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theorichardspota · 2 years

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DELIGHT: DONNA

Do not let me trick you with details about her big love before I take her away. Donna is dead. That would be unfair, trust me. But follow me anyway-- to the porch of the house with the red door on top of the hill across the street from the post office. Donna is smoking Newports there that she buys by the carton and follows with mint Tic Tacs, the white ones. Her big black dog Ellie is laying at her feet. This porch and its table are where Donna pulls tarot cards to make a living. Delight: the porch and the door to the porch and how the screen would slam behind the last person to enter. Donna acts as mother to all of us. We make her into family, the same way the neighborhood kids do.

Inside the porch door is the kitchen with periwinkle walls. Delight-- this kitchen. There's a print of an illustrated coyote in a suit drinking whiskey from a rocks glass on a bar patio that I have always assumed to be in Arizona. Donna moved here from Arizona. The coyote is wearing sunglasses. They are both smoking cigarettes. Donna’s laugh is warm and cacophonous with ragged edges from the years of cigarettes. It fills the kitchen, brimming, softening the corners of the room. Her voice is jagged and deep, which Donna insists is not from the smoking. Rather, from tearing her vocal cords to shag babbling in strange pitches at babies to get them to turn towards the camera while she was working at the Walmart Portrait Studio in her early twenties. The table at the center of the small kitchen is covered in paint from her daughter Raven’s acrylic portraits she does for our high school art class, and then draped over with a tablecloth of which bright elephants march around the edges. Here, at this table, on the way to the porch, we all eat the dinner Donna cooks for us. Our whole group in Kent. Donna, Raven, and I, and this gaggle of boys.

This kitchen is also where Donna dies.

My mother does not call. She texts me on a Saturday morning to tell me Donna has died. The boy I’m fucking lets me wipe snot on his green sheets and lay, undisturbed, on the floor of his shower until the water runs cold. I leave to drive home wearing my clothes from the night before, sopping wet, face swollen. Delight is picking up Jennifer walking on the side of the road, her coral wedges swinging in one hand, the other with her thumb stuck out.

I have learned the most about gratitude when I needed it to survive. I do not intend to let gratitude be made simple like that. To be made secondary, reactionary. To be something we walk to in order to walk away from grief. Rather, grief and gratitude are different faces of the same object. It is not the grief that hurts. It is the rage that comes with grief. The rage only topples into me when I want, with my whole body, to change the truth, to try to be in control. That is when grief wants me to smash plates. But grief can be tender. Grief is constant and it is human. Grief didn't come here to barter or fight, grief came to talk and to be listened to.

I drive past Jennifer, but I think of Donna. I know Donna would have picked her up. I double back and Jennifer opens the passenger side door to my Honda Civic, steps in, thanks me profusely. I ask her where she is going, and she says Danbury. A town an hour south of where we are now, and forty minutes past Donna and Raven's house. I tell her I can drive her to Kent, where I'm going, no further. She asks me how I am; I lie. I ask her how she is; she starts crying. Then she starts apologizing.

I do eventually arrive at the white house with the red door. It is still on top of the hill. The post office is still across the street. I knock, Raven opens the door. Griffin, Tucker, and Ryan are already there. They are sitting in the living room, rigid in chairs and on the couch, breathing into the heavy air. Griffin was with Raven when it was decided Donna would not emerge from the coma at 3 this morning. Griffin drives the both of them home and they take Ellie for a walk to the pond in the moonlight. It is still warm enough to walk that September night. There is no way to tell Ellie what has happened. She is laying with us in a black heap on the floor.

(confusing jump, try past tense or don’t jump) Jennifer is crying because she has been abducted. Her ex-boyfriend dragged her from her apartment, drove her north out of the city, into Cornwall, and a mile into the woods, (be more specific) assaulted her, stolen her wallet and phone, and left her in the forest to walk until she could find the road. I tell her I can drive her all the way, and then I tell her Donna has died.

Donna's death is sudden. A double aneurysm. She is hardly over 40.

Grief has those funny children’s toys-- the jewel toned sticky stretchy hand you toss and see if it will grab anything, usually just the wall. It'll grasp at seemingly unrelated memories and they will ache. But if you listen to what it is seizing hold of, it is trying to tell you a story. Grief knows the secrets that our bodies keep from us. It's trying to show you the web. Grieving is how we heal. Radical acceptance acts as the cool balm-- listening to the want and knowing we cannot change anything, there is no control. I want to un-dead Donna, and I never will. There rests in wait the gratitude, which is tangled up in delight. Or maybe vis-versa? I was told once that gratitude feels good not because it is righteous but because it is a coming back to center. With the language we have-- doesn't that feel true? It isn't some euphoric high. It’s a simple calm, a forgiving softness. A joy.

Jennifer tells me sometimes she skips paying the bills so she can go sky diving. Instead of electricity this month, she will feel the rush of flinging herself through the air without consequence. This is how she is going to celebrate surviving.

I think great loss brings us to gratitude as a way out of the rage. A path so we may walk through it. Grief asks us to let the animal of it into the room, to take from our bodies what it came for, and then allow it to walk away. If we are to survive the tatters it leaves us in, we need to be able to speak to it. And grief speaks in gratitudes. What is loss but once having had something we loved.

We're scrambling to figure out what this means. Where do we put Raven's things? How do we pay for Raven's college? Are there medical bills left to Raven? Who takes Ellie? The house, the mortgage, all of Donna’s clothing.

I see Jennifer one more time when she appears a year later at the outfitters I spend summers working at. She’s come back to my town to pick up a friend who is hiking the Appalachian trail and will get to Kent today. She’s scoured the town looking for me, asking the coffee shop workers where to find me, and the owner of the craft gallery how to find Backcountry Outfitters. The town center is small. It takes fifteen minutes to walk from end to end, and she zigzags it to appear in front of me again. Her hair is shaved fresh down to the skin the way it was when I met her the year before. She is full of just as much magic. She has brought me a peacock feather. We go out for dinner with her friend and stay past the kitchen’s close, drinking and laughing. The owner comes to sit with us, she brings us beer.

The town starts a fund for Raven. Everyone knows her because the town is small, and Raven has worked waiting tables at the diner since high school and Donna delivered mail when she and Raven first moved here. The town organizes an evening to raise money. The shops donate art, books, pottery, chocolates to raffle off. We sell dinner tickets and serve food cooked by the restaurants. We take donations. At the event a woman I have never met tells the boys and I about meeting Donna: Donna has started delivering the mail. She carries a box to the front door and knocks. A tiny Raven is with her today—school hasn’t started for the year. The woman opens the door and takes the package from Donna’s hands, thanks Donna, and Donna tells her, with awe, that the shade of eggplant she has painted her walls is astonishing. The woman rolls Donna’s choice of ‘eggplant’ around in her mouth like it is the highest compliment, like the word makes her feel seen. And I believe her, I understand. The story ends with the woman inviting Donna and Raven inside, they sit together and drink tea. The fund pays for Raven's college, the mortgage, keeps the electricity on in the house, covers the funeral costs.

Jennifer moves home to Guyana. She is married now, and still sends Christmas cards. Donna continues to appear in people like she did in Jennifer. She visits in Ross Gay's writing and in gentle baristas. I get to meet versions of her for coffee, or she descends in particular hawks. Blooms in certain roses. Jennifer calls me her guardian angel. I don't mean to be cliché when I say she is mine. Or when I say thank you for those I have loved and lost because I have loved them. I, without gratitude, do not know the range and depth of love. A portion waits in secret at the end. That first loss asking us to never again wait to find out.

We are at the kitchen table talking about weddings in barns. Then Raven says she wants her funeral to be joyful. Donna tells us she does, too. She tells us exactly what she wants it to look like. A pig roast, a keg, and for it to be in a barn like the weddings. Everyone is there, and there is live music and dancing.

And three months later-- Raven does pull it all together. Donna's friend's band plays. A local restaurant roasts an entire pig on site. There isn't a keg. The funeral is on state park land so it can be in a barn free of charge, but they won’t let us drink. It’s okay, we will go to Tucker’s after to drink cheap beer. There are children playing tag. There is a table of white Tic Tacs.

A woman who has gone to high school with Donna gets up to tell us how they met. It's in a bathroom in their high school, and in the story the woman is not a woman yet and is supposed to be in algebra but she's crying from a fight with her boyfriend. She's been dumped before homecoming. Donna walks in, asks her what is wrong, listens, and pulls a bottle of Jack Daniels out of her bag to give to the woman, and says "I'll go with you to homecoming." And Donna does.

#donna #writing #essay

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indiaautomobilesnews · 1 year

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Honda Unicorn vs TVS Raider 125 Comparison

If you are looking for a comparison of the Honda Unicorn vs. Raider 125, then we have it covered for you. Unicorn costs INR 1.05 lakh ex-showroom, while TVS 125 costs INR 82,953 for the base version. The Unicorn is offered in three colors and one version, whereas the Raider 125 is offered in four colors and three variants. In addition to costs, you may compare these motorcycles based on their displacement, mileage, performance, and other factors. To assist people in choosing between the Unicorn and TVS Raider 125, comparisons between both motorcycles have been made.

Design Comparison

Similar to most of its other aspects, the design of the Unicorn hasn't changed much. It looks simple, with an angular headlamp surrounded by a large cowl, a curvy fuel tank, and a long tail section. There are chrome accents in certain areas to add a bit of sassiness to its aesthetics. It is available in three color options: black, red, and grey.

The TVS Raider motorbike has a split seat, a full-LED headlamp, taillights, bulb indicators, tank extensions, and an engine cowl. The bike has a sporty flare thanks to the strong tank extensions. The riding position is upright but slightly forward-biased because of the large single-piece handlebar and the slightly rear-set footpegs. A distinctive characteristic that sets it different from other bikes is the cutaway detail in the center panel, which lets you view the red mono-shock springs, the form of the LED headlamp, and the size and shape of the tail panel. Another distinctive aspect of the design is the under-seat storage compartment. The motorbike also has an engine cut-off mechanism for side-standing.

The TVS Raider 125 also has an engine cut-off mechanism for side-standing. High-density foam is used to make the split seat, which is wide. Unquestionable comfort is provided to the rider as a result, particularly while attacking curves and on winding roads. The seat's (780mm) moderate height for shorter riders makes it perfect.

Engine

A 160cc, single-cylinder, air-cooled, three-valve engine powers the Unicorn and comes with 12.7bhp at 8,000 rpm and 14Nm of maximum torque at 5,500 rpm. There is a five-speed gearbox that works in tandem with the motor. According to the Honda Bikes, acceleration from 0 to 60 kilometers per hour (kph) takes 5.9 seconds, and the peak speed is 99 kmph.

The new TVS Raider 125's powertrain and power come from a 124.8cc single-cylinder, air-cooled engine that cranks out 11.2 bhp at 7,500 rpm and 11.2 Nm of maximum torque at 6,000 rpm. The TVS Raider and TVS Ntorq both use the same engine. According to TVS, the engine has a substantial internal difference, giving it a 2 bhp advantage over the scooter's engine. Power is transferred from the BS6-compliant 125cc engine to the wheels using a 5-speed manual gearbox. Compare Bikes in India before buying any of the two bikes, right away at autoX.

Features

These days, it seems like every new Honda model introduction includes a heaping helping of additional amenities, but that's not the case with this one. Adding an engine stop button and transitioning to a DC headlight are the sole modifications. But you won't find any amenities like a digital instrument panel, a side-stand-down engine shutdown function, or an LED headlight. Even the new model doesn't include even Honda's new silent-start technology, a great feature available in new scooters and the new Unicorn's less-priced BS6 siblings like the new Honda Shine and SP 125. The Honda Unicorn price is worth the features it is offering for.

An LED headlamp with integrated LED DRLs, an LED taillight, a five-inch digital display, an idle stop-start system, two ride modes (Eco and Power), and a first-in-segment under-seat storage are all included as standard equipment on both types of the Raider motorbike. The Connected model also has a color TFT screen, Bluetooth technology, and a Voice Assist feature that integrates with TVS SmartXConnect. Incoming call and message notifications, voice assistance, navigation, and other features are added to the Connected version. There is a USB charger available as an additional accessory.

#Honda Unicorn #TVS Raider 125 #Compare bikes in India

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dujifetare · 2 years

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Olympus cv 160 video processor manual

ID number 2. Patient name 3. Sex, age 4. Date of birth 5. Physician The following scope-related data stored in the memory chip

Used, perfect technical condition, Japanese production, The kit includes: Light source OLYMPUS Model CLV-160 EVIS EXERA: Power supply:Olympus oep-4 Manual Online: Connection Of The Evis Exera Video System Center (Cv-160). Attach the two black screws, provided with the remote cable (MH-995)

The endoscope contains a memory chip that stores information about the endoscope and communicates this information to the video system center CV-160.

Olympus GIF-160, CF-160, PCF-160 Video Endoscope Manuals and Scope Case Olympus EVIS EXERA CV-160 Video Processor & CLV-160 Xenon Light Source Manuals.

https://toqahoqeqi.tumblr.com/post/691904813286522880/steren-rm-2000-manual, https://dujifetare.tumblr.com/post/691905193777987584/how-to-turn-off-ps4-manually, https://manajopexeb.tumblr.com/post/691904753823776768/flat-screen-tv-repair-manual-pdf, https://dujifetare.tumblr.com/post/691904957997350912/3rd-grade-reading-workbook-pdf-download, https://manajopexeb.tumblr.com/post/691903934547345408/1978-honda-cb400t-hawk-ii-manual.

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popwasabi · 4 years

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“Who are you?” The scene that defines Chadwick Boseman’s legacy

Yesterday, the world lost a bright and promising, burgeoning talent in Chadwick Boseman.

I had wondered privately for a while if something was wrong with him, as others had as well online, as he appeared increasingly sicker with each interview he gave over the last two years. I thought maybe I had been looking too much into it, not wanting to jump to conclusions about who he was but now gravely we all know why.

The much too young star of films such as “42,” “Marshall,” and of course, “Black Panther” had been fighting a largely private battle with colon cancer for four years.

It was devastating hearing this news yesterday, the man who undeniably left behind a legacy of playing prominent black heroes, both historical and fictional, passed away just as he was starting to truly hit it big. When you begin to realize the man was dealing with cancer as he performed physically demanding roles in the MCU you begin to see the character and determination of a man unwilling to quit in the face of true adversity.

But he clearly wasn’t just doing it for himself when he continued making and promoting NINE more movies despite his diagnosis, afterall no one would’ve blamed the guy for taking it easy these past four years. He’s had many scenes that define his legacy over his all too short career but I feel it can really be summed up in one particular moment from by far his most famous film; “Black Panther.”

Those who know me or have read my work know that I have a fairly cynical relationship with the Marvel Cinematic Universe. While I would not say most of them are “bad” per se, I would say a ton of them are largely interchangeable action comedies with pretty straightforward messages about good vs evil for general audiences. They are largely popcorn escapism and though there is nothing technically wrong with that, I was starved for an MCU film that was sincere about its story finally and had something real to say.

Enter “Black Panther” in early 2018.

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“Black Panther” was everything I had long been waiting for in the MCU; a film with a real sense of vision and theme, a killer soundtrack, great supporting characters, a complicated and nuanced villain, and a story that didn’t feel the need to add a joke after every single scene like more typical MCU movies. The tip of that spear of course was Chadwick, who had already proved to be a great Black Panther in one of the few other sincere Marvel flicks “Civil War.” His natural charisma, physicality, and dramatic presence in this role made him a huge standout in frankly the best ensemble cast of any superhero movie ever.

The scene that truly sums up not just the mark “Black Panther” left on Hollywood but Chadwick’s own legacy comes at the very end though (the first of three, of course. It’s an MCU movie, afterall).

T’Challa has defeated his usurper cousin Erik Killmonger, his rule restored in Wakanda but clearly a changed man from the story’s beginning as he reckons with the complicated legacy of his father. He travels to Oakland, the birthplace of Killmonger, with his sister Shuri who he explains the crime committed by their father in this place and how it set off the events of the story. He turns to Shuri, tells her that he has decided to help this afflicted community by creating a Wakandan outreach center for the youth to give them a new hope in life. As he says this he decloaks their ship nearby, surprising the youth already in the area who are immediately in awe of it. One of the kids turns to T’Challa, smiling, a sense of inspiration and intrigue brewing inside, and asks “Who are you?” to which the young King simply smiles, then the credits roll.

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It’s a simple scene but it truly speaks to the impact left behind by Chadwick and the importance of representation.

“Black Panther” is hardly the first starring vehicle for a black man, it’s not even the first black super hero movie but what it made it different is it was the first blockbuster to truly lean unapologetically into its African identity to focus on the inspiration of a story centered around that culture. It showed Hollywood that an action blockbuster not just centered on a black star but centered on African culture had vast widespread appeal.

White kids will never have a shortage of white superheroes to grow up with on the big screen; a diverse palette of Supermans, Spider-mans, Captain Americas, and shit we’re even getting our sixth new Batman actor since 1989 soon. But Chadwick gave black kids their first real Superman of their own.

In the years since this came out, I have seen the influence, at times, firsthand among the youth. I work part-time as a kids martial arts instructor and each Halloween party we’ve held I’ve seen a few more T’Challas among the costumes represented. When I ask kids, black, white, or Asian, what their favorite superhero is, it always warms my heart to see a kid light up when they say “BLACK PANTHER!”

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(Seriously, cute AF)

This goes beyond just my anecdotal observations of course; the film grossed a billion dollars, and there are countless videos online of kids yelling “Wakanda forever!” at the top of their lungs while rocking a Black Panther suit or reciting one of the movie’s memorable lines. It’s beautiful because it speaks to that last scene’s key message; inspiration.

Growing up myself, as a half Asian American, there weren’t a ton of role models who looked like me to take inspiration from. I didn’t really understand how much this could affect me until I finally did start seeing people like myself occupy positions of influence. I didn’t start caring for baseball until I saw a slugger named Hideki Matsui smash a couple dingers in a Yankees’ uniform in the early 2000s. I didn’t care much for martial arts, outside my very early youth, until I witnessed a half Japanese Brazilian named Lyoto Machida KO Thiago Silva at UFC 94 in 2009. I didn’t care much for soccer until a striker named Keisuke Honda played out of his mind in the early rounds of the 2010 FIFA World Cup.

Sometimes you gotta see something happen in order to believe and be inspired by it and it’s easier to visualize it when you see someone who looks like you do it. That’s what representation means and why it’s important.

It’s easy for white America to dismiss the need for representation in media when theirs is so saturated in the culture everyday. Cries of “wHaT aBoUt wHiTe HiStORy mOnTH?!” delivered unironically while their history is proudly given front seat consideration in all forms of media, film, and influence every day. This is why it drives me so crazy when a white person tells me “representation isn’t important” because apparently, they “don’t need it.”

Well motherfucker, of course you don’t need it. You fucking got yours already!

(What every non-white person wants to say when confronted with this tired, out of touch argument...)

“Black Panther” delivered a superhero that not only black children could be proud of and love but someone they could draw inspiration from. Kids are going to want to become film directors cause of this movie, actors, stuntmen, martial artists, scientists, engineers, and so many other different things that the world of Wakanda proudly showcases and it’s all thanks to Chadwick’s leading man performance that made it possible.

Some jokes I’ve heard frequently on the internet is that Chadwick was on somewhat of a quest to play every major black role in story-telling history, what with performances as Jackie Robinson, Thurgood Marshall, James Brown, and of course Black Panther. But I think his 2018 speech at his Alma Mater of Howard really explains why he kept looking to play these major positive black roles.

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(I encourage you to listen to the whole thing but the part that’s important here begins at 21:55)

Hollywood likes to pigeon hole certain demographics of people (aka non-white) to play stereotypical roles forever until they are proven to be lucrative in different ways (Qualified Immunity of film-making if you will…). Black people largely could mostly play thugs and drug dealers, Latinx can only be gang bosses and poor servants and gardeners, Asians are either kung fu masters or some other offensive perpetual foreigner. And in worst cases no role at all, instead whitewashed for general audiences (aka white folk).

Chadwick took a stand that the color of his skin did not define who Hollywood narrowly believed he could perform as and set out to play characters and people who could inspire a new generation of African Americans and show the rest of the country that they were more than a stereotype.

When that young kid in that final scene asks, “Who are you?” and T’Challa smiles its because he knows he’s already changing hearts and minds for the future, just as Chadwick did playing this truly inspirational role.

“Black Panther” is not a perfect movie. I could discuss the ways it could’ve been better and even, less problematic in parts on a different day, but the legacy it leaves behind is one that’s undeniably positive and Chadwick was able to make that a reality. Perhaps he understood that if the world knew his diagnosis it would blunt the impact of “Black Panther’s” release, that if little kids and African Americans alike knew their superhero was already dying it would mar the film’s positivity and influence. I can’t speak for the dead obviously, and in no way am I saying one should just push through a cancer diagnosis and keep it secret, but I can see Chadwick understanding what it would mean for the audience if they just believed for as long as possible that they would have their king of Wakanda forever.

As Robert Downey Jr. said on social media last night “He leveled the playing field while fighting for his life.”

Though I will never know him personally, by most measures Chadwick seemed to be exactly the kind of hero he showed up to be on the big screen and his legacy will ultimately be that of one who looked to inspire others, particularly the next generation until his final breath. If that doesn’t make him a hero, I don’t know what does.

Rest in power, King. Wakanda Forever…

(Via BossLogic)

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inthedayswhenlandswerefew · 4 years

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Eccentricity [Chapter 10: Stay, I Need To Be Myself]

A/N: I hope you enjoyed the fluffy times while they lasted. 😉

Series Summary: Joe Mazzello is a nice guy with a weird family. A VERY weird family. They have a secret, and you have a choice to make. Potentially a better love story than Twilight.

Chapter Title Is A Lyric From: “Where Were You When The Sky Opened Up” by The Dangerous Summer.

Chapter Warnings: Language, sexual references (not graphic), angstttttttttt.

Word Count: 6k.

Other Chapters (And All My Writing) Available: HERE

Taglist: @queen-turtle-boiii @bramblesforbreakfast @maggieroseevans @culturefiendtrashqueen @imnotvibingveryguccimrstark @escabell @im-an-adult-ish @queenlover05 @someforeigntragedy @imtheinvisiblequeen @seven-seas-of-ham-on-rhyee @deacyblues @tensecondvacation @brianssixpence @some-major-ishues @haileymorelikestupid @youngpastafanmug @simonedk

Uninvited

“Hey, it’s our song!” Joe turned up the radio as he steered his Subaru down the Lees’ cobblestone driveway and into a parking spot facing the woods. We’d been back from Chicago for a full week now, and—with the notable exceptions of classes and the early morning hours when Joe soundlessly crept out of my bedroom window—were very rarely apart.

“And I would do anything for love

I’d run right into hell and back

I would do anything for love

I’d never lie to you and that's a fact.”

“Uh, this is not our song,” I objected, the soles of my shoes propped against the dashboard. “I was not consulted. A couple’s official song cannot be a unilateral decision.”

“But I'll never forget the way you feel right now

Oh no, no way

And I would do anything for love

Oh I would do anything for love

I would do anything for love, but I won’t do that

No, I won’t do that.”

“Oh okay, what are you, the relationship police? Alright, Chief Baby Swan, let’s hear your brilliant suggestion. Wait, let me guess. Something by The Killers. Vampire Weekend. My Bloody Valentine. Is there a band called Chipotle Veggie Bowl?”

“Never Gonna Give You Up?” I suggested.

He laughed, dragging me over the center console and into his lap. “Oh, you are the worst!”

I straddled him in the driver’s seat, cupped his face in my palms, giggled as I touched my lips to his, soft and cool and lithe and inviting. When I broke the kiss, Joe pulled me back in, knotting his fingers through my hair. The way my thighs fit perfectly around him; that sharp, instinctual, now so familiar ache of longing. “I want you,” I breathed.

He pretended to be scandalized. “Right now? At this exact moment? In my parents’ driveway?”

“Yeah,” I confessed.

He grinned, unbuckling his belt. “Okay.”

“Really?!”

“Yes. I’ve lost all sense of decency. I’m an animal. You’ve absolutely ruined me.” His hands travelled beneath my U Chicago sweatshirt and tore it over my head. Yes, he had converted me to Chicago apparel. It was very embarrassing. Let’s move on.

“I’m sorry,” I moaned softly. I lied. I wasn’t sorry at all.

“I think we might need to get our own place.”

“Why?”

“Because I love the way you ruin me. And I want you to do it...” He went on, kissing me after each word: “All. The. Fucking. Time.”

I yanked off his Cubs t-shirt in one vicious tug. “We’re okay out here?” I didn’t really care; I should have, I was aware of that. But I didn’t. The Lees, most likely, would not call my dad to report us for public indecency. I could imagine Scarlett’s voice in my head, warm with approval: Get it, girl.

“Totally. And we’re far enough away from the house, Rami shouldn’t be able to hear us.” Joe nipped lightly down the side of my neck: carefully, always so carefully.

“He’d only get your side of things anyway.”

“Well yeah, that’s what I’m worried about! Your thoughts wouldn’t be so intrusive. I don’t care if he knows I’m a fantastic lay.”

“Oh, are you?” I teased, grinding my hips against him. “I hadn’t noticed.”

Joe smiled as he unbuttoned my jeans, deliciously slowly. “Well let me...just...refresh your...memory...”

I kissed him, roughly and deeply, arching into him, biting his lower lip. Yes, yes, yes...

Joe pulled away, still smiling but blinking and dazed. “Wow, all the sudden I feel...like...really calm.”

“Thanks...?” A week of almost constant sex might do that to a person. Sure, maybe, what did I know? My lips found his again. My hand skated down his bare stomach and into the waistband of his boxers. Joe began to help me peel off my jeans; then he stopped.

“Wait wait wait, I know this feeling.” Joe lifted me off of him and pushed me back into the passenger’s seat, gently but stubbornly. I tried not to be offended.

“What—?”

“Shhh.” He grabbed the headrest of my seat and twisted around to peer out of the rear windshield. I followed his gaze. There was a new car in the driveway, parked up by the front porch: an anonymous black Honda Civic. The plate said California. It was probably a rental. “Oh fuck,” Joe whispered. His eyes were enormous, glassy, horrified.

“What is it?”

“Stay here.” He threw on his Cubs t-shirt, zipped his pants, fastened his belt. “Stay down, stay quiet. And no matter what happens do not get out of this car, do you understand me?”

“Joe, why—?”

“Do you understand me?” His voice was low but severe, so incredibly unlike him; his dark eyes were flinty. Just like that night with the apples in Mercy’s kitchen, that night when Ben almost...

“I understand,” I heard myself reply.

“Good.” Joe climbed out of the Subaru—smoothing his shirt and then his tousled hair—and rushed over to intercept the unsolicited guest. I peeked around my headrest to watch, my right palm braced against the center console, that feverish lust that had been rushing through my bloodstream gradually weakening, perishing, vanishing like seawater baked from the sand under a rising sun.

The stranger stepped out of the Honda Civic, and although I knew his face, it took me a moment to place him. It was like—I could only imagine, having never been myself—a child stumbling into their movie heroines and beloved stuffed animals come to life during their first trip to Disneyland, amazed and yet somehow gut-twistingly uneasy as they gawked up at that grotesquely inflated cartoon face, that mask of lipstick and rouge that didn’t quite match their recollections, that dreamlike mirage plucked from pages or screens and impelled into a physical form that suddenly swallowed up space and gravity and oxygen. I had seen this stranger before in the massive painting that adorned Gwilym Lee’s upstairs office.

Cato.

He was very tall and very beautiful, classically beautiful, Ben-level beautiful. Joe often jokingly referred to him as Idris Elba within the Lee household, and a mid-thirties version of Idris Elba was just about right. He wore an immaculately tailored grey suit and aviator sunglasses, which he removed to greet Joe, folding and then sliding them smoothly into the front pocket of his suit jacket. His face was solemn and observant; he had a closely-trimmed beard without a fleck of silver. He extended a hand, which Joe shook.

“Hey, Cato!” I heard Joe say, muffled through the walls of the Subaru. I couldn’t make out Cato’s replies; his voice sounded deep, rumbling, extremely level. “So nice of you to stop by! I didn’t know you were in town. Yeah, everyone’s doing great. Even Ben. Hahaha, yeah, you know how he is. You know exactly how he is. But it’s all good. Well look, I’m just gonna go run a friend home and then I’ll be back in fifteen, maybe twenty minutes and we can all chat. Okay? Awesome. Feel free to head inside, I’m sure Mercy would be thrilled to play hostess. There’s sweet tea in the fridge and a hummingbird cake on the counter and...oh, something else too...some weird type of cookies she baked this morning. Help yourself. I’ll be back before you can say ‘tyrannical vampire murder cult.’”

“Tyrannical vampire murder cult,” it looked like Cato replied without a hint of a smile. But he wasn’t paying attention to Joe anymore. His eyes had found the Subaru, and then me; he was staring with that intense, seeking bewilderment that reminded me of Rami and Lucy and Ben when I’d first met them, when they were still trying to puzzle out why my mind (and my mind alone) was a night-draped, silent ocean of the unknown.

He's trying to read me, I realized. He’s trying to read me and he can’t.

Joe was jogging back to the Subaru now. At last, Cato turned away from me and headed into the house. The carved pumpkins from Weber’s Farm still lined the front porch: Scarlett’s Thunderbird, Archer’s Vantage, Rami’s swooping bat, Lucy’s moon and stars, Joe’s moustached jack-o-lantern, my (but actually Gwil’s) snapshot under the sea, Ben’s miniature Lee residence complete with the winding cobblestone driveway. Joe swept into the driver’s seat, adjusted his rearview mirror, and spun out of the parking spot.

“Goddammit,” he hissed as we barreled down the driveway.

“Why is Cato here?”

“I have no idea.” Joe looked straight ahead as he drove, preoccupied, consumed with possibilities. His fingers drummed the steering wheel. “We have to pay dues to them, all the covens do. Gwil cuts a check. But that’s not until around the New Year. That’s almost always when Cato stops by. Collects the payment, interrogates us in a way that masquerades as conversation, hangs around town for a few days, reports back whatever we’re up to...which usually isn’t much. Holidays with the extended family, gotta love it. I don’t know why he would be here now.” Joe shook his head. “Maybe something to do with Ben. It would have to be Ben. There’s no other reason.”

“And you don’t want him to know about me.”

“No, I don’t.”

“But...Cato isn’t all that dangerous,” I said, not understanding. “Is he?”

“Not alone, no. But the people he works for are.” Joe sighed, glancing over at me as he drove, serious and sorry and sad. “There’s a lot of violence in my world. A lot of darkness. I’ve tried to protect you from that as much as possible. And maybe I’ve done too good a job, maybe it’s too easy for you to forget what we really are. Most vampires aren’t like Gwil’s coven. They’re not like me. They kill easily and unrepentantly. And I don’t want any of them knowing that you exist, that you’re a weakness of ours. I want them to know as little about you as physically possible.”

“A weakness,” I repeated. I didn’t like that.

He smiled faintly. “It’s a compliment to be somebody’s weakness, Baby Swan.”

“I guess so.” The towering pine trees whipped by in a verdant blur. The sky above was thick and grey and churning. “You’ll be okay, right? Ben will be okay?”

Joe seemed to find that amusing, ridiculous even. “You don’t need to worry about us.”

“But I still do.”

“We’ll work it out, whatever it is. Cato is a reasonable guy. And Ben is definitely capable of...well. Advocating for himself.”

Capable of unparalleled carnage, he means. The memory of the first day I’d met Ben hit me like a hurled stone, illuminated my mind like a pulsing neon sign: the coiled tension in his muscles, that mindless, animalistic hatred in his eyes. Yes, he must be quite the monster when he wants to be. But he didn’t want to be anymore. I knew that completely, unquestioningly.

Joe pulled into Charlie’s driveway. The police car was gone; my 1999 Honda Accord and Charlie’s Toyota Corolla rested idly side by side. My dad would be working late tonight, until eight or nine at least. A pang of loneliness struck in my gut, just beneath the ribs; I had grown so accustomed to the absence of solitude, of quiet. The silence suddenly felt so loud.

“Don’t let it ruin your night,” Joe said as I got out of the Subaru. His words were affectionate; but his voice was still distracted, distant. “Don’t let it bother you. Everything will be fine, I promise. And as soon as Cato’s gone, everything will go back to the way it should be.”

“Okay,” I replied, not feeling very comforted at all. I don’t like the way he pushed me off him when he saw the car. The way he’s barely looked at me since. The way he called me a weakness.

Joe was already checking his mirrors, preparing to leave.

“Hey. Mob guy.” I leaned into the rolled-down window. “I love you.”

And the grin lit up Joe’s face like the sun. He crawled across the passenger’s seat, drew me into him by the collar of my brand new U Chicago hoodie, kissed me until that wild, interrupted desire was flaring up again in my arteries and nerve endings and everywhere else. The thunderous clouds in my skull split open. Everything’s still okay. It really is. “I love you to death. And then back again.” He retreated and shifted the Subaru into reverse. “I’ll see you soon. But maybe not too soon, I might be tied up with this family thing for a while. Don’t wait up tonight.”

“No problem. I’ll just call one of my other monster boyfriends to keep me company. The werewolf should be free. It’s not a full moon, is it?”

“No bestiality,” Joe retorted sternly. “That’s illegal, ma’am.”

I smiled and waved as the Subaru swerved out of the driveway and disappeared. Everything’s okay, I told myself, standing in the front yard under darkening skies. Everything will be okay.

And I kept telling myself that, again and again like Hail Marys, until I was dozing off in my bed alone six hours later.

Hit It And Quit It

I dreamed of the beach at La Push—my toes wriggling beneath the cold sand, the ricocheting cries of seagulls, the primordial growl of the frothing waves—and woke up with the ghost of saltwater in my sinuses. I grabbed my iPhone off the nightstand. Two new texts: one from Archer—Hey would it be distasteful or hilarious to dress up as Dracula for the Lee Halloween party? Asking for a friend.—and one from Jessica asking if she could copy my Marine Botany homework. Absolutely nothing from Joe.

When was the last time I didn’t have a text from Joe waiting for me in the morning? I struggled to remember, my mind still foggy with snippets of dreams. A week? Two weeks? A month? It felt like forever.

I tapped out a text to Joe with my clumsy, just-waking-up thumbs: I am resolved. No more nights with my werewolf boyfriend. Dude scratched the hell out of me and then barked at the mailman. Had to drop him off at the SPCA for neutering. See you soon! xxxx

I tried not to obsessively check my phone as I showered, got dressed, gathered my textbooks and notepads and pens. And yet still, I noticed: Joe didn’t text me back.

The rain poured from a grey sky all through my drive to Calawah University, Marine Botany class with Jessica, our frantic dash across campus beneath her hot pink umbrella to Forks And Spoons. My human friends had custody of me during lunchtime today. Angela was studying for a Computer Science quiz, Eric working on an article for the Calawah Chatterbox, Mike histrionically lamenting a sprained ankle coming just on the cusp of basketball season. Jessica bought me a chocolate chip muffin as thanks for texting her a picture of our Marine Botany homework this morning. Ah, the sweet taste of academic dishonesty.

I was relieved—more than I would have liked to admit—that all five Lees were at their usual lunch table, looking worn and tired but normal enough. Ben was hiding behind a pair of sunglasses and his black U Chicago hoodie that Joe and I had bought for him last weekend, sipping steaming tea out of a mug that he gripped with both hands. Scarlett flipped moodily through an astrophysics textbook. Rami repeatedly tapped the tabletop with a pen while Lucy knitted a lavender sweater, never raising her eyes from the jumble of yarn in her lap. They all murmured to each other in low, furtive voices, their mouths barely moving. Joe gave me a wave and a drawn smile; but only after I waved first.

Angela was now scolding Jessica for her lack of moral integrity.

Jess rolled her eyes, gnawing on a chicken finger that was burned black around the edges. “I’m here ostensibly to become an anthropologist and in actuality to find a hot rich husband, not to learn how to identify like sixty different types of algae.”

“Then why even take Marine Botany?” Angela asked, confounded.

“Calawah University forces every student to take at least two science classes, even if you’re a humanities major. Because they’re fucking fascists.”

“Oh, fascists, a big word for you!” I congratulated Jessica, patting her shoulder before returning my attention to my homemade veggie quesadilla and leftover slice of Mercy’s hummingbird cake. I was getting so good at this eating respectable meals thing. Joe would be proud.

Angela chuckled. “How’s that finding a husband thing going, by the way?”

“Awfully,” Jessica sighed. “I had this really promising flirtationship going with a frat boy in my Indigenous Peoples of the Arctic class. Ellsworth Jonathan Griffin, gorgeous blue eyes, blond man bun, his dad is a partner at a corporate law firm in Los Angeles. That’s the stuff dreams are made of. But I’m pretty sure he dropped out because I haven’t seen him in a few days. Also he would bring Absolut vodka to class in an Aquafina bottle.”

“You can probably do better,” I said.

“Well we can’t all end up with Lee boys, now can we?” Jess snapped irritably.

When it was time to depart for our afternoon classes, I met Joe in the doorway of Forks And Spoons, linked my fingers around the back of his neck, tugged at his dark, auburn-tinted hair.

“You okay, mob guy? You seem a little...” Exhausted? Edgy? Sad? “...Distracted.”

“I’m good. I’m great.” He kissed me briefly, fleetingly. No big deal; after all, we were in public. Right? “Are you cool to hang out later?”

“Absolutely. Can we go to La Push if it stops raining? I know it’ll be cold, but I woke up with the beach on my mind and haven’t been able get it out all day.”

“You got it. Can I meet you there? I have to take care of a few things first. Have to, uh, hunt.”

I stared up at him, feeling my stomach drop, feeling rapidly and jarringly off-kilter. Joe rarely mentioned hunting around me...not in a serious way, at least. It was one of those things that knocked me out of the fantasy of how compatible we were, how possible. It was a reminder of all those interminable differences that lived in the hushed space between us. “Okay.”

“I’ll...I’ll explain everything then. At La Push.”

“Okay,” I said again, very uncleverly. What’s going on here? What exactly did Cato say?

Joe smirked; finally a flash of playfulness, that contagious light he was built of. He smoothed my hair with one feather-light stroke of his hand, touched his lips to my forehead. “Don’t be late to Chemistry. I can’t have you failing out.”

“Of course not. How would I be able to get my Marine Biology PhD from U Chicago?”

But Joe didn’t laugh, didn’t even smile; he just left.

Ben was hunched over our table in Professor Belvin’s classroom, his arms encircling his notebook, the pen in his hand scribbling frenziedly. The window was wide open; the rain outside had weakened to a docile drizzle. He was still wearing his sunglasses. He didn’t acknowledge me at all.

“Rough night?” I asked, sliding into the seat beside him.

“Yeah.”

“Want to talk about it?”

“I definitely do not.”

“I’m sorry,” I told him. Ben glanced up, his thick eyebrows raised; they peaked just above the rims of his opaque sunglasses. “Whatever it is, I’m sorry.”

For a long time, Ben just looked at me; maybe wanting to say something, maybe just feeling that decorum necessitated it. “You shouldn’t be,” he replied at last. And he spent the rest of class paying no attention whatsoever to Professor Belvin’s lecture on the Pauli exclusion principle and instead scrawling untidy Welsh phrases into the formerly pristine pages of his notebook.

It was just after 5 p.m. when I arrived at La Push, the tires of my 1999 Honda Accord crunching over the gravel of the small parking area, the wind whipping ferociously. Joe had gotten there first; he was sitting on a rock down by the water with his back to me, peering out over the Pacific Ocean, tossing pebbles and shells into the waves. We had an hour of daylight left. The sky was obscure, grey, dim. Fine droplets of rain like mist sailed through the biting autumn air and clung to my skin.

When Joe spotted me, he leapt off the rock and watched me approach with his hands in the pockets of his North Face jacket. He wasn’t wearing anything Chicago-related today, which was highly unusual. I waited for him to touch me, to hold me, to tell me that everything was okay and always would be...at least for the next ten to fifteen years. He didn’t. “Hey,” he said instead.

“Hi.”

Joe nodded down the beach. “Let’s walk.”

I have never been especially good at mundane, monotonous rambling. That’s a Scorpio thing. And yet monotonous rambling is exactly what I did: I prattled on about my classes, Charlie’s bowling league, Renee’s new life in Florida with Paul, the ocean, the weather, anything to fill that space between us that all at once felt so enormously significant. I was vaguely aware that I was afraid to stop talking; I didn’t want Joe to have the chance to say whatever was on his mind.

Finally, Joe stopped walking. He took my hand, ran his thumb over the faint scar from when I accidentally cut myself in Mercy’s kitchen. His shoes sank into the wet sand, left imprints there like fingerprints. He turned to face me, pained, grave, and oh god, far worse: guilty.

“What?” I asked, terror swelling in my lungs, my bones, some inborn warning of impending ruin.

Joe gazed out over the crashing sea, then came back to me, like a dislocated joint popping back into place. “I am so sorry.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I...” He spoke slowly, haltingly. “I thought that this was something that was doable. But I was wrong.”

“What...?” And then a possibility occurred to me, a glorious possibility. Of course. A grin erupted across my face. “This is a joke, right? You’re joking, you’re always joking, this is just—”

He shook his head. He wasn’t joking. I wrenched my hand out of his and stared up at him in furious disbelief.

“It’s not fair to you,” Joe said. “This thing, being with someone like me. I can’t give you a future. I can’t give you an uncomplicated existence. I mean, come on, you have to worry about getting murdered around my own family—”

“Do you have fucking amnesia?” I demanded, incredulous. “Joe, we just talked about this. We just made plans to move to Chicago after graduation, we agreed that it was what we both wanted. I don’t want a normal human boyfriend. I don’t want normal human in-laws. I want you, Joe, and Ben, and Mercy and Gwil, and Rami and Lucy and Scarlett, I want the whole ridiculous Lee family package and there’s nothing you could say to make me decide that this isn’t worth it.”

“Look—”

“No, something happened, right? Something happened with Cato, or Ben, or someone, something happened and now you think that you have to do this but I’m telling you that whatever it is we can figure it out, we can figure it out together, isn’t that what you promised me?” He said he wouldn’t leave. He promised me he wouldn’t leave. All those things...all those things he said...

“Listen.” And now his eyes were stony. He didn’t call me Baby Swan. Oh, this is bad. This is so bad. “It’s not fair to me either.”

“And that’s what this is really about,” I realized. My voice was abruptly fierce, caustic. All those other women; those beautiful, graceful, immortal women. How did I ever think I could compare?

“It’s not personal.”

“It’s the most personal thing there is, Joe, it’s pasts and futures and love—”

“It’s not though.” He smiled, just barely. “Maybe we thought it was, but it’s not.”

It hit me like a brick, like a bullet; I couldn’t catch my breath. I was drowning in thin air, like a sawfish, like a shark. “Well I’m glad you figured that out on your own fucking schedule.”

“This was my fault,” he said. “All of it. And I am so profoundly sorry for the pain I’ve caused you, and I take full responsibility for it. I hope you’re able to move on knowing that there’s nothing you could have done differently. These are just the realities of my world. You’re better off in your own. And you’re going to make someone very happy someday.”

It's all so empty, so excruciatingly generic. “You’re a monster,” I seethed at him, tears stinging in my eyes.

“Yes,” Joe agreed softly.

“I hate you.” I wasn’t sure if I meant that, but I still said it. Maybe I could will it into being true, like how people find God after a particularly grim diagnosis; there’s no harm in trying to make it real. There’s nothing left to lose.

“That would be more than fair, given the circumstances,” he said. “I won’t bother you again. I’ll ask you to do the same for me.”

“Sure.” Tears were streaming down my cheeks now; my breaths were ragged, hitching. I need to get out of here. I need to get away from him.

A shadow of concern crossed his face, the first one I had noticed since yesterday afternoon. “If you need someone to drive you home, I’d be happy to—”

“I’d literally rather die.” And I left Joseph Francis Mazzello standing on the beach with the twilight wind in his hair and the sun setting behind him like time slipping through an hourglass.

I fled to my Honda, turned the keys in the ignition, covered my face with my hands and wept in raw, heaving shudders as Hungry Like The Wolf played from the mixtape that Joe had left in my cassette player. I ejected the mixtape, rolled down my window, tossed it out onto the rain-slick gravel. I couldn’t stand the thought of going home. Charlie would be at work until late tonight; Joe would never set foot in the house again.

I have to go somewhere. I can’t just sit in that goddamn bedroom. I can’t be alone.

I wheeled my car onto the main road and drove until I came to an unceremonious mechanic’s garage with a fractured concrete floor and cracks like spider legs across the windows. When I stepped out of my Honda, Archer raced over to meet me, beaming and wiping his hands clean with an oil rag.

“Hey, you know you’re not allowed to come here unless you bring Taco Bell with you...” Then he saw me, he really saw me. “Whoa, what—?”

And Archer caught me as I collapsed into his arms, sobs ripping through my throat like fangs.

Benjamin, 24 Hours Earlier

It was bad. Whatever this was, it was bad.

I knew because Rami could read Cato, and I could read Rami; the hazy wisps of color that unfurled from him were a hectic, wrestling electric blue: distress, grief, anxiety, denial. Cato’s own aura had always been rather unforthcoming—he tended towards deep, mellow greens and purples of congruence and contemplation—and forever tinted with an opalescent quality that spread like wildfire to the people around him, the people who were under his influence, that intangible calming and harmonizing effect, that irrational sense of wellbeing. Everyone in the room had that faint opalescence shimmering around them now, even Rami, whose unspoken turmoil remained a roiling rather than a storm. And I thought—not for the first time—that if Larkin was a spade that hollowed you out, scraped along the jagged snags of your split bones to empty you of any ambitions and loyalties that had come before, then Cato was the anesthetic that made the mangling go down smoother, the promise that you would someday still catch glimpses of innocence. Larkin was a purger, a purifier; Cato made you believe again.

There were pitchers of sweet tea and a heaping tray of butter pecan cookies on the living room coffee table. Cato sat on the neat white sofa, one leg crossed over the other, stoic, waiting. Rami stared vacantly from the loveseat; Lucy was beside him, her delicate bare feet tucked beneath her and her fingers laced through Rami’s, her brow knit into grooves of worry. Scarlett was next to me on the largest couch, her boots propped up on the edge of the coffee table, her hair in a long French braid, periodically cracking her knuckles. It was nearly the only sound. Mercy bustled around the room gifting everyone tall chilled glasses of sweet tea; Gwil stood by the virtual fireplace on the big-screen tv, his hands in his pockets, his lips pressed into a rigid line.

The front door opened, and Joe stepped inside, his car keys rattling in his fist. For as long as I’d known him, his color had so often been a bright and buttery yellow, his aura more visible and constant than anyone else’s. Lately, he was increasingly cloaked in the rosy pinks of love or the vivid, shifting, crimson reds of lust; and Rami and I bonded over our shared efforts to politely ignore that particular variety of thoughts.

Joe pointed to Cato. “What’s going on?”

“How long?” Cato asked him.

Joe feigned cluelessness. “Huh? What do you mean? Oh, car chick?! That’s nothing. She’s just a friend.”

Cato blinked. “Do you really think I just arrived in Forks today?”

It rolled through Joe like a wave: surrender, apprehension, dread. The realization that Cato had been watching us for days, weeks even, meticulously keeping just enough distance to stay out of Rami’s range of hearing. Joe’s now-opalescent aura dipped from cerise to an agitated mahogany. “Two months.”

“And she’s talented.” Cato’s voice was impatient, incredulous; How could you be this stupid? that voice said.

“No,” Joe flared, like shards of wood cracking in a fire. “No, she’s got nothing to do with you, with us. With our world. She’s got nothing to do with it.”

Cato circled the fingerprint of his index finger around the rim of his misted glass of sweet tea, meditative. “In one hundred and seventy years, I have never met someone who I couldn’t find if I wanted to. And yet the second I turned my back on that girl, she was gone. Vanished. The world was a blank map. How is that possible?”

No one said anything. Finally, Cato looked to Rami.

“You can’t hear her thoughts, can you?”

“No,” Rami admitted.

“And how many times has that happened in...how old are you now, the same as Ben? How many times in the past century have you met someone who made you feel normal, weak even? Who made you feel human again?”

“Never,” Rami conceded.

“You too, right?” Cato asked me. “You can’t see what she’s feeling. She’s nothing but white noise.”

I nodded reluctantly.

“She’s talented,” Cato said again, decisive.

“Oh god,” I choked out, burying my face in my hands. Now I knew what Rami had heard. I knew everything.

Joe shook his head almost violently. “No, that’s not fair. There’s no way of knowing if that would translate to life as a vampire or how it would manifest. There’s no way of knowing if she would survive the transition at all. And none of us are ever going to find out because she has nothing to do with our world.”

“She does,” Cato insisted. “Because you brought her into it.”

Scarlett shivered beside me, crossed her arms over her chest, clutched her leather jacket tighter. “You can’t be serious, Cato. You’re not a monster, you know she might not survive—”

“And that would stop Gwil. It would stop me, sure. When has it ever stopped Larkin?” Cato gestured to me. “With him? With me? With Akari or Araminta or Liesl or Rigel or all the ones who didn’t make it, who died screaming as they scorched from the inside out? It has never stopped him because he doesn’t care. He finds talented people. He covets them, covets them jealously, like jewels or money or lovers. And they either become one of his possessions or they become nothing at all.”

“No,” Joe whispered. “No, no, no...”

Rami was shrinking into the loveseat, overwhelmed by the emotions in the room that were dragging his aura into whirling greys, those desperate and dark thoughts; not even Cato could mute them entirely. Lucy tried to soothe him, laid the back of her fine-boned hand against his cheek. Mercy covered her gaping mouth. Gwil studied the floor, thunderstruck, absorbing it all.

“This is a courtesy that I’m doing you right now,” Cato told Joe, his large palms clasped together, his voice sorrowful and yet unyielding, almost pleading. “This is a warning. If he finds out about her, about what she can do...he’s going to want her. And he gets everything he wants.”

“He can’t find out,” Gwil said hoarsely.

“No,” I agreed. Death or a hundred-year sentence. Either way, a part of you dies. Either way, a part of you ends up in a box six feet underground and clawing for the sun.

“What can we do?” Scarlett asked Cato. “I mean...is there anything we can do?”

“You have to get rid of her. That’s her only chance. Get her out of your orbit, away from our world, away from where Larkin or anyone who serves him would ever cross her path. I won’t tell him about the girl. I’ll try to deflect his attention. If she’s already been spotted, I’ll tell him that she’s useless, just another one of Joe’s litany of casual liaisons. And that’s a risk I’ll take, I’ll do it out of respect for your coven, Dr. Lee, and for Ben. But there is absolutely nothing I can do for you if Larkin finds out for himself. I don’t think I’m the only one he has watching you.”

“Of course not,” I said bitterly. “I’m sure he has all sorts of eyes on me. The white whale. The one that got away.” This is my fault. It’s all my fucking fault.

“It’s not,” Rami murmured; and nobody else heard my side of it, but I think they understood.

Joe’s aura was now murky, sunless, almost black. It was a color I hadn’t thought he was capable of. His eyes were slick and bleary.

“Son?” Gwil prompted. Mercy was sobbing into a handkerchief patterned with roses. Mom, I ached instinctively, before pushing the thought away.

“I won’t do it,” Joe said. “You’re asking me to break her heart and I won’t do it.”

I begged: “Joe, you don’t understand—”

“No, you don’t understand! You don’t understand what this will do to her, what it’s going to do to her for the weeks and months and years that come after, she might never forget—”

“Do you want her to end up dead or in a hundred-year contract?” Cato shot back. “Do you want to see how much of that girl you care about so much is left after a century with Larkin?”

Everyone’s eyes fell on me. I could feel them, full of pity and horror. I’m what’s left. Someone gutted of everything but rage and bloodlust.

“No, of course not,” Joe said. Thanks a lot, brother.

Cato smirked without any humor at all. He had known. “Then the choice is easy.”

“Son,” Gwil said again.

Joe gazed back at him with huge, agonized eyes. His words were brittle, raspy, hollow. “Dad, I love her.”

“I know,” Gwil replied. His aura was a blue like cobalt: profound sympathy, compassion, mourning. “And that’s why you’ll do the right thing.”

Twenty minutes later, I was puffing on my vape pen as I paced back and forth across the wrap-around porch like a caged bear, watching the sun disappear behind the western hemlock trees that raked the clouds. Gwil, Rami, Lucy, and Scarlett were with Joe; Mercy was trying to convince Cato to stay the night in one of the guest bedrooms. I could hear her ludicrously gracious protestations through the walls. “We know it’s not your fault, dear, this...this...situation. We know you’re just the messenger. And you’ve been so important to Ben all these years, so kind. It’s really no trouble at all...here, let me at least wrap up some cake for you to take...”

The front door opened and closed. Scarlett appeared beside me, resting her forearms on the porch railing. She sighed, closed her eyes, said nothing.

“This is going to destroy him,” I told her.

Scarlett nodded, her face bathed in silvery moonlight, marvelous and yet forlorn. The aura that surrounded her was a deep, despondent indigo. It matched the sky. “Yeah.”

“And to think...” I exhaled heavily, nicotine-tinged vapor vanishing into the damp night air. Rain was coming; I could feel it in my bones. “I was just beginning to like it here.”

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adrenalineguide · 3 years

Text

Chrysler Pacifica Pinnacle and Kia Carnival SX: Minivans are BACK Part 2

Words and Photos By Michael Hozjan

Kia Carnival SX:

Take a look at the remaining players in the minivan market; you’ve got the Toyota Sienna, Honda’s Odyssey, Chrysler’s Grand Caravan and last week’s subject, the Pacifica. On the surface they all look fairly alike. Sure there might be an accent line here or there in an attempt to differentiate them, but squint your eyes and the tapered nose and the silhouettes are similar - cute and soft. Chrysler changed the front-end treatment on this year’s Pacifica to give it a more rugged look with an SUV-like grille.

Now take a look at Kia’s latest venture. In the last couple of years Kia’s designers have knocked more than one model out of the ballpark and this year they’ve added muscular looks to a minivan. Yes Kia refers to it as an MPV for multi-purpose vehicle (how they’re getting away with using Mazda’s old moniker I have no idea). I’m pretty sure that you won’t think soccer mom when you see the Carnival. With large 19” blacked out aluminum wheels, a long square snout highlighted by lights fading into the chrome grill and aggressive looking vents on the front corners, this thing screams business.

Dollars

While design may or may not make or break a sale it is a major influence in the final decision, but the Carnival has another ace up its sleeve and that is its price.

Over the years I’ve repeatedly stated that Kias offer more bang for the buck and the Carnival is no exception. The base model, the LX, starts out at $36,760 and my top of the line tester came in at $50,560. Compare that to the base Pacifica at $45,765 and the Pinnacle at $63,265 or Toyota’s Sienna LE front wheel drive at $42,349 and the all-wheel-drive Limited at $60,824 and Honda’s base Odyssey at $45,590 and their top dog the touring at $56,790 and the Kia looks sweeter and sweeter.

Five trim levels make up the Carnival line up; LX, LX+, EX, EX+ and SX. The base model gives you a heated windshield, rear parking sensors as well as advanced forward collision avoidance and lane follow. Stepping up to the LX+ ($40,260) add wireless phone charging, power sliding doors and liftgate, smart key and multi-zone climate controls. The $44 grand EX adds a couple more driver assists, LED taillights and 19” wheels, plus a smartphone app that allows you to remotely start, lock, unlock the truck. At $47,560 the EX+ gives you a 12.3” multimedia screen, like size digital instrument cluster a surround view monitor as well as LED head and fog lights. The king of the line up, the $50,560 SX, comes with dual sunroofs, Bose premium audio system, leather seating passenger view monitor.

And Sense

We obviously buy minivans to move people and cargo and this is where the two subjects get interesting. Starting at the back I was surprised to learn that the Kia has the upper hand in space with the third row in place, 40.2 cu.ft. to the Pacifica’s 32.3 cu.ft. My girlfriend loved the Pacifica’s clean deep well behind the third row to keep the groceries in place. The Kia’s looked too industrial with its exposed hinges.

Accessing the third row is best done if you slide the second row lounge chairs inboard. Yes you read that right, not only do they move from front to back but also left to right.

Folding the third row is a snap with the Chrysler with switches mounted on the back pillar to activate the various motors, the Kia takes some manual force – but will not break down. With the rear seats folded into their respective cubbyholes, the Kia stows 86.9 cu.ft. of gear to the Pacifica’s 87.5. My Kia came with the fabulous, executive alluring, lounge chairs. Yes they are every bit as comfortable as they look. While they add credence to the company limo I was talking about last week, they do not fold out of the way. So storage is confined to that same old 86.9 cu.ft. While the Pinnacle does not have second row stow and go seats, (lesser Pacificas do) the second row does fold up against the front buckets and can be removed – heavy as they are – to give you enough room to carry a 4x8 foot sheet of plywood in the 165 cu.ft. cargo bay. Like the Pacifica the lesser trim levels of the Carnival (the LX through to EX+) have removable second row seats expanding the cargo volume to 168 cu.ft.

Heated front seats, tri-zone automatic climate control, and sunshades for the back rows make this a desirable cabin whether you’re shuttling your clients to the airport or moving the in-laws back home. If you’re counting, there are nine USB ports dotting the cabin and there's a handy 12-volt outlet in the rear.

Above: Second row lounge chairs slide in for easier access to third row or or out to carry longer items.

Behind the wheel

The front buckets are comfortable and not only look, but feel like they came out of a sports sedan with excellent bolstering on the seat backs. Adding to the cockpit’s comfort is the center console’s wide armrest incorporating drink cubbies and a wireless charging tray,

A modern looking dash is a change from the usual fluff and the infotainment centre looks spectacular, but the audio system works backwards in all of my recent Kia encounters. Example; going up the sat radio stations from 6 to say 18 you’d think you would have to press the steering wheel nub up, but no, you have to go down?!? What bicycle riding genius thought of this! Worse yet, the audio system does not let you tailor the order to your taste but numerically. You say you’ll get used to it…I shouldn’t have to. It’s called intuitive touch. Ok I’ve vented.

The Carnival comes with one power package, a class leading 3.5L, 290 horsepower, V6 with 262 lb.-ft. of torque connected to a smooth shifting non-CVT, 8-speed automatic that can tow 3,500 lbs. Unfortunately there’s no all-wheel-drive package available - yet. While you won’t be setting any breakneck speeds even if you use the Sport mode, it does make this minivan, um, corporate hauler, feel quicker than its competitors sending you to 100kph in just over 7 seconds. I kept mine in Eco mode to see what kind of fuel consumption I could get and was still impressed with its acceleration. I mustered an impressive 9.4L/100 kilometers. The handling is well balanced and predictable with no brake fade.

Above: No attention to detail is spared.

More a boardroom than a minivan cabin, the Carnival’s interior is serenely quite. The multi-link rear suspension soaks up road irregularities and sends barely a shudder through the greenhouse. I had to pick up over a dozen cinder blocks while my truck was out for a wheel alignment and the Kia surprised me with its smooth ride even under a heavy load, the back end never bottomed out. Kudos.

The Verdict

There’s a lot to like about the Carnival, from the old school automatic transmission to the smooth revving V6. As much as I love the lounge chairs that look like they’ve been pillaged from a Maybach, for my personal priorities I’d go for the regular, removable second row seats. Call me crazy but I’d love to see a sportier handling package made available to go with the macho design.

Will the Carnival steal some of the market share away from SUVs? Hard to say, with its easier access to the third row, lower lift over and better maneuverability than an SUV it makes sense, one thing is certain it’ll give Toyota, Honda and Chrysler a run for their money.

#kia #minivan #suv #chrysler #pacifica #toyota #sienna #honda #odyssey #soccer mom #grand caravan #mpv #carnival

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2bstudioblog · 3 years

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Konami’s wheels are turning... slowly

Lot’s of interesting news heading to our heads this Monday from what I heard from Yong Yea’s video about Konami wanting to outsource their IP’s to 3rd parties.

Obviously, Akira Yamaoka has kinda given away a strong hint that he’s working on a project with Bloober which in this case would be the long awaited SH remake or the direction they had with PT before it got cancelled. Akira Yamaoka also decided that (too late) he wanted to amend the article from his interview and release it later down the line. It’s very unusual that these news happen, but we all know Yamaoka is most famous for his music in Silent Hill.

Which brings me to a funny story about my own involvement of a Silent Hill game. I mentioned this on a podcast that I was part of 2 Konami-owned IP’s that went into another direction and killing off their franchises which have been like dead bodies in a morgue for the last 7 years.

I got the request to write industrial-metal music for a Silent Hill (of course at this time I only knew the IP and their most famous version of the game has been Silent Hill 2.) game. First I was of course very excited to be part of the series, but I jumped to early until I found out it was a Pachinko-machine (A japanese style pinball-game mixed with a touch-screen and a one-armed bandit and a slot-machine in one.), and my heart sank a little. I think I produced 4-5 cues for the machine, but I’m glad that nobody will be able to hear my “mediocre” masterpieces because all you would hear are metal-balls falling into a tray. But the thing about this machine, it had taken cut-scenes from Silent Hill 2, upscaled or even re-mastered/remade the graphics which would have looked great if it was its own game. But it was the same thing they’ve done with all their other IPs when those transfer over to this kind of entertainment. All what was left of it, Jim Sterling turned the game into a Meme and all I can hear is the -”HIT THE LEVER!” and the effects overpowering the music behind it. But I’m glad it didn’t go further then that. Technically here, Silent Hill(s) died with the arrival of the pachinko-slot machine and the series have tried to re-establish itself ever since.

Another game I was a part of was a Castlevania (Dracula in Japan) themed Pachinko-slot machine, with the revolutionary phrase “Erotic Violence” in it’s PR material and video-commercial. I mean, they took the music production part of this machine very seriously because I wasn’t aware of the “EV” part. I just thought it would be a machine praising the history of Castlevania. I was assigned to re-write and re-orchestrate a few songs from Neo-classical Metal music into more Progressive Metal style, and I was super-proud of this one because they had the sheet-music already available for me. All I had to do was re-arrange some parts for a string-quartet (1 cello, 2 violins and 1 viola) and I believe it was engineered and recorded by famed engineer Kenji Nakai who was under and working with famed engineer Mr Bruce Swedien (Michael Jackson, Quincy Jones).

From that moment me and Mr. Nakai stroke a friendship because he has a passion for Progressive Metal and he asked me if I could send more songs his way. From this we both have been incredibly busy on both of our ends, but I hope we can be able to work on something in the future. I have a feeling that might be soon.

So a long story short, Konami spent a lot of money for recording, they approved everything and we were done. But when it turned out to be a pachinko-machine and not a world-wide videogame release, I just had to facepalm myself, asking the question why they keep doing so many poor decisions. Why leaving all those fans out in the cold and really start making Castlevania mean something. This void of “lots of fancy things, but no substance” started right here...

Konami are turning their wheels a little bit too late and too slow until now. After they got rid of Hideo Kojima (Who I believe was thinking of the international-market rather than the domestic one), Konami had only one thing on their minds: Making money quick and domestically. No more wasted time on translations, straight for the gambling crowd. No need to write interesting stories. No need to introduce kids to this adult material. They wanted to earn it back as fast as possible. But we all see their decisions put them on the map as a “black-company”, who mistreat their staff, shaming them out in the office for overstaying their lunch-breaks. Moving staff from one business to another, from a programmer to a Konami-fitness Center-staff, or as a toilet-cleaner at a Konami-owned pachinko-slot gambling hall. The management of the company has been horrendous for the full-time employee. I’m glad I was not part of these later projects and only wrote stuff for them for Pro Evolution Soccer series from 2009-2012. (My work on 2010-2012 was unfortunately un-credited work. :(

Metal Gear Solid V - The Phantom Pain In My Ass

When the playable teaser called Metal Gear Solid - Ground Zeroes, came out on the PS3 and later on the PS4, it was an introduction for the new graphics engine designed by Hideo Kojima’s team, simply called The FOX-Engine. Basically this “game” was more of a demo rather than a full-product. But it looked great and with a fantastic score by Akihiro Honda, Ludvig Forssell and Harry Gregson-Williams, it had everything going for it to become something really awesome. It became a standard approach from Hideo Kojima now to produce “Playable Teasers” to show a great concept while offering a 3-4 hour short campaign, showing off the engine’s graphical capabilities.

Still, the story was under progress and I knew early on that Hideo Kojima really didn’t want to do it after he always felt that Metal Gear Solid 4 was final. But here is the curse of the die-hard fans, and I’m sorry to say it. No matter how many Iron Man movies Marvel crams out, at the 3rd movie, I started to feel “This does not feel like Iron Man anymore”. But that��s what the fans wanted and is a standard in the movie industry. Always produce a trilogy. Indiana Jones has always been the 3 movies from 1981-1989. The 4th one doesn’t really need to be called Indiana Jones at all. It was there I felt, just like with Metal Gear Solid V, they were beating a DEAD RACE HORSE.

I can’t deny the talents on display for Metal Gear Solid - Ground Zeroes. It laid down some really cool foundations for the gameplay, but I still believe the better game-series for stealth was beaten by the likes of Splinter Cell and most recently Thief. Stealth in MGS has always felt a little bit childish and I only really enjoyed MGS 1, MGS 2, tried to play MGS 3 (still have it one my Vita!) and will try to finish it. MGS 3 has felt like the TRUE Zeroes experience, with the inception of the story and lore behind the cloning of Big Boss. MGS 4 finally brought it all to a great finale and I felt, there is NOTHING more to tell. MGS 1, 2 and 4 is the Trilogy, MGS 3 serves as the Prequel and I see nothing wrong with that.

Mission - Erase Kojima’s Legacy

The making of MGS V - The Phantom Pain is kinda true to it’s title. Can you feel the nostalgia? Or are we just imagining the sensation of a Metal Gear Solid game past it’s prime? The missing link? The missing limb? And with the worlds biggest cop-out of everything that had to do with story was completely missing.

Each mission is playing out every time the same, with an intro to a TV-show, giving away massive spoilers to who would appear in the mission, you do your thing (not so much of story, just a “go-here, do that approach, sneak back out, head to pick-up) rinse and repeat. I wonder how much of this was Kojima’s fault? I don’t think he was up to it. I’m sure he fought for more story but the big heads didn’t want to listen to what makes a MGS game a MGS game. The new management had now already played the hand to disown the man who put Konami on the map for games since the mid 80s.

The game is no longer marketed like before. The tagline “A Hideo Kojima Game” no longer exists and will never be part of Konami’s mission of erasing the person who gave them their fame and the recognition that a game carrying the name Konami was a brand of quality for any gamer out there. Me myself, personally only played PES because of the stellar animations, but its recently since 2012, I stopped playing the series. FIFA had already cheapened itself, PES likewise. Updating the graphics, but the same old animations have been recycled back to the PES3 days. Maybe there’s been an update in the collision engine, but otherwise everything stayed the same, with the huge amount of data collected from previous years of motion-capture, why do it all over when its all about the brand recognition? Saving money on processes wherever possible. Simple Math. And here it is. MGS V is not a MGS game.

We already knew it was going to be a massive budget behind the game of MGS V. But what can Konami do to save money on MGS V? They already have the Fox Engine running from Ground Zeroes. The assets for “Snake” (I’ll let you know why I put quotation-marks around it) and standard models will extend somewhat. Oh, yes, let’s save money on a character that doesn’t speak (Quiet), over-sexualize the character to start a fan-base of people who just dig character design, animated a sexy “shower” routine for the character for boys to go nuts over. What about voice? Let’s not really try to sync the voices to the mouths. Let’s have the guy from “24″ record his performances onto tape-logs. Kiefer Sutherland would have been a good “Snake”, but I understand now that you are not “SNAKE”. The game explains pretty soon at the end that you are just a Medic and all the tapes you’ve been listening to is the original Big Boss. You never where the character of Snake. Even though this all could have been handled better, Konami wanted to save money wherever possible. We also knew David Hayter was not asked or put forward to return as “The Voice of Snake”. But in this case I start to wonder myself, David Hayter might have dodged the biggest bullet in the most expensive, commercial and very controversial game of all time once Konami decided to kill everything that built up their reputation.

Even during production Kojima managed to start working on PT. The game Konami “silenced” after it was released on the PS-store. Guillermo Del Toro and his friendship with Hideo Kojima’s dream-game was put on ice. All because Kojima was about to get frozen out of the company that was according to Konami “Wasting too much bloody money”. I might get blacklisted for saying this, but once the new management started to mess with the other IPs for just domestic/gambling market, that’s where everything went sideways. Konami wasn’t treating their heritage with respect.

It took them 7 years to realize their mistake! And now, for those who wants to be part of 3rd party developers who would get a crack at a new Castlevania, a new Metal Gear Solid (remake I hope), Konami has realized that the only way they will survive (Yeah, Metal Gear Solid Survive killed them HARD) is to let other’s take over. Maybe my dream of scoring a Metal Gear Solid game would be somewhat more possible now rather than working in the confined space of limitations posed by the higher ups at Konami. Let 3rd party developers breathe life into the IPs because I know there are smarter ways to tell a story and I would gladly like to see the return of David Hayter in the seat, without having to deal with the blank-face approach that he was faced with every time he had to audition for Snake in MGS 2, 3 and 4! David Hayter is a fantastic writer, actor and voice-actor. He has the chops and I think we are all ready for either a re-make or a better follow up to MGS 2 and the time between that one and MGS 4.

#Metal Gear Solid V #the phantom pain #Konami #Hideo Kojima #Akira Yamaoka #Yong Yea #Castlevania #Pachinko #Silent Hill #PT #Ground Zeroes #harry gregson williams #ludvig forssell #3rd Party #Bloober team #remake #Metal Gear Solid Remake

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musicrunsthroughmysoul · 4 years

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Bloom From Nowhere

The town that contained them for 21 years had become too small for them. When they'd graduated high school, arms linked in promise, they told everyone they were getting out of this one-story town. They feared, after a few years of working and saving up as much as they could, that maybe they had been lying; really, they were just waiting for the perfect, hurried moment. Nothing was more motivating than procrastination. It was about time they moved on.

Rosenda packed in a flurry, excitement and anxiety beating wildly in her chest as she threw necessities into a positively ancient suitcase she found at the bottom of the hall closet. She carefully folded and packed her favorite shirts: a green and blue striped top that fell from her shoulders toward the center of her chest, a crimson rayon top with ruffles from the neck to the bottom of her bust and a keyhole opening that showed off her modest cleavage, as well as her beloved Lord of the Rings quote t-shirt and a modified tie-dye t-shirt she got from Forever 21 that read “California Dreamin'” in a stitched Coca-Cola-style font. She added her comfiest pairs of jeans (two – light wash and black), a pair of brown capris, and a pair of denim cut-offs. A dress made it in there, too – a flowy turquoise summer dress that she saw on sale last summer and had to resist wearing it every day – and some jewelry, makeup, socks and underwear and a pair of tan-colored flip flops. If she needed anything else, she figured, she'd ask her mother to send it along once she was settled somewhere – after her mother started speaking to her again, of course.

Only a few hours earlier they'd determined that they would leave, so with what little time was left, she drove straight to the bank and withdrew all of her savings. The weight of the cash in her wallet that would only fit in her back pocket seemed heavier than she’d been expecting as she walked to her car, her phone in hand. She seemed to be waiting for a call, but why, she couldn’t tell – her plans with Gal were made already and they agreed to pack separately and meet up later. As she got into her silver 2004 Honda Civic (a car that she inherited from her mother, and besides that felt history, would not miss) and dropped her phone into the empty passenger seat, she felt the semblance of safety fall away. Every familiar red light she met on her way home looked like the call she was inexplicably waiting for, but once she pulled into the driveway, the expectation seemed far away.

Back in her room, she picked through her desk drawers for things she thought she might miss – photobooth strips of her with Gal and a couple of her high school friends, a lucky blue mechanical pencil she lost in high school more times than she could count that always managed to find its way back to her, a few small journals, and a homemade deck of Lord of the Rings themed playing cards that her middle school friend Liza made her one year for Christmas. She packed them, along with electronics and appropriate chargers and wires, into an extra travel bag where she packed the last important pieces of her future: drawing utensils, her most-used box of oil pastels, a newer set of paints, and three pads of drawing paper. Then, sitting on the edge of her bed leaning over her nightstand, she scribbled a note to her mother.

It’s been time for a while, hasn’t it? Even though I know how much you worry about me, I know you just want me to be happy. Bueno, gracias por eso. But take care of yourself, sí? Tú también mereces la felicidad. I'll be with Galia (who else?), so try not to worry about me too much. I know you trust her even though you'd like her to think you don't. We know you do, though. I’ll be okay. I’ll call you when I get somewhere new and beautiful. You understand, ¿a que sí? Te quiero tanto — Rosenda

Once she smoothed down her blankets again, she propped the note up against her pillow and stared at it for a few minutes. The blank edges of the note gave her something to focus on beyond everything that she was leaving behind in her childhood bedroom. When her eyes accidentally flicked upward, her gaze fell upon the yellow and black flag hanging above her bed that she’d rested her post-high school dreams on. She quickly looked away and sighed. 'Perhaps hope only blooms from out of nowhere and doesn’t grow from whatever you hang on the wall,' she deduced as her phone lit up with a text from Gal. I’m outside. That was why she’d never hung any photos of her with Gal on the wall. She wanted the unknown future to stay unknown for as long as possible.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

As soon as she throws her suitcase and bag into the trunk of the navy 2008 Subaru Outback and hops into the passenger seat, she looks over at Gal in the driver’s seat and finds herself staring.

“I don’t know what I was expecting,” she finally says.

Gal scoffs.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know.” She picks at the thin threads holding on at the edge of a hole in the left knee of her jeans. “I just thought…like, it’d be a bigger deal or something.”

“Oh, this isn’t a big enough deal for you? Want me to honk the horn as I drive down the street, make people come out and see what all the fuss is about as we wave at them like princesses?”

“No!” she cries, and then immediately laughs. “I just meant…I don’t know. Does it feel like a big deal to you?”

Gal shrugs.

“Sort of.” In Gal-speak, Rose knows that means, Yes, absolutely, and I’m terrified and I’m not going to talk about it.

She glances at the phone in Gal’s hand, the bright screen glowing in the dimming cab as the outside light swiftly grows darker.

“I made a road trip playlist before I left, though.”

“Oooooh,” Rose says with genuine interest.

“Fuck yeah. We’re ready, babe.”

As they pull away from the curb of her childhood home, she chews on her lip. Passing by the quiet houses that line her block, lingering on the illuminated outdoor lights hanging beside front doors, she tries not to think about how they will change, how neighbors will move away and be replaced by new ones that her mother will have to adjust to or try hard to ignore. She looks over at Gal whose pale face is cast in a garish orange glow by the overhead street lights and she wonders, but doesn’t want to know yet, how they will change.

After a few hours of idle chatting – nothing deeper than what they did earlier today – and singing along loudly to their playlist, they pull into a quiet AM-PM gas station. As she watches Gal, standing tall with her eyes forward but her gaze faraway, fill the gas tank, she suddenly realizes what would make this seem more important. She pops the trunk and scrambles out of the car. Gal looks at her with furrowed eyebrows but says nothing, and Rose offers no verbal explanation as she grabs her suitcase and opens it, sifting through the clothes she hastily packed. Finally, she finds what she thought was a random dress she’d stuffed into the slightly emptier side of the suitcase and places it carefully over her left arm. Closing the suitcase and then shutting the trunk door, she gives Gal a smile and tells her that she’s going to the bathroom and will be back in a minute. Gal raises an eyebrow at the garment slung over her arm but nods and goes back to the arduous task of pumping gas and sort-of-not-really paying attention to her surroundings – they’re alone in the station, but who knows for how long.

When she walks into the store, she offers the too-tired-or-too-awake white cashier a smile and asks for the bathroom key. The strawberry blond man who looks to be in his 30s sighs and picks the key up off a tack in the wall at the end of the counter and hands it to her, gesturing toward the back of the store. She marches through the side aisle and then down a small hallway that ends with the plain-looking hefty green bathroom door. Once she opens the door, she wrinkles her nose at the soapy smell that seems to be trying to mask the torrent of years-old scents of bodily functions. The brown tile floor looks clean enough, but the once-white walls seem suspiciously grey, and she tries to ignore anything that looks remotely like a stain smeared on the wall.

Closing the door and placing the key on the edge of the sink, she drapes the dress over her shoulders and slips off a boot to remove her jeans. She’s barefoot, but they should stop into a hotel at some point later so they can shower. Removing her other boot, she then shimmies out of her jeans, conscious of the sound of denim sliding together down her legs and bunching around her ankles. She pulls them off and folds them up, setting them on the edge of the sink. Next, she pulls her shirt off over head and folds it and places it on top of her jeans, then steps into the dress and pulls it up to her chest and shoves her arms into the straps. After adjusting her bra not to poke out so noticeably above the cups of the dress, she finally looks in the mirror and notices the way the bust of the dress seems to stretch and she raises her eyebrows – her boobs have grown since she last wore this dress. She half turns and notices the way the gown’s soft polyester material curves over her rear and cascades down past her calves – at least it seems to fit better than the last time she wore it. When she turns around again and looks at her reflection straight-on, she sighs and suddenly feels shy. She remembers she has to walk back to the front of the store and return the bathroom key to the cashier, and what if there are other customers wandering around, just waiting to judge the other oddballs stopping in at gas stations at 1 o’clock in the morning?

Suddenly, she hears Gal’s voice on the other side of the door.

“Hey Rose, can you hurry it up in there? I wanna get back on the road.”

She pauses, looking at herself anxiously in the mirror and makes sure her mascara hasn’t run to her knees, and then begins to gather up her clothes.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m done.” She grabs the key off the edge of the sink and opens the door quickly to see Gal standing in front of her, waiting. When Gal notices the change in attire, her eyes widen.

“Is this what you meant by ‘a big deal’?” she asks.

Rose blushes.

“I feel silly, actually.” She’s still standing on the ground in her bare feet and she just remembers to grab her boots as well.

“Well…you look-” Gal pauses, apparently searching for some grand adjective to describe the woman before her, of Rose’s tan skin flushing under her stare and limber body draped in a vermilion gown, “-amazing.”

The word isn’t enough, but Rose recognizes the breathless way Gal ends her sentence and knows what she means. She smiles and hands Gal the key and adjusts her clothes in her arms and carefully holds her boots between her fingers on one hand.

They stand there for a minute, Gal admiring her, before Rose clears her throat and shifts her feet.

“Ready?”

Gal shakes her head, as though shaking herself out of a trance, and nods. Before turning around to leave the store, she smiles at Rose who returns the gesture.

As the two walk together through the store, Rose feels all anxiety regarding the trip fall away. Even as she walks barefoot in an evening gown through a random AM-PM store at 1AM clutching her discarded outfit, the presence of Gal beside her makes her feel light. She smiles again at the cashier as Gal drops the key onto the counter and nods goodbye to him and they leave the store, walking across the gas station parking lot to the Subaru on the other side of the gas pumps.

Gal rushes over to the driver’s side of the car so she can unlock the door for them, and as soon as she presses the button on the inside of the door, Rose reaches the passenger side door and pulls it open, a faint smile still present at the corners of her lips. She throws her discarded outfit and boots into the backseat and steps into the car, the material of her dress gathered by hand and tucked under her thighs. Once she closes the door, she looks over at Gal who is staring at her.

“What?” she asks self-consciously.

Gal keeps staring for a few seconds before she looks away into her lap.

“Nothing.” When she looks up again at Rose who is now staring at her, she laughs and shakes her head, grinning.

“You’re just-”

“’Too much’?” Rose asks, quoting her from years of knowing each other.

Gal pauses and her smile slackens a little bit.

“No. You’re beautiful and I just feel too lucky to be here with you right now.”

Rose feels her blood thrum quicker in her veins and she glances at their surroundings for a second.

“In this gas station?”

Gal laughs, and she watches the way Gal’s roomy mouth opens wide at the corners and reveals all the gaps between her straight teeth. She remembers when Gal confided in her that she hated her teeth, though she recognized how privileged she was that her teeth were taken such good care of in the first place. They were too straight, according to Gal – ‘Totally unlike me,’ as she’d put it with a wry smile. Rose meant to bat her on the arm for saying that, but instead she’d grazed her skin with her fingertips and watched the goosebumps rise on Gal’s arm in their wake. She enjoyed that reaction as much as she enjoys Gal’s laugh, so she smiles even as Gal’s laughter fades.

“I love you,” Gal says after a few seconds of silence, wearing a matching smile.

Rose reaches over to tuck Gal’s short dark hair behind her ear.

“That’s why I’m here,” she says. They stare at each other for a minute, Gal blinking in gratitude or awe, and then Rose eventually seems to zone out, away from them as they sit there though her eyes remain glued to a small, unassuming mole resting on Gal’s chin.

Even once Gal finally looks away and turns the key in the ignition, Rose continues to stare, only now at Gal’s cheek where a few more small, inconspicuous brown dots adorn her skin. Perhaps there is nothing more she wants to know then what is already there. Still, as Gal guides the Subaru away from the gas station and back onto the road, they move on.

#my writing #creative writing #original characters #wlw #realistic fiction #short story #y'all might remember this story actually. I'm reuploading it because I got inspired to improve it a little #I think (hope) I improved the Spanglish this time around. LOL #also wanted to reupload it because out of self consciousness I changed Gal's name the first time I posted it #but Gal was always her name to me when I first wrote this so I wanted to retain that instead of change it #anyway I might work on this again and give it more of a purpose some time. who knows. (not me!)

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stone-man-warrior · 4 years

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January 20, 2020: 7:55 pm:

I just now returned from another socio-terrific shopping experience in Dystopia, Grants Pass Oregon, where all of the current citizens are fake, and are Canadians who are using the name of an American that was killed by the SDA terror army. The conditions are best described as living in the aftermath of a slaughter and depopulation of the citizens who lived in the county twenty years ago, where the original population was all brutally killed, and the new, replacement population is implanted from Canada, mostly Quebec, and are commanded as an army by Screen Actor Guild leaders in Hollywood California. SAG gets their orders from the British Throne, Royal Family, and House of Lords British Parliament.

It’s all fucked up.

The current fake impostor population is instructed by SAG leadership to vote in specific ways, as the leadership commands the individual soldiers to vote. The US Election Ballots are filled with Screen Actor Guild Member Shill Candidates, who also take their commands from the SAG leadership in Hollywood CA.

The Josephine County Oregon population is composed of a mixture of Screen Actor Guild members, who are instructed to create a social atmosphere for cover, to make the county appear as a normal county does. The others are Seventh Day Adventist Christian religious cult, and are an army, armed with swords and Nitrous Oxide airborne gas. They use the gas to kill any outsiders who come the the county. SAG arranges replacement look-a-likes to take the place of the murdered victims. The army is supplies with vehicles, housing, food, clothing for free, all of their needs are supplied as any army is supplied by it’s leadership.

Commerce is all faked with false record keeping and the commerce itself, is used as a means of identifying and then marking, and killing those who attempt to make any kind of purchase, anywhere, for anything. Since the army is supplied for free, anyone who makes a purchase is marked as an outsider by virtue of the transaction of making a debit, credit, or cash purchase.

I went to:

6th Street Market

Walmart

As I was leaving my driveway, members of the Clyde Baum terror cell at 333 “Mystreet” were hovering around the front of my home in Clyde’s Red GMC Pick-up truck. Then, a member of the Monroe terror cell also passed by, and lingered at the mailboxes in front of my home. Monroe was driving a small black Crossover style vehicle, a Nissan “Versa”, Oregon License 976 FAV (976 is questionable, not certain)

I left on my way, members of the Google sponsored terror cell at the corner of Russell Road an Three Pines Road, the “Bad Guy Auto” terror cell, were inside the garage with the door open watching as I left on my way. They alerted the people at 6th Street Market of my location and possible ETA at the store.

A large white pick-up truck with a large white horse trailer came around the blind corner near Oxyoke, “Dead Man’s Curve” with all of it’s driver side wheels in my lane. Had I been near the double yellow line as I went around the corner, there would have been a head-on collision at that time. Fortunately, I am aware of the reasons that corner is called “Dead Man’s Corner“, it’s a popular place that terrorists arrange that victims will be taken there. Hollywood provides the professional Stunt Men for such activities.

I arrived at 6th Street Market. I had to park where the terrorists had arranged that I park. An “L” shaped parking arrangement there is a useful tool to take victims. A man waits in his large truck in a parking spot that is perpendictualr to the one that the victim is parked in, such that the two rear bumper’s of the vehicles are close to one another, and he exits that parking spot just as the victim is also exiting, causing a “T-Bone” in reverse. That allows that the driver of the truck will have a reason to engage with the victim close up and verbally. Victims are exposed to Nitrous gas at that time, and carted away. I avoided the “T-Bone” on the way out, but not by much.

Inside the store, each time I go, the clerk signals for two assassins to come in, sometimes three. Then, she creates some kind of distraction with the debit machine as the two enter the store behind me. Today, the distraction was simply to delay the debit machine, with the indicator that reads, “please do not remove card“ for an extended time after the transaction is otherwise complete. I just stare at the machine waiting for my card to be released from it. That’s when the assassins shoot the victim in the back. The .25 they use does not pierce my coat, and the bullet bounces away, and the clerk always steps aside right then.

So that happened. I heard the “SnaP! sound the gun makes. I lit my lighter, and one of the two terror assassins launched out the front door, and disappeared somewhere at the empty Christmas Tree sales yard across the street. One of the two store clerks, a large red headed woman about 28 years old, followed the launched terror soldier out the door, and began to use her smart phone to communicate with others about what had happened. She was standing by the drivers side door of my car as I exited the store. Also, whenever I go to 6th Street Market, part of the assassination attempt includes that two young people are entering the store as I am leaving. They are always at the entrence at the exact time that I am going through the door on my way out. Those two are not always the same people, but there are always two, to cart the murdered victim away, and they are summoned and come from the barber shop that is also in that shopping strip mall, Village Center, on 6th Street, across from Lithia Dodge Dealer.

So, at least one dead terrorist at 6th Street Market.

Also, I learned while I was there that one of the three bozo’s that attacked me last week while claiming to be Secret Service, US Army, and FBI, was a man by the name of Rick Manning, of the Medical Democrat Terror cell at 598 “MyStreet”. The one that said he was Secret Service, the oldest of the three, who told me he was “Strong” from 3747 Russell Road, the Strong Family “SAG House” terror cell, was Rick Manning. I cut Rick Manning’s throat and his eyes in defense that day, as well as the other two. Apparently, Rick Manning was BOTH “Strong”, from 3747 Russell, AND Rick Manning from 598 “MyStreet”, playing the role of both men. Rick Manning drives a odd, red Honda Station Wagon, about a 1986 model. They did not make very many of those, and it is easily mistaken for a Ford Taurus Station Wagon.

The other two bozo’s said they were reporters from Los Angeles Times Newspaper after the fighting that day. One of them, the one that said he was FBI, and I described as Italian looking, may have been a member of the Google sponsored cell at “Bad Guy Auto”. I have met Rick Manning once, he used two snarling pit bulls to attack me one day. But I thought I killed him that day. Although the man looked similar to Rick Manning, I am not prepared to agree with what the clerk at 6th Street Market said tonight, that the man was Rick Manning. I have never met “Strong”, so I cannot comment about what “Strong” looks like up close, other than he looks like Manning, from about 500 feet away.

So, what I learned is inconclusive, with exception that Manning was NOT Secret Service, and is NOT LIKELY to be a Los Angeles Times Reporter. I did not learn anything new about the one that said his name was “Dan” and was from “US Army”.

Ok, back to the shopping experience:

I went to Walmart. I saw what looked like Juseph Myers white Crossover style vehicle parked in a driveway at the corner of “A Street”, and Beacon Street, at the South East house of the corner. There is a truck in my yard that belongs to a man that once lived at that house, Zachery White, so, that could be a Confusion Service sort of activity done my Juseph Myers, who is part of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police terror cells.

At the Walmart, the parking was not very full, plenty of parking. The store was not very active. The presence of terror soldiers was such that it was obvious that the people in the store were mostly Screen Actor Guild variety of “Bubble Service” terror activity. The Seventh Day Adventist terrorists were in very small number, SAG was in high number.

Nitrous Fogger soldiers were not obvious, there were only very few following me around. I decided to ask about Smart Phones from a store clerk, to learn about the payment, contract, and other things associated with owning a Smart Phone. The young man the helped me was friendly, knowledgeable, and courteous. He was not wearing a Walmart Vest. He was wearing a black shirt with name tag. I learned something important.

The Apple iPhone is available for only one penny. If you agree to use US Cellular Service Provider, at $75 per month, for two years, the phone only costs one penny. That’s $0.01 for a iPhone. There IS NO PENALTY to CANCEL YOUR CONTRACT with US Cellular, and you can keep the phone. That is where and how the terror army is obtaining some of the iPhone’s that the scouts use without service contract, and only use connectivity of Blu-Tooth networked to all of the other terror cell members such that the Blu-Tooth technology is creating a Blu-Tooth Grid, where each phone behaves the same way as a cellular tower does. There are so many terror soldiers, that they are always connected to one another, and can communicate without a service contract.

I think one terror soldier was ignited shortly after I arrived at the Walmart, and launched away from the shampoo, deodorant, first aid area. “Evac” was announced on the store PA system.

When I was checking out at the self checkout, the debit machine malfunctioned. That was supposed to be opportunity to make a hit attempt on me at that time. Something must have gone wrong, because there was no hit attempt at the time that the clerk came to reset the debit machine. Or, it was done to make it appear as if my debit card is no good, to fool someone who may be investigating terror in Oregon.

As I was leaving, I noticed that there are ZERO motor homes in the parking lot where there are always motor homes and buses. No cars, no buses, no motor homes there. Those buses and motor homes serve as nitrous tank refill area, first aid for injured terrorists, and for torture area’s when victims are taken in the parking lot.

They were all gone tonight.

Upon returning to “MyStreet”, I saw a vehicle come from Sparacino’s terror cell and go to 598 Manning, Medical Democrat (Med-Dems) terror cell. I did not see what kind of vehicle, but it was not a large truck.

That’s all for now.

end terror reporting: 9:42 pm.

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asphaltvalhalla · 4 years

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2019 Volvo XC60: Helicopter Parent

In a fit of stir craziness, I hopped in the jet and sped off to Earth for 10 days of hiding from the COVID in the forest (instead of a God-forsaken Martian hellscape). I paid for a rental Corolla. My dear friends at Avis said, “your 9-passenger Chevy van is ready for you!“

When the bus pulled up to the lot, the Avis app told me that my Grand Caravan, white, but with trendy black wheels, was in slot whatever, right by the dropoff.

“Better,” I thought, “but I would still prefer the Corolla I prepaid for.” Before getting all Ken on the manager about this unseemly “upgrade,“ I checked the app again. Minivan? Check. Chevy van? Still available! Volvo? Wait, what? Get this boy a chicken dinner!

I didn’t care that it was a grocery getter Volvo and not some $100K Polestar saloon. Like 90% of American SUV buyers, My only concern was that the “utility” part wasn’t wearing minivan sheet metal. I get enough Dad Bod/Mom jeans snark already.

Then I started driving it. Yeah, yeah, yeah, it’s a competent $50K Scottsdale trophy wife-worthy quasi-truck. The devil in the details is relentless.

So here’s what’s good:

Smooth leather seats.

2 pane panoramic moonroof with theatrical retracting sunshade.

7 or 8-speed transmission.

All Wheel Drive. Something of actual utility in Michigan

Adjustable driving modes.

Harman Kardon sound system.

Built-in GPS (that wasn’t deactivated by Avis to sell an addon)

SiriusXM - no subscription. About the regular radio - I couldn’t find the preset setting to delete all the hate talk and religious channels these rentals often have. On the plus side, instead of presets, the radio automatically put in all the stations whose signal was strong enough to register. While driving up the Michigan Coast Highway, there was an occasional bleed over between the local station and the Chicago station using the same frequency.

WiFi Hotspot. Sounds good in theory. The feature was buried in a menu I stumbled upon on my last day with the car. (Karen: How am I supposed to read the Facebook without wifi?)

Some of the safety stuff my Honda has - adaptive cruise, lane departure, driver alertness, traffic sign reading.

Configurable (sort of) gauges.

Parallel parking assist.

Invisible to cops

Approach/puddle lights are stellar

Then there’s the other stuff:

The engine light was on. Step one - check the gas cap. There isn’t one. OK. Step 2, check the oil. Good luck with that. There’s no dipstick, dipstick. Somewhere in the cascade of menus (once you figure out how to get there) is a screen that tells you the oil level. Avis thought it might be cheap (i.e., low octane) gas. The car demands premium. It’s a turbo, so that should be a given. A tank and a half later, that wasn’t it.

TFW you need to scrub off speed quickly and you slap the lever a few times and you’re still in 4th or 5th gear.

The half-hearted cleaning by the rental company highlighted the cheap brittle plastics on the center console. I noticed both, because I had to unstick the buttons. Cue the frat house flashback of incongruous, mysterious (and best left that way), sticky things.

I couldn’t really tell much of a difference between driving modes, except for “Off-Road.“ Basically, it uses low gear hold and engine braking and maybe regular braking to slow your descent. I kept in in sporty most of the time, for the sake of the S in SUV. Economy mode made the engine start/stop more aggressive, like when coasting.

The tech. A blessing and a curse.

Factory GPS loves the highways. It only wants to tell you the fastest way to your destination. She’d get so PO’ed when I detoured or stopped to look at a thing.

“ Harman Kardon” audio sounds promising. I remember that name as being on stereo components I could not afford. Do you want to explore the sound quality? Have your passenger scroll through 17 menus.

Basically, always have a passenger, even to change the temperature.

You’re so naggy, Karen. The lane departure is supersensitive. The traffic sign and lane departure don’t sync up for things like construction zones. Driver alertness is 3 strikes and you’re out. Karen wants you to pull over.

Karen is happy to tell you when you’re in a no-passing zone. She is blithely unconcerned when the pass restriction ends.

She is right on top of those speed limit signs. 1 mph over the posted limit and the dash starts flashing the speed limit sign at you. It’s been a couple of weeks, but I think she also lost her mind a little if the speedo read above 80.

Not that I know from experience. Must have read that in the owner’s manual.

Android Auto -Karen friggin’ hated it. The Google GPS window is tiny, compared to the built in version that can be almost full-screened. On Bluetooth, Karen is happy to read your messages. Just tell her what line number. *Looks at big screen* What do you mean, “select line number.“ 100 miles later - Oh, the OTHER screen. The one with the speedometer I’m supposed to be checking occasionally. Got it. Plug that phone in and Karen’s mood changes. At first, it’s OK. She’ll play the Habanera on Spotify, but it sounds dull because you haven’t figured out the stereo controls yet. Sigh

At first, you can compose texts through Google instead of the canned responses of the factory interface. After a while, the green-eyed monster awakes. Suddenly your phone is simply not available to take your dictation. Karen has no explanation. Just “NOPE.” Also, she blames the phone for the problem that didn’t exist a minute ago.

I never did figure out the mobile wifi - I didn’t even find the screen with it until I was returning the car.

In Four Words: Buy a Mustang Instead. Or, Kinda Like Being Married.

#2019 #Volvo #XC60 #Avis #Rental Cars

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klaudiaspiechowiczmarsawards · 4 years

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Asimo Honda

“ASIMO (Advanced Step in Innovative Mobility) is a humanoid robot created by Honda in 2000. It is currently displayed in the Miraikan museum in Tokyo, Japan.”

“Honda began developing humanoid robots in the 1980s, including several prototypes that preceded ASIMO. It was the company's goal to create a walking robot. E0 was the first bipedal (two-legged) model produced as part of the Honda E series, which was an early experimental line of self-regulating, humanoid walking robot with wireless movements created between 1986 and 1993. This was followed by the Honda P series of robots produced from 1993 through 1997. The research made on the E- and P-series led to the creation of ASIMO. Development began at Honda's Wako Fundamental Technical Research Center in Japan in 1999 and ASIMO was unveiled in October 2000. ASIMO is an acronym which stands for Advanced Step in Innovative Mobility. The Japanese word Asi also stands for 'leg' and Mo for 'mobility'. ASIMO is pronounced as 'ashimo' and means 'also legs'.”

I feel people would be more comfortable with this robot rather than something like Sophia because it resembles a human figure but does not attempt to look human making it not go into the uncanny valley like she does. Asimo is very stylised with that black screen as a face, it could probably project cool faces or just have eyes like Eve from Wall-E. It would still look very interesting and friendly while not even being close to the uncanny valley. The purpose of this robot is to help in cafeterias and dinners by acting like a waitress in a way. It just passes food around. It’s not really all that impressive or life changing to have your food brought to you by a robot but it’s still a big accomplishment for the people that made the robot. They might start simple but you never know how this robot will be further developed, especially that it already has 40 years worth of changes made to it. It’s interesting what next will happen with it, maybe it will be more features, they will change how it looks or acts or simply give it more tasks that its capable of completing.

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/ASIMO

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nerdy-bookworm-1998 · 5 years

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Full Throttle part 4

Words: 769 Warnings: Swearing and revelations A/N: If you want to be tagged feel free to send me an ask, please leave feedback/reblog

The silence that hangs in the room is deafening. Clint is nervously shifting from foot to foot while Steve and Bucky have turned into statues on the couch. I have no idea how long this continues as I must have drifted off again.

When my eyes open again, it's to the low hum of people talking. I slowly sit up straight and push myself off the couch. Following the sound I enter what looks like a large kitchen with people milling around, all dressed in denim and leather, all sporting the Howling Commandos MC patch on the back of their kuttes. They seem to be gathered around a guy with short brown hair, a thin mustache, and a Black Sabbath t-shirt sitting with a laptop.

I stop in the doorway to listen to what he was saying, "This is the footage from the front gate, see? It's the same bike rider every ten minutes, just cruising by. If I had to guess, it's probably the same one that cut the brakes and slipped the note into her bag. I don't know who they are because I can't see any patches or defining features, but they are most likely Hydra, just waiting for her to leave so they can follow her."

"There's no way in hell that they're getting their hands on her, not if I have anything to say about it," Bucky growls out, running his hands through his hair, clearly irritated.

"Bucky's right, we have to protect her. I want someone from the club with or at least near her at all times. We can't make her stay, but we can keep her safe. And that means stopping Hydra at all costs. Tony, I want you and Peter to run this through every database you can, see if you can find out who this bike belongs to. T'Challa, I want you to take M'baku, Drax, and Thor with you to stake out the bar, see if anyone suspicious looking comes poking around. Natasha, Gamora, Nebula, and Loki, you four go ask around town about anything suspicious or out of the ordinary going on, someone may have seen something. The rest of you, I want you to patrol our areas and hangouts, I don't want to see a single Hydra moron in HC territory," Steve hands out orders.

"Do I get a say in this, or am I supposed to shut up and wait here like a good damsel in distress?" I say from where I'm leaning against the doorway with my arms crossed over my chest, scowl firmly in place.

Steve frowns but his eyes soften as they look at me. "I thought you were resting, you hit your head pretty hard."

"And I thought I told you that I don't need a knight in shining armor. I can take care of myself. I know you have a rivalry going on with Hydra, but this is complete overkill," I say, slowly walking towards the center island.

"This isn't just about keeping you safe doll, we know you can take care of yourself. This is about taking down Hydra once and for all. For the past three years, they've been terrorizing the area. Drugs, guns, human trafficking, just about anything you can think of, they're involved. They've never been caught because Pierce has most of the local cops in his pocket. We just don't want you to get caught in the crossfire," Bucky pleads, walking around the island to take my hands into his, worry screaming fro his eyes.

"Okay," I say nodding.

"Okay?" Steve questions.

"Okay, I want to help take them down. They've ruined enough peoples lives, and they sure as hell have broken enough tables and chairs to warrant an ass-kicking. So, what do you want me to do?" I smirk.

"Actually, I could use some help. Do you recognize this bike or rider?" Tony pipes up, turning the laptop so that I can see the screen. There, clear as daylight is the black Honda that I will never forget, especially after I almost got ran over with it more than once.

"Son of a bitch!" I hiss, my hands already balled into fists.

"What?" The room asks collectively, clearly intrigued.

"That," I say pointing at the screen, "is Brian's bike. Meaning the moron riding it is Brian, my ex-fiance. Meaning that is the person who was stalking me at the farmer's market, slipped me the note, cut my brakes, and I'd bet my bar, is the newest member of Hydra," I explain.

Stunned silence follows my explanation until Tony starts chuckling. "Well, this is interesting."

Tags:

@mcdesij @spiderrrling @arrow-guy @interestedbystanderwrites @caplansteverogers @gwendelerynan @lukebalehiddleston @here2have-fun @bvckys-doll @bookscoffeeandracoons @bambamwolf87 @loricameback @rockrchick51 @love-nakamura @moisoverennyi-thestarlessone @baebeepeach @timelordy-fangirl2 @jewelofwinter

#full throttle #marvel #swearing

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alitheamateur · 5 years

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The Grind-Chapter 9

Warnings: Mentions of violence.

Colton had offered to retrieve my car and park it on the top level of the parking garage, so the herd of relentless paparazzi outside wouldn’t catch a shot of me leaving the hotel in clothes from the night before, at 10 a.m the following day. The 16-minute drive back to my apartment had soothed me deeper into a sleepy trance, along with the settling smorgasbord from breakfast. A dizzy nausea was attacking me too, as the nerves for Colton’s fight in only a handful of hours kept growing, and growing. He liked to be the overly-confident big mouth when it came to the topic, but I knew there had to be a sliver of anxious stress somewhere in him. I knew because I’d heard him go on & on about how “important this was to his career,” and he “hated to admit it, but he really needed to prove himself across the world of MMA.”

I gulped a swig of Pepto Bismol from the bathroom medicine cabinet, and stripped my clothes for a much needed power nap in my bed which suddenly felt like rocky ground after sleeping on the expensive pillowtop at the hotel last night.

Warmer days were more & more frequent in the city now, so I was able to wear a suede peep-toe bootie that night. I followed instruction and sported my leather jacket per Colton’s request, along with a loose-fitting black shift dress that rubbed at my mid-thigh. My makeup a bit more dramatic courtesy of the cobalt blue trace of eyeliner I added, and my hair left down, tousled with loose waves. I never usually let it get much passed shoulder length as it held more tangles in doing so. But, the man in my life had quite the attraction to my now very lengthy, ombre blonde strands. Any time he’d escort me to the shower, I was required to turn my back to him for a brief moment so he could observe the water cascading through my hair, causing it to paint slickly down to the bra line of my back. He combed his digits through the ends, tracing the flow of warm water down to the noticeable dimples indented in the small of my back. So, not quite ready to let go of that particular little habit he had developed, I indulged him with a longer style for now. Wrestling with myself after awaking from my nap, I texted him.

L: Thanks again for last night <3 I’ll be sure to pack my first aid kit in case you need some extra TLC tonight!

Fully expecting just to be left on “read” without a reply, I was all the more pleasantly surprised when I heard his designated text tone chime across the bedroom.

C: No. Thank YOU for last night. And if those medical supplies you’re talkin’ about include a tight fittin’ little nurse outfit then YES PLEASE!!!!! I love you, Livvy Caroline.

After arriving at the Palumbo Center, I decided to park my Honda in the covered complex rather than on the street, figuring I’d probably be loaded up into the black Suburban that Colt had rented so he & the team could all ride together this weekend, to paint the town after his victory. I tucked my arm through the chained strap of my crossbody purse & adjusted the “L” pendant necklace that was nestled between my cleavage. I felt sexy; important even. No one else in the arena knew that I was the girlfriend of the lethal animal that would be headlining tonight, but I certainly did. And it made me high.

I strolled boldly into the side entrance, greeting one of the guards I had become familiar with throughout the countless other events I had covered at the Palombo. Emmett, a towering steel wall of unyielding strength.

“Pretty as ever, Ms. Liv. How you doin’?” he said with the polite tipping of his worn tan Ascot hat.

“Doing fantastic, Emmett! You ready for this one?” We always exchanged predictive play-by-plays of whatever particular event of the night was, and I appreciated the fact that he didn’t chuckle or mock when a woman such as myself chimed an opinion in regard to athletics. Something rare, but regretfully present at at least two hockey games I attended for work when I first moved here. One being from a coach I approached for a question post-game, stating that he was “sure I could give him pointers on how to improve the teams’ uniforms if he needed them, but otherwise he didn’t have time to speak with me.” That was the first instance I questioned whether the big city of Pittsburgh would ever be the place for me.

“Oooooooooh girl, you know this gonna be a brawl.”

Chuckling lightly to his animated response, I shook my head with a pat to his arm and moved passed to head to the main room and locate my seat. Since I had entered from the private entrance, I had to navigate through the hallways and locker rooms to reach the arena floor. Smiling blankly at by passers, I reached into the side pocket of my bag for the nude lipstick I planned to apply at my pitstop to the restroom. My pace slowed a bit in struggle to locate it, eyes looking down in search. When I finally grasped it tucked away under a wad of crinkled receipts, my gaze lifted again to push open the door of the ladies’ room. However, I couldn’t seem to muster the very minimal effort it would’ve taken to open it, due to the hooded man marching down the wide hallway.

Mac was leading the pack, and Colton tailed the end of the line with his hands settled into the front pocket of a sweatshirt, headphones adorning his neck. His thinned, focused eyes instantly found mine, rendering me unable to even blink. Just as he was strolling right past me, those very same eyes sank to the now heavy rise & fall of my chest, then traced down the span of my glowy, toned legs. Last on the list of body parts for him to make love to with his eyes, he locked his penetrating sights onto my sex, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. He need not use words, because I knew unmistakably what those black pupils were envisioning. I watched his head turn then to face forward as he was escorted into what I assumed was his locker room. Now that my underwear were sopping for the evening, that was that.

The profuse adrenaline spreading like a smoky vapor throughout the arena almost had me stimulated like a wave of lust. Not near as much as the very rated PG-13 encounter I had just had with Colton backstage, but stimulated, nonetheless. Black folding chairs lined the room, neon lights showing the stains of gum, spilled soda and ketchup splatters that covered the concrete floors. My seat was two rows behind the announcers table, and I was pleased with the exceptional view I would have for the fight. The jumbotron hanging from the rafters displayed a countdown clock reading 37 minutes until the match would be underway. I settled in, tucking my purse into my lap after removing my cell phone for some leisure social media catch up to aid in passing the time.

The crowd steadily poured into the empty seats, along with the television broadcasters at the booth in front of me. Luckily, I was able to eaves drop on the preshow now underway, hearing one of the suited men state that “Danny Mendez was in for a true contest with Colton Ritter.” An ounce of relief came over me that there were people other than myself and members of Colt’s camp who sincerely believed he had a very likely shot of stealing the belt tonight, but not enough relief to still the tapping of my toe, or erase the clamming of my twiddling hands. Suddenly the bulbs of the LED gym lights began clicking off row by row, and rap music began to thump from the mega speakers. 15 minutes running down the clock now. Short clips of Danny’s past battles flashed on the theater size screen, along with a few clips from Colton at the gym. Before I knew it, total darkness for a moment, followed by circling blue spotlights all around the cage.

Realizing it was indeed showtime now, whistles, claps and sporadic shouting ensued under the arena rooftop. Everyone began standing when the chords of “Let’s Go” by Run The Jewels struck up and a single white light aimed towards the tunnel entrance. Colton had left me with the daunting responsibility of selecting his song of introduction, so I knew any moment he would emerge into sight when I heard the tune begin.

Colton came trudging into view wearing the same sweatshirt he’d been sporting earlier, only now changed into his red fighting trunks. Mac’s logo, along with several other local business names were stamped as sponsors down the sides of his shorts. I was shocked at how many fans of his were revealed by the off-beat chants of his name, and of course the army of female admirers hooting like retrievers in heat. He didn’t waste any time making his way to the waiting referee, offering no high fives or fist bumps to hecklers swatting over the steel barricades of the aisle. He stripped the sweat absorbed shirt handing it to Mac, raised his arms to be patted from top to feet, then pulled back his lips to reveal he was wearing his required mouthguard. I always loved the way the chunky plastic made his lips fatten out when clenched between his teeth.

Next, the black latex gloves of the official smeared a thin layer of petroleum jelly onto each cheek bone, along the bridge of his nose, then across his perspiring forehead, and granted him entry into the cage door. Colton took one of the three steps entering and proceeded to jog two laps around the perilous steel playpen, rolling and stretching his bulging neck and trap muscles. He continued familiarizing himself with every square inch of the octagon mat taking in deep gulps of air through his nostrils, then exhaling gradually out his mouth. From what I could see, he gave the impression of a man prepared, focused and dangerously hungry for blood. The boom of Danny’s theme song didn’t seem to faulter Colton’s bluish eyes. Clear eyes, just like I had told him.

The second fighter followed his own pattern of flashy introductions kissing the cheeks of two women and a baby along his journey in, then aiming a single middle finger towards Colt during his examination from the same ref. When the door was latched behind him, both warriors stalked their opponent.

The suited announcer took his mark in the center, microphone in hand. “Ladies and gentlemen, good evening and welcome! The following match up is for the Professional Fighter’s Federation Middleweight Championship. Introducing first in the left corner your challenger weighing in at 184 pounds in his PFF debut, Colton Ritterrrrrr.”

“And in your right corner, the current undisputed Middleweight champion with a weight of 181 pounds Danny “The Matador” Mendez.”

I wanted to join the thundering “boo” at the mention of his name too, but refrained professionally. Mendez had fans, but many of them boastful douchebags such as himself.

I felt as if I needed to bury both hands over my heart to trap it inside my chest, and I can only imagine the feelings that were swarming Colton’s body. Tyson O’Brien, the preferred ring official across the circuit was passed the mic and motioned Mendez and Colton to step to him.

“Alright fellas, we’ve been over the rules. Protect yourself at all times, and you will follow my instructions. We’re gonna have a clean fight tonight. Touch gloves.”

Neither seething man extended a hand, instead retreated to their labeled corners with no interest other than drawing blood.

Tyson addressed Colton, “you ready?” Receiving one single nod in answer. After the same reply from his opponent, he dropped a hand to begin the time. The clock began ticking on potentially the most sickeningly vexing 25 minutes on my sheltered life.

Round One

Twenty-five seconds in, and a fist had yet to be thrown. The two danced gracefully barefoot around each other, faces hid partially behind gloved fists. I could tell by the unsteady breaths from his nostrils that Colt was holding back a brutal eruption. Mac coached him to pace himself, because Mendez had a reputation of exhausting an opponent to the point of break, then he would unleash. So slow and steady would most likely win this race.

Colton would be the first to stretch forth in assault, however only connecting with Mendez’s thrown block. I swear I could hear a wisp of power cut through the air. The instant combo of left-right-right he threw next though, tagged his opponent just below the right eye. Danny smiled at the pain, now extremely ready to get things started indeed. Colton seemed to have a bit of an advantage with a reach much longer than Mendez, resulting in explosive strikes to the reddening body of the predicted victor. His head movements strategically executed to clear any blows to the face in the first 2.5 minutes, but the leg kicks from the current champ were connecting painfully to his thighs. The handsome combatant carried a slight limp on his left leg for a moment, babying it from the strike. One leg lift however played in his favor when he was able to grab Danny’s calf and manage a powerful takedown that sent his back crashing to the ground.

Before he was pinned under Colt’s powerful legs, he managed to turn on all fours on his elbows. The attempt to escape was lost nevertheless when my red shorted fighter wrapped one arm around his torso, crushing with the force of a vice grip. He had evidently done his homework for this match up. His hands pounded like concrete blocks against the cauliflower ear and exposed temple of Danny, one blow he connected on the corner of his brow even resulted in the first blood secretion on the mat. He was like a great white in the open water inhaling the sent of a wounded seal. His right-hand imposed fist after fist, and Mendez was visibly shook. 37 seconds remained on the timer.

Shortly thereafter the time keeper smacked together his wooden blocks to notify now only 30 seconds left in the round. Dan wormed his way out of the hold to stand to his feet, placing ample space between the two of them for a brief instant before charging Colton with a swift roundhouse kick, thankfully missing. A blow horn shrieked, and the men retreated to corners joined by training staff members. I thought I may need medical attention next when I released a breath of momentary relaxation and noticed the half moons of nail marks I had pushed into the inside of my thigh. This round undoubtably belonged to Colton.

I was suffocating the urge to dart straight to the concession stand for a generous dose of nerve settling liquor. Was I cut out to be the girlfriend of a fighter? Could I really stomach watching him suffer blow after blow to the head, or have to spend the weeks after a match nursing a concussion? Driving him around the city in search of an oral surgeon to repair the teeth that had been forcibly removed from his gums? Was I thick-skinned enough to tarry that journey? The answer is no. The idea of it all made me want to projectile vomit the lavish breakfast I had with him that morning. The daunting apprehension that even every day mundane tasks like choosing where to get gas, or what facial cleanser wouldn’t cause a rash literally sent my brain into unnerving override. I didn’t have the thickened skin for it. I wasn’t designed for dramatic unraveling’s. But, he was like a computer technician rewiring a hard drive from the inside out when it came to my old habits. Colton Ritter was reviving me, rebuilding me into the daring, strong and ultimately better version of myself, and I would forever be grateful. I could feel myself developing the depth of not only headstrong, flourishing journalist, but loyal, passionate life partner as well. So, if nursing contusions or taping broken fingers was necessary to my repertoire, then so be it.

I dialed in on the announcers again in effort to gather expert opinion on predictions now that the first round was in the books.

“I’m gonna be real honest with you, man. This is not at all how I saw this going. Ritter came out explosive! The kid ain’t the slouch that most of the locker room had expected. Matter of fact, Jake, a few guys for Danny’s camp have been callin’ him a ‘pretty boy’.”

“Yeah, yeah, I heard that little nickname floating around too, Brett. But it seems to me that so-called pretty boy is doin’ some serious punishing in that cage right now. Solid fist round for the newcomer.”

Pretty boy? Colt would roll over if he heard these guys refer to him that way on the radio. It absolutely suited him on the outward appearance, 98% of the heterosexual female population would agree. Still, it lacked the desired malevolent intimidation factor for the nickname of a mixed martial artist.

How can you spin this, Eliiot? Make it work…hmmm… Pittsburgh Pretty Boy? Ew no, too WWE. Pretty boy.. pretty boy. Pretty Boy Punisher? Oooooh, that’s got a ring to it. The Pretty Boy Punisher.

I would definitely add that to my article. Anything to deter the entire world of cage fighting from calling him a pretty boy, and taking him for a joke.

The coaches scurried suddenly to the outer walls of the cage, clearing out water bottles and folding black stools before the next round began, and inhuman beasts attacked each other once more.

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