follow me in, but I shoo'ed it inside. No need to get my fuckin' neighbors pissed, they already hated me and Tripp. I didn't bother turning any lights on. The clock said 2:39, and I abandoned my pants on my bedroom floor, practically clawing them off my legs, and curled up on my bed, sweating and shaking. I felt sicker than I ever had and the pain was nearly unbearable.

The dog sat in my doorway, watching me.

"What'chu lookin' at," I groaned. An intense wave of nausea hit me, and I gagged. I stumbled to the bathroom, nearly tripping on the dog's tail on my way, and threw up in the toilet. Lucky shot. Sort of. It was all over my chest too. I groaned and gently banged my head against the wall.

I waited a couple of minutes to make sure nothing more was gonna make a cameo on the bathroom floor, and stripped to shower and rinse my mouth out in one shot. And maybe hurt less.

When I got out, my neck hurt real bad. I touched it. My hand came away red-ish. What the fuck? I patted it with my towel, and the towel came away red too. I stared at it, not comprehending what this meant. Somewhere in the apartment, someone was playing my guitar. I reached to the mirror, to wipe the condensation off, and the realization hit me.

I was home alone and someone was playing my guitar. Incredibly well, but someone was playing it.

I hastily wrapped my towel around my waist and found Ryan, sitting on my bed, playing guitar.

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

Ryan did not look up, continuing to play. "I came home with you, stupid."

"No you didn't," I said. "You ditched me in the cemetery. I woke up with this dog on my chest 'n' it followed me home. You just showed up. Stupid."

"Where's the dog then?"

That was a good question. I stuck my head out of my room and looked around. Tripp's door was locked like it always was, the bathroom was empty, the living room-slash-dining room-slash-kitchen was empty. No dog.

"I don't know." I said, head pounding. "I just wanna go to bed. I feel sick."

Ryan stopped playing and looked at me, raising his eyebrows. "Wonder why."

"What?"

"Nothin'," Ryan rolled his perfect eyes and went back to playing. "Put clothes on 'n' c'mere."

"Weirdo." I grumbled, grabbing a pair of boxers and a shirt from my dresser. "Barely fuckin' know you, 'n' you come into my house, play my fuckin' guitar-"

"You came to my house first, sunshine."

"What? When?" I said, dropping my towel and pulling my boxers on and the shirt over my head.

He rolled his eyes. I stood there, headache beating my brains, trying to piece it all together. Black clothes. Irresistible charm. Midnight. Cemetery. Dog that was there and then gone. Biting my neck.

"Vampires aren't real?" The room was swaying.

Ryan laughed at me. "You sound sure."

I groaned, crawling into my bed and curling up. The world was spinning. Everything hurt, my head most of all.

"It should be really kicking in right now, the venom." Ryan said, playing the most beautiful, melancholic, entrancing melody I'd ever heard. "Your body's trying to reject it, which is why everything hurts so bad right now. Eventually you'll die, probably within the next 4 hours. At around, I dunno, hour 5 of the venom being in your system, you become paralyzed. But you're still awake. You get to feel everything. Your lungs slowly stop working, your blood slowly stop moving, your heart slowly stop beating. It's incredible honestly. Very fascinating to watch."

"Make it stop," I groaned.

"Turn you into a vampire? I don't think so. I'd rather watch you die." He started playing a new song.

"Please, Ryan. Please."

Ryan sighed. "Why should I?"

"I love you," I groaned. "I barely know you but I love you. You're gonna be alone forever. Don't you want someone by your side?"

"You'll stop loving me."

"I won't." I said, struggling to pull myself up so I could sit against the wall. "I never stop loving someone. I love forever. I'll never leave you."

Ryan looked at me in the eye. For the first time, I could see the depth of the darkness in his dark brown eyes.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not." I said. "Let me love you. Give me a chance."

He put the guitar down and crawled next to me.

"Why?"

I turned my head to look at him. It hurt. "I think you're holy."

"No you don't."

"I do. I see heaven in you. I feel it in you. You're an angel."

Ryan didn't say anything.

"Ryan. Please. Let me love you. Don't be afraid."

"I'm not angel."

"You are to me."

"That would change."

I closed my eyes. It was getting harder and harder to breathe. "No. It won't."

I heard him sign pointedly. "Wouldn't you rather go to heaven?"

"Heaven doesn't mean anything to me if you're not there."

He inhaled sharply.

"You don't know what you're saying."

I took a deep breath and opened my eyes. "Ryan, look at me."

He wouldn't meet my eyes.

"Please, look at me." I was desperate, about to cry. "Please, Ryan. Look at me."

He wouldn't.

Hot tears fell onto my shirt. "Ryan, please. I love you."

It hung in the air like a suicide.

"Stop crying." He finally whispered, wiping my tears away. I closed my eyes and leaned against him. Melting into him. Trying to relax.

"Lani, look at me."

I opened my eyes. Everything was blurry. I felt him press something warm and wet against my lips.

"Drink," he said. And I did.

And heaven could never compare.

#xoxo #333 #soooooooooooooooooo much i can say abt this. first of all thank u frank 4 being the inspiration thank u mel 4 offering tips n thank u both #4 assuring me it didnt suck when i thought it did. love u guys!#2ndly ryans phone number is the one from lanas honeymoon cover cuz i think im clever. 3rdly i am very scared 2 post this 4 reasons i cant f #fully understand or explain but im doing it anyway. hashtag girlboss or something. im gonna go cry into my girl dinner now. mop night!#love like heroin hate like heaven

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tma-entity-song-poll · 2 months ago

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Battle of the Fear Bands!

B6R2: The Eye

Everywhere:

youtube

The Walls Have Ears:

“This man is either very paranoid, or, he is living in an eye statement”

youtube

Lyrics below the line!

Everywhere:

I'll find you everywhere If you don't exist, I don't care I'll find you everywhere

Waterfalls are in the air If you don't see them, I don't care There are waterfalls in the air

I saw you looking into the mortal mirror I could see right through you Even though you were right here

You're a crystal chandelier Your prisms ring so clear Crystal chandelier

I'll find you everywhere If you don't exist, I don't care I'll find you everywhere

And when I saw you You were hanging out with your friends I knew that it was over But I didn't know it had come to an end

The Walls Have Ears:

I met her in the bar of a fine hotel, And I knew she was falling beneath my spell; Then she stirred her drink in the intimate dark And the olive gave off sparks.

The walls have ears and the ceiling has eyes And the waiter was an agent in disguise; How can I tell you I love you, dear, When I know the walls have ears?

I stroked her fingers tenderly, And I thought I saw my cheesecake blink at me; Then just as it seemed I was getting to her, Her earring started to whirr.

The walls have ears and the ceiling has eyes And the wino was an agent in disguise; How can I tell you I love you, dear, When I know the walls have ears?

We went outside just to talk a little more, And our table followed us out the door; We strolled on the beach, while I held her hand Past a periscope in the sand.

The walls have ears and the ceiling has eyes And the seagull was an agent in disguise; How can I tell you I love you, dear, When I know the walls have ears?

She said she was an actress in a play; She came to my room and she asked to stay; But before I could get my necktie off, The bedroom mirror coughed.

The walls have ears and the ceiling has eyes And her agent was an agent in disguise; How can I tell you I love you, dear, When I know the walls have ears?

Well, now we are married, and live all alone In a shack in the desert -- without a phone; But sometimes it seems as I slip into bed I hear a funny humming in my head.

The walls have ears and the ceiling has eyes And I look out for the satellites in the skies; And I never will know if you love me, dear, As long as the walls have ears!

#the magnus archives #tma #poll #the eye #Youtube

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whisperthatruns · 5 months ago

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Jail Poems

I am sitting in a cell with a view of evil parallels, Waiting thunder to splinter me into a thousand me's. It is not enough to be in one cage with one self; I want to sit opposite every prisoner in every hole. Doors roll and bang, every slam a finality, bang! The junkie disappeared into a red noise, stoning out his hell. The odored wino congratulates himself on not smoking, Fingerprints left lying on black inky gravestones, Noises of pain seeping through steel walls crashing Reach my own hurt. I become part of someone forever. Wild accents of criminals are sweeter to me than hum of cops, Busy battening down hatches of human souls; cargo Destined for ports of accusations, harbors of guilt. What do policemen eat, Socrates, still prisoner, old one?

Painter, paint me a crazy jail, mad water-color cells. Poet, how old is suffering? Write it in yellow lead. God, make me a sky on my glass ceiling. I need stars now, To lead through this atmosphere of shrieks and private hells, Entrances and exits, in . . . out . . . up . . . down, the civic seesaw. Here — me — now — always here somehow.

In a universe of cells—who is not in jail? Jailers. In a world of hospitals—who is not sick? Doctors. A golden sardine is swimming in my head. Oh we know some things, man, about some things Like jazz and jails and God. Saturday is a good day to go to jail.

Now they give a new form, quivering jelly-like, That proves any boy can be president of Muscatel. They are mad at him because he's one of Them. Gray-speckled unplanned nakedness; stinking Fingers grasping toilet bowl. Mr. America wants to bathe. Look! On the floor, lying across America's face— A real movie star featured in a million newsreels. What am I doing—feeling compassion? When he comes out of it, he will help kill me. He probably hates living.

Nuts, skin bolts, clanking in his stomach, scrambled. His society's gone to pieces in his belly, bloated. See the great American windmill, tilting at itself, Good solid stock, the kind that made America drunk. Success written all over his street-streaked ass. Successful-type success, forty home runs in one inning. Stop suffering, Jack, you can't fool us. We know. This is the greatest country in the world, ain't it? He didn't make it. Wino in Cell 3.

There have been too many years in this short span of mine. My soul demands a cave of its own, like the Jain god; Yet I must make it go on, hard like jazz, glowing In this dark plastic jungle, land of long night, chilled. My navel is a button to push when I want inside out. Am I not more than a mass of entrails and rough tissue? Must I break my bones? Drink my wine-diluted blood? Should I dredge old sadness from my chest? Not again, All those ancient balls of fire, hotly swallowed, let them lie. Let me spit breath mists of introspection, bits of me, So that when I am gone, I shall be in the air.

Someone whom I am is no one. Something I have done is nothing. Someplace I have been is nowhere. I am not me. What of the answers I must find questions for? All these strange streets I must find cities for, Thank God for beatniks.

All night the stink of rotting people, Fumes rising from pyres of live men, Fill my nose with gassy disgust, Drown my exposed eyes in tears.

Traveling God salesmen, bursting my ear drum With the dullest part of a good sexy book, Impatient for Monday and adding machines.

Yellow-eyed dogs whistling in evening.

The baby came to jail today.

One more day to hell, filled with floating glands.

The jail, a huge hollow metal cube Hanging from the moon by a silver chain. Someday Johnny Appleseed is going to chop it down.

Three long strings of light Braided into a ray.

I am apprehensive about my future; My past has turned its back on me.

Shadows I see, forming on the wall, Pictures of desires protected from my own eyes.

After spending all night constructing a dream, Morning came and blinded me with light. Now I seek among mountains of crushed eggshells For the God damned dream I never wanted.

Sitting here writing things on paper, Instead of sticking the pencil into the air.

The Battle of Monumental Failures raging, Both hoping for a good clean loss.

Now I see the night, silently overwhelming day.

Caught in imaginary webs of conscience, I weep over my acts, yet believe.

Cities should be built on one side of the street.

People who can't cast shadows Never die of freckles.

The end always comes last.

We sat at a corner table, Devouring each other word by word, Until nothing was left, repulsive skeletons.

I sit here writing, not daring to stop, For fear of seeing what's outside my head.

There, Jesus, didn't hurt a bit, did it?

I am afraid to follow my flesh over those narrow Wide hard soft female beds, but I do.

Link by link, we forged the chain. Then, discovering the end around our necks, We bugged out.

I have never seen a wild poetic loaf of bread, But if I did, I would eat it, crust and all.

From how many years away does a baby come?

Universality, duality, totality . . . .one.

The defective on the floor, mumbling, Was once a man who shouted across tables.

Come, help flatten a raindrop.

Written in San Francisco City Prison Cell 3, 1959

Bob Kaufman (1925--1986), Collected Poems of Bob Kaufman (City Lights Books, 2019)

#bob kaufman #jail poems #collected poems of bob kaufman #poetry #incarceration for ts

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disco-elysium-via-polls · 4 months ago

Text

🎵 Hope in Work and Joy in Leisure

"Those words: 'the future teaches you…'"

I missed this option earlier and lost my chance to go back for it. Thankfully I can still present you the text.

THE DESERTER - "*Real music, real proletkult*." He nods. "That's La Revacholière, not your rock-and-roll misanthropy. *Chanson de soldat* of the black-and-whites."

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Challenging: Success] - Marching song...

AUTHORITY [Easy: Success] - Forget about that for a moment. You need to address that remark first.

"I'm not a misanthrope, I'm a half-dead police officer who's just doing his job."

"I know La Revacholière. It's the marching song of the World Revolution."

"Understood."

THE DESERTER - "The job of a shit-licker."

"I know La Revacholière. It's the marching song of the World Revolution."

THE DESERTER - "There you go." His eyes remain fixed on the sky as he sighs and adds: "One of three."

"In Graad they sang 'Brave Children, Favourites of History' and in Hsin-Yao it was…" He struggles to remember, then gives up. "…some Samaran shit, I guess."

"La Revacholière... I've heard that name, somewhere else. In a dream."

"How does it go -- the song?"

"Thank you for clearing that up." (Conclude.)

THE DESERTER - "Everyone has. They named a fucking perfume after it."

"No, that's not it. I've talked to her."

"Yes. Must've been that."

THE DESERTER - "Talked to *her*?" He raises his bushy brow and looks down from the sky -- straight into your bloodshot eye.

"Yes. I get these… cold spells."

"Yes. In the church." (Point southwest.)

"Nothing. We have serious things to talk about."

THE DESERTER - "It's the *drugs* you're all on. Druggies, winos, and whores..." He closes his eyes in disgust.

DRAMA [Challenging: Success] - There was something there -- when he said *talked to her*? He was curious...

SHIVERS [Medium: Success] - All around you, the air slowly circulates the islet, carrying little swallows and black-beaked seagulls in its slow drift. They all -- every one of them, every bird, mammal, and crustacean...

What?

Rub your sides.

SHIVERS - Keep their distance.

"When I said I've talked to *her* -- you were curious."

No, he was just confused. Let it go…

THE DESERTER - "I've seen kids lose their minds and start *talking* to the city. Asking it to *protect* them, when the shelling gets bad. Calling it La Revacholière..."

+5 XP

"Cities can't talk. It's bourgeois idealism… I don't wanna talk about this shit anymore."

2. "How does it go -- the song?"

THE DESERTER - "How did it go..." He looks at his gun in your hand and shakes his head slowly.

"Something about shooting *rabbits*, I don't know… I can't remember. It doesn't matter. It's gone now."

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] - He waves erratically -- with his hand, annoyed that he can't remember. A little tremor passes through him.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - It was dear to him. He resents forgetting it.

Here's where we actually are: talking about the murder.

"When did you first see the deceased?"

"What, specifically, did you not *like* about what you saw the night of the murder?"

"Been looking at anything else you haven't *liked*?"

"Who are you?"

"What have you been using this gun for?"

[Composure - Legendary 14] Assess his body language.

"Iosef Lilianovich Dros, you're under arrest for the murder of the Krenel colonel here in Martinaise."

"That's it for now, old man. Stay put." [Leave.]

THE DESERTER - "Three weeks ago, when the rich hag came in on her galley. Her honour guard came in tow."

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - Joyce... he means Joyce.

"Rich hag?"

"By that you mean Joyce Messier, the Wild Pines rep?"

"Let's talk about something else for now."

THE DESERTER - "Wrinkled up whore," he nods.

"Whore. Good strong word. I use it often myself."

"What is it with these *whores* and *pederasts*… aren't you a communist?"

"Khm..." (Cough.) "Moving on -- the victim arrives some time after her..."

THE DESERTER - "Lax sexual morals are a bourgeois ploy," he gargles a spit ball. "As to pederasty, the Party legalized it in '04. My Party, not your liberal masters." He spits it out on the dying coals.

"So don't you sermonize me, you racist shithole." He adds. "It's still bourgeois when the bourgeois does it. Fiddling with their sexual organs..."

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] - Some strange glandular process takes place in him at the thought. Like yeast rising...

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] - An anger too, in addition to loneliness.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Khm," the lieutenant coughs.

"Khm..." (Cough.) "Moving on -- the victim arrives some time after her..."

THE DESERTER - "They moved into a deserted apartment above the roundabout." He nods toward the city. "Radio equipment out for all to see -- reactionary radio playing. Sloppy and drunk."

"I've seen their kind during the Landing. Those Occidental and Mesque falangues weren't conscripts -- boys, like us. They were wights. All they know is to destroy and hurt."

"Wights?"

"Got it."

THE DESERTER - "Barely alive. They like to kill while they're on their drugs. After the landing, in the burning years I would take shots at them, *end* them. The worst ones. If I had a bullet to spare."

"I could see they've returned now. To show their real face -- the face they don't dare show their bourgeois voters back on Mundi, with their families and polyester clothes..."

2. "What, specifically, did you not *like* about what you saw the night of the murder?"

THE DESERTER - "Them fucking..." He looks at the charred wood. "I didn't like that."

"So you were jealous?"

"Okay then."

THE DESERTER - "Jealousy is a reactionary concept. I didn't *like* the reaver enjoying himself -- drugged out, soothed in the arms of a young woman. I wanted him to die so he could not enjoy life anymore."

"And I wanted her to see his head explode," he nods. "That too. She should know better than to hold a child murderer between her thighs. I knew he'd be there for one more second, *writhing*..."

"That's all it takes for the bullet to reach his head." He squints. "Now that I think of it, I wasn't aiming for his mouth. I wanted his brains to spill out on her… but…" he shrugs, "you can't have everything."

VOLITION [Easy: Success] - This man has seen past her, like you did.

SUGGESTION [Easy: Success] - And now he longs to see her covered in blood.

AUTHORITY [Trivial: Success] - To punish her.

"How long had you been watching her?"

"You wanted to punish her, so you killed him."

"You had feelings for that woman."

THE DESERTER - "Since she came to Martinaise. I saw her sneaking in the reeds early in the morning, behind the Feld building. It was dark, still winter. She didn't have her skimpy outfit on then, just a spot in the night, moving..."

KIM KITSURAGI - "Past the Feld building, on the coast? What was she doing there?"

THE DESERTER - "Hiding something in the water. She had a fag after she'd done it. I was up in the ruins there -- she couldn't see me, but I could see her. Smoking... she was nervous, but not scared."

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] - And beautiful.

"And beautiful."

"What do you think she hid there?"

THE DESERTER - "That too," he nods.

KIM KITSURAGI - "How could you see what she looked like? You said it was dark."

THE DESERTER - "The sun came up, her hair was like cobwebs. She smoked more fags and snorted a line of whatever shit she was on. Right there..." he shakes his head. "She needed it just to move."

"What do you think she hid there?"

THE DESERTER - "Her passport. And tickets to Villiers." He coughs. "And from there to Casherbrume."

ENCYCLOPEDIA [Medium: Success] - In the Free State of Semenine. Hidden away at the edge of the Earth, near the pale.

"This is the hidden buoy she told us about… You looked into it?"

THE DESERTER - "After she was gone." He nods.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Did you keep what was in it? When we found the submersible it was empty."

THE DESERTER - "No. Why would I do that? I didn't need tickets to Villiers... I put them back. If I wanted to extort someone I'd do better."

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - This implies that he's thought about extorting her.

LOGIC [Medium: Success] - Also, a little inconsistency here -- he was surprised to hear her name Klaasje, before. Would he not have seen it on the documents?

"Are you sure? We checked the submersible. There was nothing there."

"You saw her name on the passport. But before, when I said her name is *Klaasje* -- you didn't seem to recognize it."

"Moving on -- did you continue watching her after this?" (Proceed.)

THE DESERTER - "Why would I need that trash?" He looks to the reeds, confused. "I'm not going to Villiers..."

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] - A strange confusion comes over him from time to time. Some kind of aberration of the nervous system?

2. "You saw her name on the passport. But before, when I said her name is *Klaasje* -- you didn't seem to recognize it."

THE DESERTER - "It didn't say *Klaasje* in there..." He shakes his head.

3. "What did it say her name was -- in the passport?"

THE DESERTER - "It was something..." He stutters. "I don't remember. It was dark that morning. I only remember her face on the photo."

4. "Moving on -- did you continue watching her after this?" (Proceed.)

THE DESERTER - "I did." He almost smiles. "She had a face like an archipelago, with those birthmarks. And a body, hard and lean and bruised all over -- black and yellow. I could see she's taken a beating."

"I could see who she was, too," he nods. "A spook. On the run. Revachol's the cloaca of capital now. All the bagmen and arms dealers end up here. To do drugs and have sex like animals."

KIM KITSURAGI - "You could tell she was a *spook* from the documents?"

THE DESERTER - "She had different colour hair on the photo, and glasses. *Forged*. Some sordid, bourgeois affair. I've heard about this kind of thing on the radio..."

DRAMA [Medium: Success] - He's setting it up for you...

VISUAL CALCULUS [Medium: Success] - The bruises. You can't make that out in a scope...

"And you could see her bruises -- through the scope of a rifle?"

THE DESERTER - "You can't see bruises through a scope. It's just a blur..." He shakes his silver-grey head.

2. [Reaction Speed - Challenging 12] How does he know those minute details about her body?

+1 Footprints in the dust. +2 Could have changed shoes. +1 Found the peephole.

REACTION SPEED [Challenging: Success] - It quickly comes to you.

"The bruises on her body -- any chance you've seen them through a *hole in a wall?*"

"Ever see her through a window, on a roof?"

THE DESERTER - "Oh yes," he smacks his lips. "Cutting those drugs of hers into little lines with a knife, masturbating..."

ELECTROCHEMISTRY [Medium: Success] - Everything in him fills with impossible longing, all at once.

KIM KITSURAGI - "Did you make that hole?"

THE DESERTER - "With a clip point knife."

+5 XP

PERCEPTION (HEARING) [Challenging: Success] - Good for listening in too. For hearing the moaning and the snorts.

2. "Ever see her through a window, on a roof?"

THE DESERTER - "Like that too, yes," he nods. "Bending like a bow against the glass..."

3. "You've been through the secret route behind the Whirling-in-Rags. Those were *your* footprints there. You just changed your shoes." (Move on.)

THE DESERTER - "I've been through *all* of Martinaise -- every nook and cranny."

"And that too."

THE DESERTER - "Yes, that too." He shakes his head, almost in awe. "The things they did in that little room. What she'd *do* to feel good..." He explains: "Funny, the way light works..."

+5 XP

"You turn it on inside and it gets so dark out you can't see a man looking in. I learned that in the Twenties when they were still hunting me. I've seen people do *some* shit, but..." He keeps shaking his head.

RHETORIC [Medium: Success] - Those two took the cake.

KIM KITSURAGI - You hear the familiar scribble of the lieutenant's pen. A quick glance at you...

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - One more loose end down. We're doing this, detective.

+1 Morale

KIM KITSURAGI - ... then at the man. "How did you get in there? The hidden pinball workshop?"

THE DESERTER - "I can just walk in there now, after a good wash -- I told you they think I'm an antisocial. Closing hour is a good time. The kitchen's empty."

KIM KITSURAGI - "You had to open the steel door in the kitchen? How?"

THE DESERTER - "I got that open a long time ago. Some bourgeois game-merchant lived there -- I don't know... fifteen years ago? He left spare keys all over and I took one. Then I saw her turn the light on one night in my scope..." He points toward the Whirling-in-Rags.

INTERFACING [Medium: Success] - And he found use for it -- a spare key, like the one hanging behind the Union box window.

2. "You wanted to punish her, so you killed him."

THE DESERTER - "She practically breastfed that man. You wouldn't believe the things she let him do to her..." He shakes his head and stares at the ashes.

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - You stare at them too. In your mind, Her Innocence Dei still turns to leave, airport bag in hand, silks flowing in her wake...

The dream…

This has got nothing to do with that. (Try to forget it.)

INLAND EMPIRE - See you tomorrow, Harry. Her voice rings in the evening air, burning...

"You saw through her? So did I."

"She did deserve a good punishing."

"I'm not like that. I don't think like that."

"Men are insane." (Shake your head.)

Say nothing.

THE DESERTER - "You're delusional. There's nothing to *see* in the soul of the bourgeois woman. It's the same as the surface -- sick hedonism and desperation."

2. "I'm not like that. I don't think like that."

THE DESERTER - "No one gives a *shit* what you think," the old man spits in the ash. "You and your cronies kill ten working class men a day. I've heard the statistics on Channel 8."

3. "You had feelings for that woman."

THE DESERTER - "There's..." he sighs, "there's nothing to hold on to, only this... It's not enough."

PERCEPTION (SIGHT) [Medium: Success] - The coals of his eyes glisten suddenly, like stones dripping with water. Is he crying?

THE DESERTER - "Man needs to feel something else. It helps if you have your eye on something -- there," he looks to the city where the lights sparkle. "Something pretty. It's weakness, I know."

"There have been others?"

"Was that why you left the dried flowers behind her window?"

"One more thing about this woman…"

THE DESERTER - "Yes. Over the years. It's not un-proletarian to feel something."

"Was that why you left the dried flowers behind her window?"

THE DESERTER - "No..." He starts to shake his head again, a sunflower on a withered stalk.

"Why then?"

THE DESERTER - "I don't really know. I was there one night and she was crying, like a child -- in the corner of her room, on the floor. Like she does sometimes...."

"When was this?"

THE DESERTER - "The day after I'd killed him."

"And you brought her May bells?"

THE DESERTER - "Yes," he looks at the charred logs. "I don't know why I do the things I do anymore."

VOLITION [Challenging: Success] - It's as if something *put* the thought there. To leave the flowers.

"You wanted to console her."

"You wanted to manipulate her."

"Something *put* the thought in you. A compulsion."

Say nothing.

THE DESERTER - "What do you mean *put*?" He raises his eyes. They're round and wide.

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - A brief flash of terror.

"I just got this feeling. From what you said. Do you agree?"

"Nothing."

THE DESERTER - "Maybe..." He lowers his head and just stares at the logs. "I told you, I have holes in my brain now. I wouldn't just sit here waiting for you..."

+5 XP

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] - A sudden pang of rage.

THE DESERTER - "If you came ten years ago, I would have killed you." He wipes his eye.

KIM KITSURAGI - In the silence, the lieutenant draws a line in his notes. Then nods at you once more.

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - One more down.

4. "So in conclusion, it wasn't about him. It was about *her*." (Conclude.)

THE DESERTER - "Her..." He repeats, staring at the ashes -- then the reeds. There's a twitch in the corner of his eye.

KIM KITSURAGI - The lieutenant nods at you, in acknowledgement.

Task complete: Extract a motive

+70 XP

Level up!

ESPRIT DE CORPS [Easy: Success] - That's it. Motive. We have it.

THE DESERTER - "Where is she... that *Klaasje*?" The old man looks at you. "I haven't seen her there for days."

#disco elysium #kim kitsuragi #harrier du bois #iosef lilianovich dros #klaasje amandou

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hiswordsarekisses · 1 year ago

Text

This is the most heart touching story that I have read in a long time.

Jim preaches at a church in the slums of New York. He tells the following story:

It was Easter Sunday, and I was so tired at the end of the day that I just went to the edge of the platform, pulled down my tie and sat down and draped my feet over the edge. It was a wonderful service with many people coming forward. The counselors were talking with these people.

As I was sitting there, I looked up the middle aisle, and there in about the third row was a man who looked about fifty, disheveled, filthy. He looked up at me rather sheepishly, as if saying, “Could I talk to you?” We have homeless people coming in all the time, asking for money or whatever. So, as I sat there, I said to myself, though I am ashamed of it, “What a way to end a Sunday. I’ve had such a good time, preaching and ministering, and here’s a fellow probably wanting some money for more wine.”

He walked up. When he got within about five feet of me, I smelled a horrible smell like I’d never smelled in my life. It was so awful that when he got close, I would inhale by looking away, and then I’d talk to him, and then look away to inhale, because I couldn’t inhale facing him.

I asked him, “What’s your name?” “David.” “How long have you been on the street?” “Six years.” “How old are you?” “Thirty-two.” He looked fifty—hair matted, front teeth missing, wino, eyes slightly glazed. “Where did you sleep last night, David?” “Abandoned truck.”

I keep in my back pocket a money clip that also holds some credit cards. I fumbled to pick one out thinking, I’ll give him some money.

I won’t even get a volunteer. They are all busy talking with others. Usually we don’t give money to people; we take them to get something to eat. I took the money out. David pushed his finger in front of me. He said, “I don’t want your money. I want this Jesus, the One you were talking about, because I’m not going to make it.

I’m going to die on the street.”

I completely forgot about David, and I started to weep for myself. I was going to give a couple of dollars to someone God had sent to me. See how easy it is? I could make the excuse I was tired. There is no excuse. I was not seeing him the way God sees him. I was not feeling what God feels.

But oh, did that change! David just stood there. He didn’t know what was happening. I pleaded with God, “God, forgive me! Forgive me! Please forgive me. I am so sorry to represent You this way. I’m so sorry. Here I am with my message and my points, and You send somebody and I am not ready for it. Oh, God!”

Something came over me. Suddenly I started to weep deeper, and David began to weep. He fell against my chest as I was sitting there. He fell against my white shirt and tie, and I put my arms around him, and there we wept on each other. The smell of His person became a beautiful aroma. Here is what I thought the Lord made real to me: If you don’t love this smell, I can’t use you, because this is why I called you where you are. This is what you are about. You are about this smell.

Christ changed David’s life. He started memorizing portions of Scripture that were incredible. We got him a place to live. We hired him in the church to do maintenance, and we got his teeth fixed.

He was a handsome man when he came out of the hospital. They detoxed him in 6 days.

He spent that Thanksgiving at my house. He also spent Christmas at my house. When we were exchanging presents, he pulled out a little thing, and he said, “This is for you.” It was a little white hanky. It was the only thing he could afford.

A year later, David got up and talked about his conversion to Christ. The minute he took the mic and began to speak, I said, “The man is a preacher.” This past Easter, we ordained David. He is an associate minister of a church over in New Jersey.

And I was so close to saying, “Here, take this; I’m a busy preacher.” We can get so full of ourselves.

Lord, thank you for sending others our way. May we never stop seeing them as Your precious children no matter how busy or tired we become. Amen

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forensicated · 5 months ago

Text

02x11 - Whose Side Are You On?

TW: Discussion of race in terms of the mid-80s.

Bob: "Sorry to have dragged you from your orthopedic bed, Hollis but there's work to be done."

Jim: Don't scare him, Sarge!

Uniform are piling in for early turns briefing. Tom is manning the front office and is fussing and tidying everything even with the cleaner in the same room and cleaning! Jim and June are placed together and tasked to focus on a series of bag snatches happening around a supermarket. (Taffy: Perhaps they should stop calling it Safeway!" 😂 I thought this was really good but they all groaned 🤣) Pete asks if there's any description of the suspects and Viv points out what everyone else is thinking he means. "He means are they black, Sarge?" The only description is "youths". Abe asks if there are reports of any crocodile bags that have been taken. Bob asks why that might be important and Abe replies "Black people won't go near crocodiles so if they are it must be whites!" the others laugh, mocking Pete.

Tom interrupts the briefing with a note from the Superintendent. He's ordering-but-not-official-ordering everyone to attend the 5-a-side football match on Sunday that Sun Hill are playing against a youth club. He'll be hearing all excuses for absences personally.

Reg is still moaning about his bad back with Bob quipping to Viv that she should help him walk the few steps from the parade room to the comms desk. Reg doesn't find it funny. "Am I laughing?" Bob retorts.

Mike has a training session organised for the 5-a-side match but he's too late to have it mentioned in the briefing. Bob suggests a poster, "You know none of your lot can read, that's why they put pictures on wanted posters." Roy has already dipped out - it's his day for his daughter and they're going to the zoo (from what we've heard of her that sounds a bit... young... for her). Bob tries to get a place on the team and Mike not-so-subtly says that Bob is too old as it's a group of teens they're playing. He claims that 'his lot' are only a couple of years older than them and get out of breath putting their shoes on. "Bloody cheek! Just because I sit behind a desk all day doesn't mean I'm not fit, I keep active!" He then goes down to ask Viv if he looks fit to her. "Yeah, fit to drop, Sarge!"

Roy is concerned about a result that's due in court and Mike tells him not to worry. "That's my middle name!" He finds a file on Ted's desk for a murder that is 3 days old, a file that he had asked to be brought directly to his attention as soon as it arrived. "A murder? Who's dead?" Mike asks. "Roach will be when I get my hands on him!" He sends Mike in to drag him out of the canteen where he'll be filling his face again - but not before he gets him a coffee.

Pete comes to the rescue of a [new and attractive] female traffic warden when a man is reading her the riot act about how unfair she is being. He's very evasive as soon as Pete arrives, driving off as quick as possible. He then asks her for a date, claiming it's his treat and he'll see her there at 12 on Sunday, trying his best chat up lines on her which includes quoting The Beatles.

Roy bollocks Ted for not handing him the murder file immediately. Ted claims he was working towards it and that it isn't as important as the others because it was 'just a wino'. Roy tells him that murder always takes precedence and that it's no wonder Ted is always wondering why he doesn't get on in the force.

Jim and June spot an attempted mugging near a pub (Three Swedish Crowns, now a restaurant). The elderly lady is more concerned she's dropped her fish and chips. Jim follows him into an alley and ends up injuring himself.

Pete approaches an unlicensed seller who is selling from a suitcase in the street. As soon as he sees him the man legs it. 2 teenagers wind him up and he attempts to nab them but they weren't involved so he can't - as much as they irritate him.

June finds that the lady who was almost mugged has no electricity and won't for at least another day until the social visit. The gas is still on so June boils her a pan of water to make her some tea and a flask for later. She tells June to make sure she dies before her husband. Unfortunately for her, it didn't work out that way. Her only friends are at bingo so she goes there each time she gets her pension. If she wins - she pays the bills. That's how the gas is still on.

Pete tries to pull some money out at an ATM in advance of his date. Unfortunately, he's exceeded his limit and it won't let him have any.

Jim has twisted his ankle and has to attend the hospital. He manages to get Bob to let him see the rest of the shift out first and takes over the comms desk with Bob going on the beat in Jim's place. "Last time you were on the beat we had bicycles and fog lamps." Tom smirks. "And Jack The Ripper was still out and about, I've heard it all." Bob snarks in response.

Charles tries to get Roy to rearrange his Sunday afternoon to attend the football to make a presentation. Roy reminds him he can't because he has leave booked to spend time with his daughter but Charles doesn't really take no for an answer. Roy is not happy.

2 Japanese tourists ask June if she can take a picture of them and Bob together after they've (sort of, given the language barrier) told them how to get to Tower Bridge. "Well smile!" "This is a smile!" From the way it comes about I can't help but wonder if it was some lost tourists and they stayed in character to help and it got included 😂

Roy asks his daughter if they can delay their afternoon slightly and wants her to meet him at the Zoo. "The Zoo...? It's a bit boring...." Julia replies before suggesting shopping in Covent Garden instead. Roy gives in, agreeing to meet her at 4.30pm.

Mike hadn't heard what had happened to Jim and is not impressed when it's clear he wouldn't be ready for Sunday and the game. Mike calls Jim is the best player they had and is visibly concerned when June tells him that Bob is looking for him. "I bet he is..." Mike sighs. Seconds later, Reg tells him that Bob is looking for him. He escapes to CID and Ted tells him that Bob was in looking for him. 😂 Got to hand it to him, Bob is a trier! Mike admits he already knows, telling Ted that Bob wants to play in the match. Ted smirks, telling him that Roy is now attending so perhaps he can be talked into it. "No thanks, amongst all his other pet hates is football."

Ted has finally got a name for his murder victim - Henry, known as King Henry. Roy asks Mike how his trial went and he has to admit that it was adjourned through circumstantial evidence centered around the criminal's tools - as his "employer" vouched for him that he needed them for his job - despite him never having worked a day in his life.

Bob orders Reg to go for a full physical because he's had enough of him complaining about his back and slacking off. If there is something really wrong with him - he's having him transferred! Bob then helps Ted track down the address of a nurse who helps the homeless and drunks on an ad-hoc basis - the entire time Mike is trying very hard to avoid meeting his eyeline!

Abe appears to be limping slightly but he insists it'll keep and he will be fine for the game. Pete refuses to play on Sunday because he's on a date seeing his invalid mother having borrowed money from June to go see her. Abe suggests to Mike that if he doesn't want Bob on the team then perhaps he should look at the women to step up. He suggests Viv in particular as she plays netball. Dashers asks Viv and pretends that Brownlow gave him a bollocking for not asking a female officer because they're an "equal opportunities employer." Viv agrees and Dashers switches on the charm. "I bet you look wonderful in shorts." The boys find it hilarious when she tells them she's going to be their goalie.

A guest character's name is Billy Murray. I'm easily amused.

Pete manages to nick his suitcase trader finally, sneaking in round the back way. Reg has gone out with Tom to help collect him, sulking as he has to carry the trader's suitcase. Roy finds that his 'branded' watches are fakes and suggests a criminal deception charge. The seller claims he bought them with his redundancy money from a man in the pub and he'd been knocking them out to make a living.

An elderly lady tells Ted that his drunk's wife and child were killed by a gas leak whilst he was working nights and it gave him serious mental health issues and led him to drink. He had fancy ideas of buying his house with the compensation he was meant to receive from the gas board but he never did get it and the street was knocked down not long after - he ended up living rough afterwards. The nurse Bob put him in touch with tells him that Henry had a very ugly and badly patched scar on his stomach from a war wound. All in all the poor man had a very sad life.

Pete sits in the pub on Sunday waiting for the traffic warden to arrive. At the very best she's running late, at worst he's been stood up. When she doesn't show up, he heads to the football match.

Sun Hill starts to arrive for the football match with the Rotary Club man assuming that Ted is DI Galloway. He wonders if they can do the presentation before the game because he has a pressing engagement. Uniform and Mike go to change and Viv heads into the ladies with Yorkie offering to go with her with a jokey promise of "I won't look!" "I might." Viv smirks. "And I might be disappointed!" "We're not here to win but we're not here to lose either!" Mike tells them, insisting it came down from the Super.

The Sun Hill team are not bad players... but poor old Viv is not a born goalie and the youths are 2 nil up within minutes. Abe makes it 2-1.

Viv makes her first save, Abe behaves like a gentleman after a foul and Yorkie makes it 2-2. Jim is moaning about Taffy and how badly he's playing in 'his position'. Uniform bet on the outcome of the match. There seems to be a bit of a continuity error too as Jeff/Reg has no earring and then an earring in the same sentence.

Reg thinks Taffy is dying out there and Jim scoffs that he's dead with Tom adding they should send him home for his funeral given how he's playing. Roy wants them to hurry up as he wants to get to meet his daughter. In the toilets, Bob goes to pull up Pete for using racial insults against Abe. Roy comes through part of the way in and tells Pete he should listen to Bob, his prejudice has been noted. Roy hands Bob some money to buy everyone a drink after but he skips out early to spend time with his daughter, lamenting that if he'd done it that way before now he might still have a marriage.

Jim thinks he recognises the two he was chasing before he did his ankle in. They end up 5-2 down. Jim asks Abe how he's going to live it down. "Viv. A woman.... the best excuse a man can ever have."

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