#yeah it's a work in progress for the poor Stanley

[lexumpysfunland]

can you show all your characters from The Stanley parable plsss❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤❤

sure thing! I'm thinking of redoing Walter's ref though-

and I'm not finished with Stanley's ref but, here is something so far

for now it's all, I haven't been doing anything on Mariella yet so it's a future thing x)

[thelastspeecher]

A Case of Mistaken Identity - Chapter 4: Fear No Weather

Chapter 1   Chapter 2   Chapter 3   Chapter 4   AO3

I don’t often just sort of, discretely, without warning, update a multichap.  I usually mention ahead of time that I’m working on the next chapter and it’s getting close, maybe I even post a small screenshot.  But this time, I was so focused on getting the next chapter of this fic up that I forewent that.

Anyways, this chapter has Stan being a cynic and Mabel being a delight and Fiddleford being suspicious of what exactly Ford is up to when he’s not around.  Enjoy.

———————————————————————————————————–

              Ford gaped at Stan.

              “What do you mean, ‘who are they’?  They’re your children!” Ford protested.  “I told you that-”

              “Yeah, you said that I had two kids that showed up at your place,” Stan said.  He crossed his arms.  “I was an idiot to believe you.”

              “They are your-”

              “Hey, kids,” Stan barked.

              “Yes?” Dipper squeaked.

              “You twins?” Stan asked.  Dipper and Mabel nodded.  “How old are the two of you?”

              “Twelve,” Mabel replied.

              “Twelve.”  Stan narrowed his eyes at Ford.  “If they were mine, I woulda had to knock up some poor girl while I still lived at home. I know you don’t think much of me, but do you really think I’d be a teen dad?  After everything Pops pounded into our skulls?”

              “I wouldn’t put it past you,” Ford said shortly. Stan huffed impatiently.  He began to walk away.  Ford raised his voice.  “After all, you seem perfectly fine abandoning your children!”  Stan rounded on Ford, his face beet red.

              “Fuck off, you prick!” he snarled.  Fiddleford let out a yelp.

              “Stanley, please, there are children here!” Fiddleford protested.  Stan didn’t even look over at Fiddleford, instead continuing to glare at Ford.

              “Shut up, Ford’s ‘partner’,” he ground out, etching air quotes around the word “partner”.  Fiddleford flushed.  “First off, kids should learn swears.  Second, I don’t give a damn about keeping a clean mouth when Ford’s telling me I’m a deadbeat dad and fine with it.  He knows that I always swore I wouldn’t do that.”

              “You also swore you’d stand by me, only to sabotage-” Ford started.  Stan threw his hands into the air.

              “Wow, it only took you five minutes to bring that up, huh?  I went outta my way to come see you ‘cause you insisted-”

              “As if you were doing anything of note-” Ford scoffed.

              “For all you know, I was solving cancer!”

              “You were either dumpster diving or being thrown out of a casino!”

              “Like you’re doing something more important, holed up in a romantic cabin-”

              “Gentlemen!” Fiddleford said loudly.

              “You’re not involved, hayseed.  And trust me, you don’t want to be,” Stan snarled.

              “Don’t call Fiddleford-”

              “I’ll call him whatever the damn well I want to!” Stan’s voice was now a low roar. Ford raised his to match.

              “Oh, Lord,” Fiddleford muttered, kneading his forehead.

              “Just let them tire themselves out,” Mabel said. Fiddleford shook his head.

              “Sweetling, I grew up with five siblin’s.  I know when an argument will turn into a fist fight,” he said tiredly.  Dipper and Mabel exchanged a look.

              “Should we spill the beans?” Mabel whispered.

              “They’ll figure it out eventually.  We might as well tell them before they bring the house down,” Dipper hissed back.  Mabel nodded. She hopped off her chair and walked over to the brothers, who had progressed to screaming at each other.

              “Stan’s right,” she called over the noise.  Stan gestured at her.

              “See, Sixer?  I told you I didn’t have any kids.”

              “What?  But…” Ford seemed heartbroken.  “I don’t-”

              “Stan isn’t our dad.  He’s our great-uncle.  And as far as we can tell, so are you, Ford.”

              “Great, huh?” Stan snorted.  He crossed his arms.  “Kid, we haven’t known each other long enough for you to know what I’m like as an uncle.”

              “Not great as in like, good.  Great as in…”  Mabel looked at Dipper, who got down from his chair and joined her.

              “Great as in two generations removed,” he explained. Ford frowned.

              “A great-uncle is the brother of a grandparent. Are you saying that Shermie is your grandfather?”  Dipper and Mabel nodded.  “That’s impossible.  Shermie’s children aren’t old enough to have children your age.  Not to mention, Shermie’s too young to be a grandfather.”

              “Right now, he’s too young,” Dipper agreed. Ford’s eyes widened.  He crouched down to the twins’ eye-height.

              “Are you suggesting you are from the future?” he asked breathlessly.  Dipper and Mabel nodded again.  Ford’s eyes, brown like theirs, sparkled behind his glasses.  “Remarkable.”

              “Really?  You believe them?” Stan demanded.  “You’re not even gonna ask for proof?”

              “I’ve seen far stranger things in Gravity Falls than time travelers,” Ford said.  He raised an eyebrow.  “Though maybe Stanley has a point.  Do you two have any proof to offer?”  Wordlessly, Dipper drew the journal from his jacket.  Ford’s jaw dropped.  “My journal!”

              “Don’t read anything in it,” Dipper said quickly. Ford nodded.

              “I won’t even open it, my dear boy.  Just seeing the outside is enough to fully sway my opinion.”  Ford looked the journal over a few times, then handed it back, despite clearly wanting to hold on to it longer.  Stan scoffed.

              “He shows you some book and you’re convinced, huh? Y’know, pulling a prank doesn’t have to be this damn complicated,” Stan said snidely.  Ford stood.  He frowned at Stan.

              “This is no prank.”

              “If you want me to believe you, I’m gonna need some proof.”  Stan stared directly at Dipper and Mabel.  “Tell me tomorrow’s lotto numbers.”

              “We don’t know those,” Dipper said.  Mabel shook her head.

              “If you’re really from the future, you’d have some fancy future tech,” Stan said.  Dipper and Mabel shook their heads.  Stan’s face hardened.  “Yeah. Figured.”

              “Uh, give us a moment,” Dipper said.  He pulled Mabel over to the side to whisper to her.  “How are we supposed to convince Stan?  He’s a notorious cynic!  I mean, he lived in Gravity Falls for years, but refused to acknowledge the existence of the supernatural!”

              “Well, we don’t have any technology that is future-y enough,” Mabel said slowly.  “Maybe we let him know something that we know about him?”

              “That would only work if Ford didn’t know it, either. If it’s something Ford would know, then Stan will just think Ford told us.”

              “So it has to be something that happened after Stan left home,” Mabel said.  Dipper nodded.  “Hmm…” Her eyes brightened.  “Oh!  I’ve got it!”

              “Really?”

              “Yeah!”

----- 

              A couple weeks into their stay in Gravity Falls, Mabel woke up before Dipper.  Knowing how late her brother tended to stay up, she decided to let him sleep in, and happily traipsed downstairs for some breakfast.  Her bubbly mood was slightly stifled by the sight of Stan in just his boxers and undershirt, cooking at the stove, looking more ogrish than usual.

              He probably just hasn’t had a chance to freshen up yet.

              “You’re up early,” Stan grunted.  Using a large wooden spoon, he poked whatever was cooking in the skillet.

              “I don’t need much beauty sleep,” Mabel replied. To her delight, the comment elicited a small smile from Stan.  She bounded to his side.  “What’s for breakfast?”

              “I went classic today.  Bacon and eggs.”

              “…Bacon?”

              “Yeah.  You heard of it, right?  It’s the best dam- darn food in the world, kid.”

              “No, I’ve heard of it.  I’ve even had it.  But Dad told us that you keep kosher, like Grampie Shermie.”

              “Heh.  He probably thinks that ‘cause Shermie told him we kept kosher as kids.  But the day I left home, I said ‘screw it’ and tried bacon. Never looked back.  Best decision I ever made.”

              “Really?  You haven’t done anything else in your entire life that was better than deciding to eat bacon?” Mabel asked doubtfully.  A sudden somber fell over her grunkle.

              “…No,” he said.

              “Oh.”  It was as though Stan’s mood was contagious.  Mabel could feel herself getting more serious as well.  “That’s kinda sad, though.”

              “Eating bacon is the best thing I’ve done so far,” Stan said brightly.  His mood switch was so abrupt that Mabel doubted it was genuine.  “I might be old, but I’ve still got some time to do something even better than eat bacon.”

              “Like what?” Mabel asked.  Stan raised an eyebrow at her.

              “Whattaya think?”

              “Hmm…”  Mabel frowned thoughtfully.  She beamed. “Oh!  You could write a series of mystery novels called Crime Grandpa!” Stan snorted.  Mabel took this as a sign to continue.  “You could teach a bear how to drive!”

              “That’s actually not half bad,” Stan said.

              “You could save Dipper from magical math!”

              “Magical math, huh?” Stan asked.  Mabel nodded.  “How would I do that?”

              “You’re the one that saves him, not me.”

              “Heh.”  Stan ruffled Mabel’s hair.  “Guess I’ll have to work on that one, then.  Now, stop bugging me, or I’ll burn breakfast.”

              Mabel went over to the kitchen table.  She sat in her chair, kicking her legs idly.  As she waited for food, she could barely make out Stan muttering to himself.

              “I bet Dan could find some bear I could use…”

----- 

              “What did you think of?” Dipper asked, dragging Mabel out of the memory.  Mabel grinned and trotted over to Stan.  She leaned her head back to look into his face.

              “Grunkle Stan, your favorite food is bacon!” she said. Stan’s face went slack.

              “No, it’s toffee peanuts,” Ford said.  “Stan’s never even had bacon.”

              “The day after he left home, he tried bacon,” Mabel said, “and he never looked back.”  Stan swore softly under his breath.  “Do you believe us now, Grunkle Stan?”

              “I don’t think I fully believe you, squirt,” Stan said after a moment.  “But you’ve got my attention at least.  I’ll hear you out.”  Mabel’s grin broadened.  Stan looked over at Fiddleford.  “Why are you so quiet, hayseed?  No comment?”

              “I already said my comments when they told me the truth the other day,” Fiddleford said with a shrug.  Ford’s jaw dropped again.  “Stanley, since yer willin’ to at least listen now, would ya mind joinin’ us fer breakfast?”

              “A free meal?”  Stan marched over to the table, grabbed a chair, pulled it out, and sat. He put his feet up on the table. “Like I’d turn that down.”

----- 

              While Dipper and Mabel told their great-uncles how they wound up in the past, Stan practically inhaled multiple bowls of breakfast scramble doused in sausage gravy.  The kids watched in almost awe as their grunkle put away food at an unnervingly fast pace.  The speed was actually concerning to Dipper, who began to wonder if there was a nefarious reason for Stan’s appetite.

              It’s like he hasn’t had anything to eat in days. A strange sensation squeezed Dipper’s gut.  That might actually be the case.  Who knows what he’s been up to?  Judging by Fiddleford’s concerned expression, he was thinking along similar lines.

              “Where is this time travel device?” Ford asked, once they had finished their story.

              “We gave it to Mr. McGucket,” Mabel said. Wordlessly, Fiddleford drew the tape measure out of his back pocket.  He placed it on the table.  Ford picked it up.  He let out a long breath of astonishment.

              “This is incredible.”

              “Looks like something you could get at the hardware store for two bucks,” Stan said in between mouthfuls of food.  “Why are you believing these kids?”

              “Do you still doubt they’re from the future?”

              “Yes.  I already said that,” Stan said impatiently.  “I’m just hearing them out so that I can decide whether I actually believe ‘em or not.  So far, I’m leaning towards thinking they’re pulling some sort of weird con.”

              “How else can they convince you?” Ford asked. Stan shrugged.  “If you can’t provide an example of the evidence needed, how-”  Ford was interrupted by a beeping sound.  “What is that?”

              “Hell if I know,” Stan muttered.  He began shoveling food into his mouth again. “Some sorta weird, nerdy, mad science thing?”

              “If it was something Fiddleford or I made, I would recognize the noise it makes,” Ford said irritably.

              “Maybe it started working right while you weren’t looking,” Stan said.  Ford glared.

              “You-”

              “It’s my watch,” Dipper said quickly.  He shut off the alarm on his digital watch. “It’s letting me know the battery’s getting low, that’s all.”

              “That’s yer watch?” Fiddleford asked.  Dipper nodded.  “I’ve never heard a watch make that sort of sound.  What kind is it?”

              “Uh…a digital electronic wristwatch?” Dipper said warily.  Ford and Fiddleford’s eyes widened.  Stan, however, held out a hand.

              “Show me,” he instructed.  Dipper hesitated.  “I won’t steal it from you.  I know better than to pocket something people are looking at.”  Dipper reluctantly removed his watch and handed it over.  Stan held the watch up to his eyes, squinting.

              Why is he holding it so close?  Dipper abruptly remembered how blind Stan was in the future.  Does he need glasses?  Ford does.  Finally, Stan set the watch down on the table.  He slid it back to Dipper, who put it on his wrist again.

              “Why didn’t you show me that from the beginning?” he asked.  Dipper and Mabel’s jaws dropped.

              “Wait, you believe us now?” Dipper asked.  Stan nodded.

              “But…it’s just a watch,” Mabel said.

              “It’s a watch I’ve only ever seen in movies. There’s no reason someone like you would have one.  So I’ll ask again.  Do you kids know any future lotto numbers?” he asked.  The twins shook their heads.  “Dammit,” he muttered.  “Coulda used the dough.”

              “Even if we knew, we wouldn’t tell you,” Mabel said. “We can’t change the future too much.” Stan smiled, but the expression seemed more sad than amused.

              “Kiddo, you two definitely already screwed things up.”

              “But-” Mabel started.  Ford held up a hand.  She fell silent.

              “Stanley is right,” he said solemnly.  “You two have, undoubtedly, altered the future from the one you came from.”

              “So…we won’t be able to get back home?”

              “Not by using the device that took you here alone. You’ll need to also utilize a tool allowing you to travel between realities, as you now come from an alternate universe, as well as the future.”

              “How are we supposed to find something like that?” Dipper asked.  “We stole the tape measure and wound up breaking it!  We have no idea how to go to a different reality.”  A smile spread across Ford’s face.

              “Luckily, I happen to know someone who has much expertise in other realms.”  That got Fiddleford’s attention.  He watched Ford warily.  “I will go consult him.”  Without another word, he got up from his chair and left the kitchen.

              “Great, just great,” Fiddleford muttered under his breath.  He began to clear the table.  “He’s gettin’ his lil friend involved.”

              “You seem peeved, Fiddlesticks,” Stan commented. Fiddleford sighed.

              “I ain’t met this person he said he’ll talk to, which ain’t a crime in and of itself.  But I get a bad feelin’ ��bout it.”

              “You gotta trust your gut,” Stan said softly. He eyed Dipper and Mabel.  “And my gut says that there’s something big that you two are either leaving out or just flat-out don’t know about.”

              “Why?” Dipper asked.  Stan raised an eyebrow.

              “You guys only think Ford’s your great-uncle. Which to me, makes it sound like you two didn’t even know Ford existed before you came here.”

              “I mean…sort of,” Dipper said, rubbing the back of his neck.  Mabel looked at him questioningly.  “We might as well tell him, Mabel.  You heard Ford.  We already messed up the future.”

              “Yeah,” Mabel said.  She took over for Dipper.  “We knew you, but we thought your name was Stanford.  We didn’t know you, or Ford, or, uh, both of you, had a twin.” Stan swore.  “What?  What’s wrong?”

              “How long was I going by Ford’s name?” Stan asked.

              “You didn’t go by Ford, you still went by Stan,” Dipper said.  “You just said it was short for Stanford.”

              “That’s a bit better, but still not great. Answer the question, kid.”

              “I don’t know how long you went by Stanford. But as far as we knew, our dad thought that was your name, and so did Grampie Shermie.”  Fiddleford, who had progressed from clearing the dishes from the table to washing them, froze.  “We were really confused when we got here.”

              “Yeah.  Yeah, I can see why,” Stan mumbled.  He closed his eyes.  “Shit.”

              “You need to explain yer sudden concern, Stanley,” Fiddleford said, propping a sudsy hand on one hip.  “We can’t read yer mind.”

              “Like you’re not concerned about this new information,” Stan snapped.

              “Oh, believe me, I am.  But yer clearly comin’ to some conclusions that ya need to share with the rest of us.”

              “Fine.”  Stan paused. “I don’t always like my life, but I wouldn’t try to take over Ford’s.  Sure, we pretended to be each other to confuse people when we were kids. But this isn’t tricking our mom. This is…this is something serious. I mean, what happened to Stanley? Ford wouldn’t be me, so what did I do with my real identity?”  Stan was silent for a moment.  “There’s only one circumstance I can think of, where I would pretend to be Ford for years and act like the real me didn’t even exist anymore.  Ford isn’t around.”

              “You think he’s passed, by Dipper ‘n Mabel’s time?” Fiddleford asked softly.  Stan shook his head.

              “I wouldn’t take over Ford’s life if he was dead. That’s wrong on more levels than I can count.  No, Ford’s alive.  Or at least, future me thinks he’s alive.  But he’s missing, in some sort of trouble, and I decided the easiest way to help would be to pretend to be him.”

              “Would you try to help him?” Dipper asked quietly.

              “Am I pissed at Ford?  Yes.  Do I hate his guts?  Yes.  But would I do everything I could to help him?” Stan asked.  He paused. “Yes,” he said.  “We might not be friends anymore, but we’re still brothers. We’re still twins.  I wouldn’t turn my back on him if I thought he was in danger.”

              “Maybe right now, that’s yer reaction, but there’s always the chance that you change,” Fiddleford said.  Stan nodded.

              “Yeah, hayseed, that’s possible.  Maybe I’m a different person in the future.  But at least right now, I can only think of one way to wind up in the situation these kids are describing.  Ford’s in trouble.”

              “What kind of trouble?” Mabel asked.  Stan let out a bark of laughter.

              “If I had any idea, little gremlin, I’d tell you.”

----- 

              Glad to have a reason to leave his twin’s presence, Ford entered his study.  He closed the door behind him, then sat cross-legged on the floor.  Excitement filled him at having such an excellently unique circumstance to consult his muse for.

              I highly doubt, even in his millennia of existence, he’s come across a situation like this.  Ford closed his eyes and began to empty his mind of thoughts.  His excitement made the simple act difficult; it took much longer than usual.  But finally, his head had been cleared.  And in the darkness and silence, his muse came.

              “Well, well, well,” sounded the familiar and welcome voice.

              Ford smiled.

              “Hello, Bill.”

[roseate7]

Did you see everyone’s praising Holtby for finally saying he wouldn’t go to the White House? Gay icon my ass. How long did he wait to finally say this?

I absolutely called it that he would wait until the final hour to finally say something and that people would still shower this basic white guy with praise lol. (nearly 2,000 fucking notes for virtue signalling lmfaooo) I’ve learned a whole lot about hockey fandom on tumblr since my innocent days thinking people were joining the Pens’ fandom’s protest out of earnest and not just because they wanted to shit on the Penguins. I’m totally disillusioned of thinking most of this very white fandom actually gives a fuck about politics more than their favorite white boys.

Because when this happened, all those fans of his hid it the fuck away and refused to acknowledge him saying the same “uh well it’s gonna be a team discussion you know so I don’t wanna say anything right now” that the Pens all said, and that rightly got them in immediate hot water:

Two full months later is when Brett Connolly decided to make his non-committal belated statement, which hilariously proved that the team were in fact not “all together” on the decision. But it’s still funny that he was quicker to make a statement on the visit than Holtby, whose “gay icon” status has nothing more to it than him being raised around the subject of LGBTQ+ rights within his own family and doing the same performative shit that white guys love to do because white fans scream with ecstasy when rich white dudes parrot the most basic shit they’ve heard and go to parades (oh no!! not parades!! and r-r-r-rainbow tap!! what an act of labor for these poor boys akfghksafg).

And because this is going in his tag and I know folks will booohoo that even a performative white guy is still better than a non-performative white guy with less loud but obvious liberal leanings (which is honestly a huge amount of these dumbass white hockey players) then no, they’re not. White NHLers are privileged white men. If they prove themselves actively and openly bigoted then they do. But if they don’t, then their interest in social justice ranges only as far as their own private interest or if they want some easy praise and glorification. That’s as far as them being any ally goes and anyone who believes more is hiding their eyes about the world these boys and men are raised in. 

Stop fucking praising and rewarding them when a black player actually showed up with real, genuine morals and politics when the issue is actually first raised to him: 

^^^That is what a true non-performative White House protest is! That is someone stating morals and personal politics in a way that actually matters!!

The fact that a white guy at the last minute decides not to be in the actual photos is hilariously proven even more of a fake out because the Capitals organization is taking actual underhanded means to try and mitigate fallout by controlling the press coverage of the meeting. 

Holtby and Connolly are getting their dicks sucked on every social media platform, as they knew they would, by virtue signalling and hand-waving and the fact that they delayed and demurred on this issue perfectly reflects the fact that hockey fandom repeatedly failed to protest the many times that everyone but Smith-Pelly failed to reflect decent morality on this subject - and instead waited for the moment they could whip up into promoting whiteness and fakeness for the sake of fandom bias. 

The fact that DSP has been shuffled around in trade talks and finally sent down to the AHL to remove him from the issue is very, very real. He was called a key player to the Capitals winning the Stanley Cup. But okay yeah of course people want to big up the white boy who waited until the final fucking hour to speak up and call it an equal protest to the the black man’s. Sure, gotcha. 

Also, my old gay ass is not fucking impressed by anything a white NHLer has done or is doing. There are zero gay icons in this league.

For anyone thinking about replying with an argument, don’t bother and just go here.

Again, I don’t hate Connolly or Holtby. I don’t love them or even like them that much and yeah I think like a lot of straight white guys they’re blandly in favor of not being assholes. If someone is in their personal circle to help them along in performing to that more then they will. Woohoo.

I hate the way fandom will take the most low-stakes shit from straight white men and turn it into the second coming of allyship. Because this is how white people bury the truth of how hard and how lonely marginalized people have to work just to gain access to - let alone acknowledgement in - white dominated spaces. This is how white dominated spaces curve merit and participation so fucking low that cishets and whites can be included in the hard work done by LGBTQ+ people and people of color. It’s a perfect example of how allyship is casually lumped onto the progress and achievement forged entirely by the people who are affected by oppression.

Devante Smith-Pelly is the only person in all of the Trump White House visit discussion over the past two years who has done right. Rewarding anyone else in any way is an insult to him and his genuine protest for which he has suffered.

[71tenseventeen]

Deepest Desire

A Drabble by 71tenseventeen and @queen-alia

In which Sidney daydreams. 

Sidney has Center Ice on in the background as he makes one last sweep of the living room, making sure everything is tidy.  Not that it matters much—as soon as his teammates descend it will turn into chaos but it can’t hurt to start with a clean slate, he supposes.

He listens to the announcers talk about the goalie situation in Vegas as he starts setting out food and making sure the fridge is stocked with lots of ice and beer.  

The poor team is on their fourth goalie of the season, kicking off with Matt’s concussion during what had been, unarguably, an amazing streak for him. Sidney thinks maybe he’ll call Matt tomorrow, see how he’s doing.  He knows he’s making progress but he feels bad for the kid—going to Vegas was supposed to be his time to shine and he really, really had—until one bad hit took him out for going on six weeks now with no clear timeline for return.  Sidney would definitely call and check in on him tomorrow.

The guys start straggling in and finally, six minutes before puck drop, Geno rolls in, sliding a giant box of pastries onto the counter with a grin.  

“G.  This is all pure sugar!” Sid whines at him as he holds the lid open and stares longingly at the pastries.

Geno extract a beer from the fridge and flips the cap off before taking a pull and raising his eyebrows in amusement. “Exactly what you like.”

Sidney glares at him and piles more celery sticks on his plate before sulking into the living room to stake out his spot.

Geno drops down next to him a minute later with two plates—one loaded with food and one loaded with pastries.  He winks at Sid as he plops it on the coffee table in front of the two of them and Sid elbows him.

The asshole knows Sid too well.

Vegas is playing the Sens and it’s kind of boring, if Sid’s being honest but they still watch, all of them marveling at the way Ferguson is handling himself.

Flower shakes his head.  “That kid has to have the biggest balls in the world. I mean can you fucking imagine?  Being called up from fucking juniors?”

They all nod in agreement with Tanger throwing in, “I’d have shit my fucking pants.”

The game goes on and it’s still boring and Sid thinks about the goalie situation. He’s beyond grateful that Flower is safe and healthy but he starts to wonder, what would they do in a situation like that?  Who would they call up if Flower and Jarry and even DeSmith were hurt.  Would they have to call on someone who had never even seen an AHL game, just like Vegas had?  Or would someone else be able to fill in?

Sidney’s mind starts to wander…

Sidney’s in the middle of his normal pre-game routine when he hears the commotion.  He takes his PBJ and follows the commotion down the hall to an office.  He can hear Sully and the other coaches and it doesn’t sound good.

“...the hell are we supposed to do!  Someone has to suit up!”

“But who? The kid passed out when I told him DeSmith was sick and he was going in the net tonight.”

“So wake him up!”

“You know it doesn’t work that way!”

“We need a fucking goalie!”

“Look, the kid can sit as backup but I don’t think he’ll be able to go out on the ice.  He’s too fucking nervous.”

SId’s eyes grew wide as he listened. If what they were saying was true, unless someone suited up and got in the crease, the Pens would be in violation and automatically lose.  

He will not let that happen.

He tosses the last couple of bites of his sandwich into the trash can and marches to office door, bursting in.  Everyone stops and stares at him.  Sully frowns. “Sid, what do you need? We’re in the middle of a situ—”

Sidney holds up his hand and interrupts him. “I know about the situation. I’ll do it.”

The men gasped and began talking amongst themselves and at Sid.  Sully’s voice was the loudest.  

“Sid, you can’t be serious.  Think about what—”

Sid cuts him off again with a stern look. “HEY! I’ve got this.”  With that he turns and marches back down the hall, calling over his shoulder, “Let’s suit up!”

When Sidney is suited up—Dana somehow was able to quickly sew Sid’s name and number on a spare goalie jersey, amazingly—he leads the team to the door.  Turning to them, he simply says, “Let’s do this!” and then turns and walks to the runway listening to the sounds of his teammates cheering for him.

If he thought those cheers were loud, they’re nothing to the sound of the crowd when he steps on the ice and they realize who is wearing the goalie gear.  There’s a collective gasp and then the crowd goes wild, cheering for Sidney, chanting “Crosby! Crosby! Crosby!”

Sid waves humbly but then puts his head down.  It’s time to focus.

Not long after puck drop, he’s facing his first shot, a weak wrister from Giroux that Sid easily catches in his glove.  He stands up and laughs, leveling a look at Giroux as he says “Puck you.”  Giroux gives him a sour look and skates off, clearly defeated.

Sid makes save after save and suddenly they’re in overtime and the score is still zero to zero, SId having stopped sixty shots already. Then it happens—Couturier gets a breakaway and comes barrelling down the ice, flanked closely by Giroux and Provorov.  Sid gets into position just as Couturier passes it cleanly to Provorov who slaps it towards the goal.  Sid dives and bats it away with his blocker before scrambling to his knees and leaping in the other direction to block Giroux’s rebound shot. They pass it again and now his guys are in the zone and it’s crowded and by the time he sees the puck coming, he knows there’s only one thing to do.  He throws down his gloves and leaps into a barrell roll, coming up just in time to bat the puck down the ice hard with his blocker.  

The crowd goes wild as Couturier skates after it and turns to try to shoot it again.  Sidney blocks it again and looks for someone to pass it to while both groups switch lines.

And, suddenly, he knows what to do.  Elliott is at the other end of the ice, looking towards the bench and Sidney doesn’t hesitate.  He takes his shot.

The puck sails down the ice past everyone making their way on the ice and towards Elliott, who suddenly spots it and laughs.  He gets cocky, tries to make the save with a flourish and it costs him as he fumbles and falls while the puck sails under his pads and into the net.

Sid did it!  He scored the winning goal and they won the game!  His teammates flood the ice and lift him into the air.  The crowd is deafening, chanting his name again and Sid couldn’t hear anyone talking even if they were right next to him.

And then the noise gets impossibly louder and Sid looks over, from atop the shoulders of his team, to see two men skating onto the ice with the Stanley Cup.  His team lowers him down in time for him to take it from them as they hand it over.  “This is yours now,” they say.  “You earned it.”

Sid lifts it above his head on the ice and smiles bigger than he’s ever smiled before, skating it around to the sound of the crowd losing it’s mind….

“SID!!”

Sid blinks and gives himself a shake as he looks up to find six sets of eyes with raised eyebrows looking at him like he’s grown a third arm.  He realizes belatedly that he’s smiling hard and does his best to school his face into an acceptable expression.

He clears his throat.  “Um.  Yeah?”

Flower raises his eyebrows impossibly higher.  “What the hell?”

“Um.  Ha. I guess I just thought of something funny.  Ha ha.  Um, who needs topped off?”  Sidney jumps up and escapes to the kitchen.

[wannabeagrunklefan]

Fic: Fire and Freedom

Pairing: Stancest Rating: PG-13 for language and some implied sexy times, I guess ^^; Author’s Notes: Circus AU! This was written for the Stancest Discord server’s  scavenger hunt. I just wanted to say a quick shout out to my very talented teammates for making this event so fun and for being so kind! You’re all brilliant and I was so inspired by your lovely writing and art! :D And a hearty thank you to my beta team @yehvaru and @reinstotheworld, who made this legible! I know you’re both really busy, so it really touched me that you made time to look over my story and give me some feedback and encouragement. You two are the absolute best and I adore you both to the moon and back! :D <3

The link to this fic on AO3 can be found here.

                “Little shit!”

                Carla sighed heavily, eyes rolled up to the ceiling as if seeking divine patience. “Stanley, don’t start-”

                “‘He’s cheating! He’s behind a curtain! ANYONE could have got him out! You think that’s a good trick?’” Her companion continued on with his tirade in a squeaky, off-key parody of what she assumed was meant to be a child, if the child in question sounded like a leaky bike tire.

                 A leaky bike tire with a serious chain smoking problem.

                “Seriously, kid?” He continued arguing with his imaginary, tiny antagonist, weaving haphazardly through the throng of performers backstage preparing for their acts to start. Carla heaved a frustrated breath as she attempted to keep up, neatly dodging some acrobats and coming dangerously close to Ms. Petunia’s prized, trained poodle, Rex, earning her a vicious glare from the older woman. “Anyone could have gotten me outta handcuffs and a locked tank of water in the middle of a giant, empty stage?? The entire point is that I escape on my own!”

                “To be fair, the tank’s not really sealed as tightly as it looks, though,” Carla couldn’t help but point out, trying to take the wind out of his sails before he made it clear across the Atlantic Ocean fueled on spite alone.

                It seemed to work slightly, as far as distractions went, as Stanley’s steps did slow somewhat. “I know that, and you know that, but that’s not the point,” he growled, punctuating the end of his sentence with a few vicious stabs in the air with a pointer finger. “My job is to create an illusion that inspires ‘wonder’ and ‘the inner child’, and that real child is being a real asshole!”

                “Yeah, I see what you mean,” Carla replied dryly. “What child wouldn’t experience a sense of wonder watching a happy-go-lucky guy like you answer their innocent question with a ‘Bite me, kid!’?”

                Her companion narrowed his eyes in a mockingly fierce glare and put indignant hands on his hips as his body relaxed into a more playful posture. Bull-headed as Stan was, at least he could concede the point when he was being ridiculous. In his own, silent way, of course. “Yanno what? You can bite me too, Carla.”

                “Been there, done that, sugar,” she replied, patting him lightly on the shoulder as he grinned. She wrinkled her nose for effect as she added, “never again.”

                He burst into laughter, resting a hand over his heart. “You break my heart, McCorkle! Just like you did that night when you left me fer some clown!”

                She immediately shoved him in frustration, forcing more laughter out of him. “NO! It wasn’t funny the first fifty-thousand times you made that joke, and it isn’t funny now! Ugh, I can’t deal with you when you’re like this. Where’s your brother? Why isn’t he suffering you like the rest of us? FORD!” She yelled at a nearby camper, their original destination (Stanley’s destination was always Stanford), and relished the violent tremor that ran through it as she had no doubt startled Ford out of a deep focus.

                One chair scrape and several heavy, booted steps later, and the door to the RV swung open, revealing Ford’s perplexed face and emitting a faint scent of chemicals. He quirked a brow in Carla’s direction. “You bellowed?”

                She frowned at his word choice and crossed her arms defiantly, pointedly ignoring the sniggering coming from the manchild behind her. “You’re a fire tamer, right?”

                His brows scrunched together in a mild frown as he thought the question over. “I suppose you could call it that. But I prefer to say I work with fire-”

                “Deal with this,” she interrupted, grabbing a handful of Stan’s sleeve and dragging him over to his brother. “There was a rowdy kid and now he’s all riled up, and if you don’t take him now I’ll throw a knife at him and I can’t guarantee I’ll miss.”

                Stanford rolled his eyes as he stepped back to allow Stanley entry. “I’ll deal with it, but I can’t promise it’ll stay dealt with,” he countered, leaping back as Stanley laid a comically exaggerated and loud kiss to his cheek. “AGH! Stanley, what the hell?” he yelped, rubbing a hand up and down his cheek, face flushed and lips twisted into a grimace when his hand passed over saliva.

                “Thanks, bro,” Stanley said as he made his way cheerfully into their shared space. “I feel so loved!”

                Ford turned back to Carla, his expression deadpan. “Run, while you still can.”

                She laughed and punched him playfully on the shoulder. “Thanks. I owe you one.”

                “Oh, and Carla?” Stanley popped up over Ford’s shoulder, and that’s when Carla realized she had to leave now.

                “Gotta go, Stan! Talk to you later, ok?” she called over her shoulder as she swiftly turned around and began making her escape.

                “Oh! Ok. Could you just thank Thistle for me when you see ‘im?”

                …Damn him and damn her curiosity straight to hell. She turned around with what she hoped was an effective warning look. “Thank him for what?”

               Stan quickly held up his hands in a placating gesture. “Whoa! Hey! No need fer that! I just genuinely wanted to thank him for helpin’ me put away all my props ‘n stuff yesterday.”

               Carla could feel her shoulders returning to their more relaxed positions. That was actually… “…Thanks, Stan. I’ll tell him you said that.”

               He smiled. “No problem, Carla. I just wanted to make sure he knew I appreciated his kind jester.”

               There’s no way of knowing for sure, but it was generally accepted by everyone at the circus that day that the ensuing, aggrieved shriek could be heard the next city over.

               “We’re going to need hearing aids soon if you keep winding her up like that.”

               Stanley grinned mischievously from his place against the wall as he watched his twin fiddle around with his latest fuel-concoction. “That was a good one, wasn’t it? Even better than I hoped for!”

               Ford shook his head in exasperation as he continued with his work. “I honestly don’t know what you hope to achieve by bothering that poor girl. Didn’t she suffer enough as your girlfriend?”

              Stan barked out a laugh and pushed off the wall, coming over to Ford to wrap a hand around one shoulder as he leaned over the other to observe his twin’s progress. “Yanno, I’d clock you a good one fer that remark if it wasn’t dripping with jealousy.” He glanced to the side to look for Ford’s reaction and – there! A quick spasm of fingers around the beaker he was holding, a slight quiver of a pipette in a suddenly unsteady hand and a jaunty bounce of an Adam’s apple were all Stan’s to cherish; small pieces of evidence of his twin’s affection that he could collect like an emotional magpie, decorating his life with pieces of love and hoarding the warmth they brought him.

              “Who’s jealous?” Ford asked, in the most chalant-nonchalant sort of way. Stanley hoped he wasn’t sincerely trying to sound unaffected, because that would mean his brother was the worst liar in history and bullshit was basically their trade, so…not a good combination. “I just meant that perhaps you should…ease up a little. No person should be screaming that much, that regularly.”

               “No?” Stan asked casually, plucking the beaker and pipette out of Ford’s hands and setting them down safely out of harm’s way, as Ford avidly stared at the side of his head. “You couldn’t see any advantages to screaming loudly on a regular basis?” He continued his line of questioning, pulling out the chair Ford is sitting in and sitting down in the newly created space of his twin’s lap. He looped his arms around Ford’s neck, grinning in triumph as he felt strong hands grip his hips, some stray fingers slipping under his shirt and coming to a stop to lightly caress the skin underneath. He licked his lips as he gazed into brilliant, warm brown eyes, so much more vibrant and arresting than his own. “No fringe benefits, at all?”

               He watched Ford’s eyes shift from side to side - searching for something, it looked like. The inner workings of Ford’s mind often eluded him. Whatever it was, he must’ve found it, because the firm, stiff line of his mouth softened and melted into a charmingly lazy grin and the feather-light caresses began to move downward with intent. “Well, Carla was certainly right about one thing. You are riled up, aren’t you?”

               Stan grinned devilishly, bringing one hand up to run through Ford’s curly locks, pausing every so often to deliver light, teasing scratches to his scalp. “You bet. She seemed to think that you should deal with me.” Here he grabbed a mass of hair, pulling Ford’s head back. Ford went willingly, offering his throat in its entirety to his brother. “What do you think about that?”

               “I’m not sure,” Ford admitted, looking up at the ceiling. “I’ve never really done well trying to force fire to bend to my will, as I’m sure you remember.” Stan responded with a non-committal hum and a light caress to a pale, pink patch of skin on his brother’s throat. “As I mentioned earlier, my best work seems to come when I treat the fire with respect. Like a partner.” He flicked his eyes down in an attempt to meet Stan’s despite the awkward angle.

               Stan considered him briefly, laid out and submissive beneath him, before throwing aside the façade and finally giving into temptation, bending forward to kiss, lick and suck at every inch of skin he could reach. His twin came alive immediately, hands coming up and grasping at Stan’s shoulders for purchase as he gasped and moaned his pleasure, completely losing himself in the moment.

               It was times like these, here in this narrow world where he and Ford were the only things in existence, that Stanley felt like everything slotted into place. Where he could slowly, carefully free his brother from all the invisible trappings of the world outside and celebrate his freedom, celebrate Ford. It was always his most thrilling escape, and when he succeeded it brought him more pride and joy than hundreds of locked tank performances could ever touch.

               Every soft gasp was like the rattle of a loosening chain, every moan the click of a lock springing open under his hands. Every desperate plea was like the awed gasps of an enthralled crowd and every call of his name the thunderous applause of a phantom audience. With Ford he reached new heights and it was with Ford that he achieved some of his greatest accomplishments.

               When they were together, he received some of Ford’s magic too. Every light caress trailed fire along his nerve-endings, and every kiss seared into him like a brand. Ford’s intense gaze lit a fire in his gut and his fierce embrace was scalding enough to melt away the outside fears and anxieties that plagued him while leaving his heart and soul feeling blissfully warm.

              Together they were two fires that burned brightly, twining and melting into one another to become an intimidating force of nature. Together, they broke locks and rent chains asunder, lifting each other to previously unattainable heights where they could soar in their freedom.

              Together, the future was bright.

              Together, they made the impossible possible.

[braindamageforbeginners]

Day 36, Radiation 24, Serum Infusion 5 (sort of)

I realize that I tend to be discursive and verbose (in writing, anyway, I’m a surprisingly quiet person in real life); HOWEVER, dear reader, if the potential walls of text seem intimidating, let me just say, I cover a helluva lot of ground in this one. Benchmarks shall be reached; insights had; exhilarating heights and terrifying lows reached. Or, yesterday marked an important date, I had some critical insights to surviving deadly diseases (

So; yesterday marked the final initial serum infusion (I know that sounds like I’m a demented time traveler; hang with me). The “initial” treatment period for GBM - usually agreed as the “critical” treatment period - is a six-week course of 42 days of chemotherapy, 30 radiation doses (you get weekends off), and, in my case, five injections of Abraham Erskine’s Special Sauce. This is followed by a 20-30 day vacation - of sorts, followed by a year of on-again-off-again chemo (and, in my case, added bacon bits to Dr. Erskine’s elixer). That’s if everything goes well. If the radiotherapy (which is the very best that every single physician I consulted with recommended) isn’t as effective as predicted/hoped; you can start planning on what requests you’ll make for Tom Petty and Whitney Houston. I mean, there are some things they can do to forestall the disease, manage symptoms, etc. but that’s pretty the cancellation notice on a TV series you were watching. Again, I am amazingly horrified, upset, and angry that my life expectancy and potential is dependent upon which artificial rogue proton hit which carbon ring in an alien invader in my brain. And I’m going to be getting sentenced (as it were), in a month, and a helluva lot will be due to random chance. And healthy people would see this whole thing that the end is in sight, and thus begins a new stage of life (here’s a teachable moment, healthy folks; if you have a friend with a progressive disease, the stages are that they get worse until they die; new stage of life is that they get to skip some stages). So, yeah, after a year of awful news, it feels rather less that the parole board is convening, and much more that the Roulette Wheel is spinning. And I suppose the secret to doing this thing with grace and courage (which, again, I have no intention of doing; I was born a miserable misanthrope) is figuring out how to maximize those spins before the cashier collects. But, that is still a full month off, there are still positive (and negative) possibilities in play, and we shall leave the dark Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come for the rest of the post in favor of me (I suppose I’d be the Ghost of Christmas That one Time Dad Accidentally Misplaced and Mislabeled Everyone’s Gifts, So the Day Ended in a Really Stupid Series of Arguments)(I mean, I love the Christmas Carol, but I think we can all agree that I’m much more in  the vein of idiotic-yet-funny family history stories we use to scare Grandma into silence)(Again, ladies, I am single).

So, we start events bright and early yesterday with me getting my blood drawn. Which always sucks, but I have learned a few tricks over the years (holding the phlebotomist’s family hostage in case they have to stab you more than three times isn’t as effective as you’d think). I have really hard-to-find veins; they’re small, you can’t see them, and they clench up and hide well after a bad attempt. But, I now have the patter down to a fine art, and most decent nurses and phlebotomists can do it by the second try (the record number of attempts, for anyone keeping score, was an MRI tech in NoCal - this was back in the days when techs were allowed to inject dyes into patients on their own; the rules have since changed). The vampire tech in question got me on the first time, and, then installing the IV, accidentally spritzed me with my own life essence. In all fairness, I’ve suffered worse the last time I spilled a drink, in terms of liquid exposure. And, because it’s me, it’s not even the first or second time I’ve been drenched in my own blood - it might be the third or fourth time, I’d have go back and tally them up (and, although “drench” is far too strong a verb in this instance, it wasn’t strong enough to capture the previous occasions)(I desperately wish I was making this up). Now, this wasn’t terribly painful, or, as it turns out, even very inconvenient - thankfully, there’s some mega-methanol fabric cleaner on hand (I don’t know why this surprised me; I’ve had a semi-permanent place in the hospital system since before I could vote)  - which is fortunate, because the constabulary takes a dim view of grown men with blood stains on their crotches (that wasn’t some sort of design on my part, it was just a weird - albeit amusing - outcome of the angles and pressures involved. Anyway, after securing the IV in place, and making me presentable for a court appearance, the Vampire Tech (and this isn’t a slam on her, or anything; it’s just that the job of drawing blood and installing IVs is done by - according to my count - nurses, phlebotomists, technicians, nurses in training, training phlebotomist technicians - you get the idea; there’s 45 possible job titles for the person sticking me with an 18 gage needle)(crucial tidbit for future patients; 20-22 gage needles are about the smallest they’ll use on an adult, and, if you have a documented history of hard-to-find veins, you might want to consider asking for one of those) apologized to me for the mishap; I reciprocated, and she mentioned that she’d used a slightly smaller needle than she thought and moved a little faster, based on my description. She then mentioned - and I do hope you are sitting - that I have really, really big veins, they’re just a bit hard to find.

THE BETRAYAL. ALL IS LIES. You have to understand, folks, I’ve been told that I have small, hard-to-find, hard-to-poke veins, and, all this time, I have mid-grade kitchen pipes. I have to believe - because I’ve had my blood drawn more often than Lance Armstrong in the last sixteen years - that someone would’ve mentioned that my veins are fine, they’re just invisible and not where you expect them, and I forgot. That would be bad, and upsetting, but I would’ve liked to have thought that someone would’ve noticed and mentioned it a second or third time. Of course, I also did down two liters of water a half-hour before the blood draw, so it’s possible my venous system is more aggressively reactionary than Southern politics (drinking a lot of water right before a blood draw a well-known, very effective way to make the phlebotomist’s job easier), and this poor woman underestimated.

So, fast-forward 1400 years to me, in the chemo seat (which is supposed to be comfortable, but it’s amazing how unpleasant impersonal barcaloungers are when you have a tube in your arm, and you daren’t jiggle it lest you get billed for someone’s dry-cleaning bill), getting grilled by Research Coordinator, about assorted side-effects (that’s what they’re testing me for, remember), and he mentions that I’ve already reached the maximum recommended dose and tolerated it well, so I’m probably at my maximal side effects, super-soldier wise. Which makes me feel good, because, even though my arm and shoulder hurt like a sumbitch the next day and I have vague flu-like symptoms, if this is as bad as it gets, experimental drug-wise, it’s pretty tolerable (I mean, depending on how things shake-out, if this is a bimonthly, standard dose, I’ll ask them about some sort of stronger pain-killer or something, because this is extremely unpleasant, but, if this is the price of another decade or two, it’s doable)(even with horrible, horrible Gatorade). Which made me feel all Captain American-y for a brief moment and shine a bit of hope on the darkness. Research Coordinator also mentioned that, even though you only get one radiation treatment per lifetime, if I beat this thing the first time and it comes back, he and the Warlocks are already working on potential treatment plans, trials, and virgin sacrifices to keep me alive. Folks, I’m going to use some strong language here, but, I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again, this is why, if you have a serious illness, do not fuck around with the folks at the local health-mart; go directly to the best. I’m still scared as hell that the radiation won’t take hold and/or this tumor will kill me, but I do feel like, if I can beat this one, I might have something like a normal life expectancy. That might just be the bargaining part stage of grief, though, and it does kind of require me to survive the next several months, which is far from guaranteed. to say the least. HOWEVER, Research Coordinator did assure me that, win, lose, or draw, I’d be getting a few weeks off from Gatorade (I’ll discuss this in further detail later, because it’s not exactly what it sounds like). My major complaint about that interaction is that they skimped on the budget and didn’t get Stanley Tucci to do the interview.

I also had a fascinating conversation with a chemo nurse who was double checking assorted side-effects, prescriptions, patient history, what-have-you. The following conversation has been condensed and slightly edited. NURSE: So, no nausea or vomiting? SELF: Not yet. NURSE: And you’re still on zofran? SELF: Uh, yeah, although i was queasy after the second infusion, so Research Coordinator suggested I double the dosage. But that’s in all the history, and it’s factored in to all of my prescriptions and stuff, as far as I can tell. NURSE (suspiciously): And you’ve never skipped a dose or cut back? SELF: Ma’am, it makes physically bearable and keeps me from puking. Why would I feel the need to experiment with that? NURSE: Oh, you’d be surprised. SELF: Look, if I get all my dreams and die at age 90 in excellent health; I want to be buried with a full bottle of zofran in case I need it.

Eventually, I did get to make it to another part of Socal, because Mother Dearest and the dog decided to visit me. Again, I’m going to be vague in an attempt to preserve some sort of anonymity (if not on my part, at least my dog’s); but we were able to coordinate this because I found a pet-friendly hotel in a part of town half-way between home and the hospital - as opposed to the really nice, but really expensive resort town. I’m now ready to call it quits with the resort area - it was quieter, friendlier, cheaper, and more personal. There’s less to do there, but people actually talked to me (or they talked to my dog, which I think is close enough). Everyone I talked to at this neighborhood was friendly - like, the meanest response of the night is from me, when a baker came out from behind the counter to hug my dog and I kind of winced, because that doesn’t seem very hygienic. But the croissants were amazing (like, worth dog-germ-risk to a technically-immunocompromised person amazing). And I got to celebrate the serum-sorta-completion-almost date the way American Jesus intended: with steak tartare, near-raw burgers, (it could be laden with tuberculosis, but, screw it, I got zofran, I’m not gonna puke), and double-helpings of beer (and, to those of you who don’t know me, few people like microbrew more than I do). It was a delightsomeful, memorable evening. I’m sure she meant it as a compliment, but Mother Dearest expressed far more wit in a single observation than the entire Trump administration: “You’ve become a much more interesting diner since you gave up that heart-health thing.”

And I sort-of slept. Maybe. A few hours. I will say this about the horrible super-soldier serum; it does produce the most amazingly life-like dreams I’ve ever experienced. Yes, I know they’re not technically hallucinations, but, you people didn’t attend the Super Bowl last night. Admittedly, that’s s a really weird, specific, helluva strange object for my focus (I give less thought to the NFL than I do to alfalfa profit margins)(not that either takes up much brain space). It felt like I was there, just like the last hyper-realistic post-injection dream. Which was weird and cool, and, certainly one of the more intriguing side-effects. Which led to a nastier, far-too-frequent side-effect; my arm feeling like it was trying to disattach itself from my frame. Fortunately, after last time, I knew exactly what to; go directly to Tylenol and Gatorade, which made things tolerable. Or as tolerable as Gatorade-based mornings can be. It did occur to me that, if I can’t be Captain America, maybe my right arm can grow and mutate and turn into some sort of really cool/scary demon-hand, like Hellboy. Which would enable me to punch through the flimsy walls of this universe to Hell itself, so that I could track down the inventor of Gatorade, and give him a well-earned thrashing (I know I’m an agnostic, but one thing I am absolutely theologically certain of; the creator of Gatorade is in Hell).

And, as I was musing - like you do, when you’re waiting for superpowers - I recalled the nurse saying that people just experiment and go off zofran (again, kids, if Santa Claus ever brings you zofran, you write a thank-you note immediately). This kind of coincided with another  revelation, and I do apologize if it’ll take some time to connect the two, because they make a very important point for everyone planning on surviving cancer. I was packing up the dog’s stuff (specifically, his bowl and bag of food), and thought I’d just pour the leftover food into the bag on the porch/parking-lot area - food’s gonna spill, after all; if it happens out there, some lucky squirrel can deal with it. Mom immediately stopped me so that she could do the exact same thing in the sink area. Depositing dog food all over the sink, and turning a two-minute task into a five-minute cleaning job; without any apparent gain apart from cleaning kibble out of the sink. Now, because it’s Mother Dearest, I’m sure I’ll get some note about how I’m wrong and efficiency and cleanliness are overrated. What occurred to me is that it was a minor case of someone exercising some form of agency merely because they could.

And I get that; I really do. I organize my bookshelves, keep a highly regimented gym schedule, etc. And it suddenly occurred to me, based on this thought (and the chemo nurse’s statement that people stop taking zofran just because), there has to be a chunk of the populace that goes off doctor’s orders or refuses care or whatever for a variety of reasons. That’s all old news; I was an EMT, I’ve seen stupid shit you couldn’t even begin to believe. BUT, the heartening part of it - for me, anyway - is that I have, since Day 1 (since before then, actually), religiously followed doctor’s orders and suggestions (for the most part; I still shave, eat raw foods, and train in the gym; but I’ve never missed an appointment, prescription, dosage, or medical exam, and I’ve never lied to my physicians when questioned). Now, I realize that I have a dangerous disease that isn’t well-understood or have a terribly predictable outcome; but, it is worth noting that, every time I tell some medical professional I’ve lived with this disease (or chronic brain tumors, anyway) for 16 years, I get the exact same reaction as if I’d told them I went to school with Archimedes. I am, apparently, in the world of cancer, patients, nigh-vampire-unkillable. Which is pretty cool and makes me feel good,  but, for everyone who wants to learn that secret, well, it’s pretty simple.

You want to go to the very best doctors. You want to figure out the best treatment plan for you; the one that offers the most chance of success. HOWEVER, once you have those things; you follow the rules and stick to the treatment plan like your life depends on it, because it does. I have no idea whether this is going to work, or what my life expectancy will be, but I am near-certain that if I decided to screw around with things, I will have a very grim future.

In figuring out an appropriate ending metaphor for all of this - and the importance of sticking to the medical plan in a world filled with changing variables and crises - I hit upon China Mieville’s book, “Kraken.” It’s an odd urban fantasy that prominently features a cult that worships giant squid as deities (it’s not the dumbest religion I’ve ever heard of). However, there is a minor plot point about the cult’s version of chess - “Kraken Chess,” which is just like our chess, except it features a piece called the Kraken (because of course it does). The Kraken piece is the most powerful piece on the board, because it can - like the queen - move any number of squares in any direction; however, the Kraken piece can also not move at all. It just forfeits a turn.

Folks, as you navigate a dangerous disease, there will be many, many periods where you don’t see any real results, there is no end in sight (or, as the case may be, the visible ends tend to look scary). I will work tirelessly to figure out some sort of coping strategy for all that - believe me, a large part of my life is centered on that, right now. All I can say is, don’t exert agency when none is needed, especially if that comes in the form of skipping your zofran. Sometimes, you must be the kraken; silent, beaked, still, and waiting for the opportunity to kill Sam Worthington.

I mean, uh, take your meds, follow the doctor’s directions, and don’t miss your appointments.

At the moment, I’m back home, waiting for my next appointment (it’s in a few hours);everything’s as close to normal as it can be. I’ve finished up all my administrative health lackey duties, so all bills that can be paid, prescriptions that can be renewed, appointments that can be made, etc. have been scheduled, and I can’t do anything for a few hours. Which is almost a relaxing feeling. I might go sit in the yard with a book and try and get in touch with my inner squid. Sometimes that’s the best you can do.

Folks, I do apologize if that was a bit lengthy and choppy; I had to write it exceedingly fast because I took a day off and there was a lot to attend to while I wrote. So, sorry if it’s a little disjarring; I can do better than that, I just didn’t have the time (and parts of it were written while I was still a little loopy from Captain America serum). The good news - sort of - is that there’s still a lot of things on the cutting-room floor that I’ll be revisiting in short-order. You’d best believe I’m going to revisit that kraken metaphor very soon, I have dark plans for the importance of vomiting on people (sort of), and why we, as a species, might be okay in the end.

[dreadwhoop]

Skullgirls 5th Year Anniversary

Yep.

It's been 5 years. Before we launch into a personal open letter to Alex Ahad regarding the future of his, Mike Zaimont's, and Lab Zero Games' creation, a reminder of last year's post can be found here:

http://dreadwhoop.tumblr.com/post/142565814718/skullgirls-4th-year-anniversary

I also would like people to remember the https://twitter.com/IndivisibleRPG handle if you need to quickly keep up to date with their current project, Indivisible, slated for a 2018 release.

Okay Skullgirls 2/II talk. It has to happen at some point. I'd be remiss to be an expert on how to handle such a spectacular sequel however I do feel snippets of plot and choices for how to include characters should carry weight from the events of the first game. When we last left off, Marie was the current Skullgirl. It makes little sense to have her be the same one if the intentions will be to have the sequel be set 7 years after the events of the first game and why not? A sequel should feel like a true next step - Tekken 3 is one of my all time favorite games for many reasons not least because it decided to step ahead 19 years which is almost three times longer! Progression is key.

Valentine should be the next Skullgirl.

From a gameplay standpoint, having her and her Last Hope comrades fight together would be incredible. From a story standpoint it all comes down to tragic irony - Last Hope were a failed anti-Skullheart unit and Valentine was spared so she could be Marie and Double's subordinate in their plans to murder the Medicis, destroy the ASG labs, and lay waste to the Canopy Kingdom. To prevent anyone else suffering her fate, and to redeem her own actions from the first game, becoming the next Skullgirl would be the most canonically sensible choice - it is what happens in her story in the first game and leaves the remainder of said cast relatively untouched so they can be translated into the sequel without plotholes. Between the events of 1 and 2 would be a matter of debate so for now just assume Valentine went dormant for 7 years and during so several people go missing - you know like Tekken 3. This would also mean she'd be unplayable in the sequel however it is a sacrifice worth making. Sorry all you Valentine fans!

The next step then is to suggest how to structure the story in terms of playthroughs. We have to go bigger to get better. Generally speaking each story involves a pair of two characters - destined to work together - and a 3rd character who acts as their sub-boss before fighting Valentine who, once defeated, unlocks said sub-boss as a playable character. I'll go over each of the pairings and their sub-boss respectively:

Filia + Squigly are the most natural pairing - Samson and Leviathan have a deep history going back well before their host's time and were integral parts to the creation of the first game. The story writes itself - both are trying to find out answers to the origins of the Skullheart, why a Skullgirl must exist, and if a pure wish can be made. Eliza would of course have much tied to said story too, being she too has a parasite, a history, and was the fan's 1st choice for other DLC characters.

This team is comprised of the Cirque des Cartes story and focuses on the idea Cerebella has gone missing and it's up to an eager Feng and a reluctant Beatrix to uncover why. Originally I had contemplated keeping Cerebella as a mandatory character however as an unlock it gives more incentive to play on the 7 years timegap, her descent into the Medici underworld, and how Feng can redeem her friend whilst Beatrix can finally step out of her rival's shadow and be the star of said circus.

Peacock + Annie would be an odd couple at first though by now Peacock has become a formidable foe to finish the Skullheart once and for all - something Annie would love nothing more to see given her endless cycle of enduring said events. Together they'd be the best chance because neither would dare wish on it anyway and the dark overtones mixed with their cartoonish demeanor lends well to hi-jinx and comedy. Why is Isaac trying to stop them then? Well I don't want to spoil the mystery...

Ah poor Little Miss Renoir. I kinda feel like she should be the de-facto main focus of Skullgirls 2/II akin to how Filia was for 1 yet her popularity in the DLC voting was...underwhelming. A Top 16 placement was the best she could do?! Anyway the plot is simple - her older sister Parasoul is also missing (presumably Valentine has abducted her or something) and it means Umbrella is technically the reagent of the land. What's her first decree? Pull Panzerfaust out of inaction and make him explode your dicks. Don't forget the ice-cream!

Minette was one of those finalists who, despite the overwhelming popularity of her design, really doesn't translate into a fighter...what's she going to do - throw plates of fish sticks in your face? Fun times aside, why the hell is she paired with Mrs. Victoria? Because this is all a ruse - Yu-Wan and D. Violet are the actual pair - my idea is to unlock this pair you need to complete training and do a mini-game to unlock Mrs. Victoria and Minette and then, when you begin the story with them, input commands to have Mrs. Victoria transform into D. Violet and Minette get subbed out for Yu-Wan - in this fashion you then continue the story with the two fighters as they journey to rescue Nadia Fortune who Valentine no doubt also abducted.

The fallout from the ASG storyline is one which unfortunately makes Carol, aka Painwheel, always second peg to Peacock. Despite this she need a partner in the form of Leduc. I really like the pairing of Painwheel and Leduc, they definitely deserve plot, and the substance of said plot revolves around rescuing their missing members. I had to think about who would be the sub-boss to unlock and decided it might as well be Big Band over Hive or Ileum. Beyond this straightforward idea I just hope people care about these characters and not get lost in the shuffle.

Stanley and Black Dahlia? What the hell are you smoking Dreadwhoop?! Yeah I know it sounds like the crackiest of pairings so far yet hear me out - Stanley is an ASG scientist and Black Dahlia was an ASG experiment who defected to the Medicis - enemies of the people of Little Innsmouth of which Stanley's Dagonian heritage would oppose. See this is where things get interesting - both are part of an entirely different secret society designed to watch the various organizations and also plan such experiments like what if you could resurrect a former Skullgirl? Enter Marie. Dubious moralities aside, finding a reason to combine science, technology, and magic to bring Marie as a playable character would be sweet. She'd not have her Skullgirl powers however the fact we could play as her finally would be worth the reward - Kira Buckland deserves the best.

Venus + Aeon - the other natural pairing. Unlocking this team would require a little more legwork - namely either completing the game with all the above 7 teams first or by completing a playthrough on a much harder mode in which after defeating Valentine they'd appear as the true Final Bosses of the game. Venus + Aeon are of course architects of the Skullheart and manipulate from the background so to bring them to the forefront means effort and Double, their weird clone mum thing, would be even more insane given the increase of characters. I'd not be envious trying to balance these guys out yet they have to be playable in some capacity.

I have one more team in mind - Beowulf + Scythana. I feel these two would be a great pair, given their history on Gigans, I just don't know who would be their sub-boss/unlock. I guess you could include a Guest Character or a gimmick like Fukua or Robo-Fortune or even an entirely new character because I'm sure there's room for new ideas. Actually unlocking this pair requires some online play - playing enough games or winning enough games unlocks these guys. Would this be fair? Nope though these should be difficult characters to play on base so unlocking requires some measure of skill too.

So this is all I have for ideas going forward - take it or leave it. Have a great 2017 all!

[yahoo-puck-daddy-blog]

Fanboys, Freddie Hockey and Justin Bieber's sports take (Puck Daddy Countdown)

NASHVILLE, TN – JUNE 03: Frederick Gaudreau #32 of the Nashville Predators celebrates after scoring a second period goal against Matt Murray #30 of the Pittsburgh Penguins (not pictured) in Game Three of the 2017 NHL Stanley Cup Final at the Bridgestone Arena on June 3, 2017 in Nashville, Tennessee. (Photo by Bruce Bennett/Getty Images)

(In which Ryan Lambert takes a look at some of the biggest issues and stories in the NHL, and counts them down.)

8. The Rinne Haters!!! (again)

Well gang, this time last week we were all saying, “As long as Rinne doesn’t completely crap his pants in Game 2, the Preds should be fine.” And wouldn’t you know it, he crapped his pants like a hundred times, to the point that incredibly smart, cool people who are so handsome were saying, “Well I think you probably gotta go to Juuse Saros in Game 3.”

But then Rinne did a crazy thing: He allowed two goals on 52 shots (.962) and the series is even and everything is fine again. No more controversy! He’s still only .886 in the Cup Final, but Matt Murray is .902, and went .862 in Nashville. So who’s laughing now?

7. Miserable fanboys

And speaking of the whole “Murray looked bad in Nashville” thing, well, it takes a certain kind of psychopathy to start screaming like the sky is falling because the series is…… tied?

See, I understand, the Penguins have not looked good at any point except for those two stretches of three-ish minutes where they scored the bulk of their goals in the series. And even then, those were, as the soccer-likers say, against the run of play. They’re still getting caved in. And if you don’t think injuries are a big reason why, you haven’t been paying attention.

To that end, the Cup Final is progressing more or less how I expected: Predators absolutely raking, but the series is tied because it’s hard to shut down all that talent.

People in Pittsburgh cannot, however, accept this. They want Murray benched. They want a miracle comeback from Letang. They want Mario to come out of retirement (probably). They want Sullivan fired.

Now it’s a best-of-three instead of best-of-seven. And the Penguins are at home twice. It’s not like this is some sort of Horror From The Mind Of Clive Barker.

The hottest take of all is that Crosby and Malkin’s legacies will be tarnished if they somehow don’t drag this banged-up team kicking and screaming to another Cup against a team that’s been perhaps the deadliest in the league since February.

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Man, imagine if Pittsburgh got the results they actually deserved in this series? It’s a sweep. At best it’s 3-1. It would be impossible to talk all those fanboys off all those bridges. 

6. Not today with the trade rumors, alright?

A lot of teams have been out of the playoffs for at least a month at this point, and you can see people getting restless. That means we’re dealing with a lot of trade rumors. And I gotta tell ya, folks: Not a fan.

You wanna make a trade, go for it. By all means. But I can’t be bothered to pay attention to whether the Kings might trade a third liner or something. The whole expansion draft is coming up a week or two after the Cup Final ends. We’re gonna have a lot to talk about. Give it a week!!!

5. Freddie Hockey

I feel weirdly bad for Frederick Gaudreau, who has three goals in this Cup Final and had literally never scored in the NHL before that.

My man was just in the ECHL last season and now he’s the big Stanley Cup Hero to date (sorry, Jake Guentzel). But here’s the thing. He has a total of 15 NHL games under his belt. He has 3-1-4 in those 15 games. He’ll probably make the big club next season — or at least get a long look — and that might be when his trouble starts.

He was undrafted. His career high in the QMJHL was only 71 points (believe me, in the Q that’s not exactly a ton). The reason I am nervous for him is that he is building himself a reputation to which he is unlikely to ever live up. We’re talkin’ Dave Bolland status. Ville Leino, maybe. And I feel bad because he is a pure and beautiful boy.

He modestly lit up the AHL the past two years, yes. He had 40 goals and 90 points in 141 games, which is pretty good.

But man, three pretty damn big goals to start your career is a great way to convince everyone you’re the next true genius of the sport. He isn’t.

Hockey great Wayne Gretzky, right, greets former NBA player Charles Barkley, left, during a news conference before Game 4 of the NHL hockey Stanley Cup Finals between the Nashville Predators and the Pittsburgh Penguins Monday, June 5, 2017, in Nashville, Tenn. (AP Photo/Chuck Burton)

4. The Round Mound of Watchable Intermission Segments

I said during Game 4 that it’s amazing what a talking head with an actual personality does to make an NHL intermission report engaging and fun. I was wrong to say it. I think Mike Milbury and Jeremy Roenick have personalities. “Dumb old grump” is a personality, right? (Keith Jones is a flat-out boring guy who’s only wrong 60 percent of the time, which makes him the best analyst NBC has.)

But if you watch basketball games, Charles Barkley is a dumb old grump on the NBA intermission shows, too. But he’s a gregarious dumb old grump, and I think that’s the difference. Say what you want about Sir Charles, but he’s always been a Personality first and foremost.

Try as poor Liam McHugh or Kathryn Tappen might, they cannot wring blood (entertainment) from stones (chronically wrong people). How many times do you watch an NBA halftime segment and it’s just Kenny Smith and Shaq making fun of Charles Barkley for being a fat, grumpy dope? More than you’d ever think, that’s for sure.

We remember the times Tappen or, like, Bob McKenzie make fun of Mike Milbury for being a horrible GM, because it’s both funny and true. They are basically winking to the audience: “This man is not qualified to give you even vague platitudes about what teams should or shouldn’t be doing.” And yet they persist on television, turning every segment they touch into grim, skippable affairs that are also occasionally tinged with Cold War-era xenophobia.

There’s a lesson in this. Neither NBC nor the NHL will learn it.

Let’s note here that Carrie Underwood did the segment on the first intermission, and it was also just fine and nice. But the fact that Eddie Olczyk kept calling her “Mrs. Mike Fisher” is some pathetic stuff. Mike Fisher is, what, the 80th-best center in hockey? He’s been in the league since 1999 and still doesn’t have anything close to 300 goals. Meanwhile, Carrie Underwood has 65 million records worldwide since 2007. Mike Fisher’s career high in points is only 53. He’s Mr. Carrie Underwood, and to pretend otherwise is to grossly overrate him in any way, shape, or form.

ON THE OTHER HAND: All this shows you what a sad organization the NHL is. Are you, like, a Q-list celebrity? You will be invited to present at the NHL Awards, guaranteed. The annoying neighbor kid from Small Wonder will be presenting the Vezina this year. And if you’re actually famous, like Charles Barkley is, you will be given a platform to say literally whatever you want about hockey. Barkley could have gone up there and said Sidney Crosby is a vampire (a popular theory that is impossible to disprove) and everyone would have chuckled straight through it.

And how did Barkley get to Game 4? How did he end up on a panel with Wayne Gretzky? Because he said on a national basketball broadcast — something lots of people actually watch — that hockey is good. Man, this is a thirsty-ass league when it comes to literally any amount of attention.

Can you imagine if Tom Cruise or someone like that were a hockey fan? They’d just give him the goddamn Jets.

3. Sticking with it

Hey whaddaya know: If you continually out-attempt, outshoot, and out-chance your opponent — and you also get the benefit of last change and a few bounces to finally go your way — you’re gonna pick up some easy Ws.

And because the Preds haven’t really deviated from their approach, they’ve also made all four of these games pretty fun.

I’m a big fan of this Final. Up-and-down hockey. The league could use more of this.

2. Nashville

Folks, I don’t know if it’s ever gonna work as a hockey market. Not like Winnipeg, where they struggle to sell out a 15,000-seat arena now that the novelty’s worn off and the team still sucks. These Nashville people are all going to go away in like seven or eight years when this team stops being competitive!

I’m from Canada, by the way.

1. The Justin Bieber sports take

Not specifically hockey-related but apparently people were all over Justin Bieber for wearing a hockey jersey that was not his “home team” Toronto Maple Leafs. So Bieber went on this mini-rant on Twitter about it. And it is the purest and rightest sports take I have ever experienced:

I support all sports I'll put ANY jersey from ANY pro team if I'm whack for wearing jerseys they give me out of love then I'm Whack

— Justin Bieber (@justinbieber) June 5, 2017

Leafs above all but other than that u give me ANY JERSEY THAT LOOKS COOL ILL THROW IT ON

— Justin Bieber (@justinbieber) June 5, 2017

I also don't know enough about sports to Really have valid opinion but I do enjoy sports!! And enjoy any high level sports game. Any team

— Justin Bieber (@justinbieber) June 5, 2017

Hell yeah, dude. Hell yeah. Doesn’t matter to me who it is doing the cool stuff in sports, as long as the stuff is cool.

We can all learn a lesson from this. If you don’t like Sidney Crosby because you’re a fan of another team in the same division, you have to ask yourself how being a Flyers/Rangers/Islanders/Devils fan has broken your brain. Because it definitely has.

This goes for any sport. You don’t have to like the fact that the Warriors are running the Cavs out of the Finals, but damn do you gotta respect how ruthlessly they’re operating here. I don’t like the Patriots for their politics, but let’s not act like Tom Brady isn’t the best to ever put a helmet on.

Basically in sports I just want to see elite athletes do amazing stuff I have never seen before. That’s the real thing worth rooting for.

Thank you, Justin Bieber, for saying what needed to be said. Purpose was a perfectly good album. Thanks everyone. Have a nice week.

(Not ranked this week: The bad breath controversy, which I refuse to call Breathgate.

As a means of highlighting just how humorless the NHL is, generally speaking, we literally turned what was a very, very obvious joke from P.K. Subban into a three-day controversy. This league, man. Dumbest in the world.)

Ryan Lambert is a Puck Daddy columnist. His email is here and his Twitter is here.

(All statistics via Corsica unless otherwise noted.)

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