#CRACK. I HAVE 0 MAXIMUM CHILL AT ALL! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

dipulb3 · 3 years

Text

The 2021 Porsche 911 Turbo is just as superb without the S

New Post has been published on https://appradab.com/the-2021-porsche-911-turbo-is-just-as-superb-without-the-s/

The 2021 Porsche 911 Turbo is just as superb without the S

A ray of sunshine on a bitterly cold day.

Tim Stevens/Roadshow

I confess to having some unusually fond feelings about winter-driven Porsche 911s. Growing up in southern Vermont in the ’80s, the nexus of East Coast skiing, it was a mighty special thing to see a sports car winding its way along the sand-covered roads of winter. Those lucky enough to have such a toy tended to leave them locked away, sipping from a trickle charger until sometime well after mud season.

Epic suspension

Practicality and mad speed

Eye-popping acceleration

Don’t Like

People asking why you didn’t get the S

But in those rare times when I spotted a performance machine heading up to the mountains, like a bird that had missed its migration, it would inevitably be a 911 — usually with a ski rack perched on the back at a jaunty angle. I didn’t know at the time why it was always the teardrop-shaped German machines that came out to play in the snow, but seeing them soldiering on in all seasons had a strong, endearing effect.

Why the nostalgic preamble? Because, nearly 40 years later, the sight of a 911 sitting in my icy driveway on a set of winter tires was a special thing. It was with no shortage of significance that I strapped my own implement to the roof and headed up to the slopes. OK, so I ride a snowboard instead of a pair of sticks, but the effect was still the same. I had chills all the way up the mountain — and please don’t read that as a knock against Porsche’s heated seats.

Heated seats are just one of the luxuries that you wouldn’t have found in a 930-generation 911 Turbo, of the sort I might have seen in the ’80s. Likewise, the modern, 992-generation 911 Turbo I drove made 572 horsepower, nearly twice that of the fastest Turbos in the ’80s. Intimidating? Not really, because the modern car’s suspension, brakes and, perhaps most importantly, active safety systems have seen similarly huge advancements.

That’s an important thing when you’re wielding a car this powerful on roads as questionable as those found in a winter in the Northeast. My trip to Vermont wasn’t quite as snowy as it had been earlier in the year, when I was lucky enough to make the same jaunt in a crimson 718 Cayman T. A few months of thaws and freezes had compacted the powdery landscape to a slippery sheen. Once-snowy roads were now hard-packed and frozen, as you can see in these photos. (That’s not a frozen lake I stopped on to shoot the Turbo, that’s a parking lot.)

Importantly, those fenders are just as swole as they are on the S.

Tim Stevens/Roadshow

Conditions like this gave rise to the belief that if you can ski the East you can ski anywhere. I’d like to extend that further: If you can drive on ice like this you can drive on anything. The Turbo, despite the lack of studs on its Goodyear Ultra Grip tires, is surefooted and eminently confident when driven in a reasonable manner.

However, dip deeper into the throttle, ask a little more, and the monster within here is quickly revealed. There’s more than enough power to spin the wheels in the dry, so even lightly salted asphalt presents a challenge when driven hard. Ice is something best handled with a gentle right foot and quick hands on the wheel, but the Turbo is a very willing partner. A saucy one, too. I’m surprised how much power the differential continues to send to the rear wheels even when grip has been completely lost. A more pedestrian car would be locking every differential it could or, more likely, just shutting down things completely.

This isn’t the full-fat 911 Turbo S mind you, which I reviewed about a year ago. As such, the yellow Turbo you see here made do with 68 fewer horsepower and 37 fewer pound-feet of torque. On the open road, where law and civility abide, you’d never know the difference. Even on the track I don’t think most folks would tell. The 0-to-60-mph sprint of 2.7 seconds may be one tenth slower than the S, but it’s still plenty enough to dazzle.

Most importantly, the Turbo offers the same wonderful suspension tuning as found on the S, augmented here by the ($1,510 optional) PASM upgrade. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again that the 911 is at its best when driven hard over uneven roads. While the prodigious power offered by the Turbo means you’ll need to be a little careful before deploying your right foot to its maximum extent, this yellow sled absorbed the worst of the heaves and cracks that had formed on the roads throughout a hard winter. I needn’t have been concerned about the low-profile tires.

Fantastic for all four seasons.

Tim Stevens/Roadshow

On more gentle roads, the 911 Turbo is a very comfortable way to get from A to B. Sure, it’s a bit low, but the seats support you in all the right places without squeezing the wrong ones, there’s no shortage of headroom, plenty of shoulder room and, while the two back seats are comically small, between those and the frunk there’s plenty enough baggage space for a week away somewhere special. In fact, I could have stored my snowboard inside the cabin by laying back the passenger seat had I wanted to. But, nobody wants a heavy, sharp-edged implement floating around in the cabin on a spirited drive. Besides that, it just looked too damn good stuck on the rear glass and carbon fiber roof with a Seasucker rack.

That roof was a $3,890 Porsche Exclusive Manufaktur option, just one of many niceties that ballooned this $172,150 car, including $1,350 destination, up to a $220,300 final price. Well, those options and a $1,000 gas guzzler tax thanks to the Turbo’s EPA rating of 15 mpg city, 24 mpg highway and 20 mpg combined. Other notable options here include $5,500 for those lovely 20-inch front and 21-inch rear wheels, $2,770 for the nose lift (useful this time of year) and $3,020 for the Porsche InnoDrive system, which includes adaptive cruise and lane-keep assist.

In fact, you can option the 911 Turbo to have all the bells and whistles of the higher-trim Turbo S if you’re so inclined, even the ceramic brakes and Lightweight Design package. It’s possible, but I’d say if you’re going to go through that trouble you might as well just get the S in the first place. As sweet as this car drives and looks, were I lucky enough to be configuring a Turbo I’d probably go a little lighter on the options boxes. Well, I’d try to, anyway.

The 2021 Porsche 911 Turbo is remarkably good and won’t leave you missing those 68 meagre horses. It was a delight on my sprint to ski country, and not just because I got to live the other side of a special scene I’d witnessed as a kid. It felt good to be bringing smiles to the faces of all who saw this yellow machine slicing through the depths of winter. And really, how could you not smile at this?

0 notes

the-tales-of-horror · 7 years

Text

Prison is Hell

Original Link By SamMarduk

I hate it here.

Granted, I deserve it.

I'm currently locked down behind massive, concrete walls and solid steel doors in a maximum-security penitentiary. I was locked up what feels like a lifetime ago now. I earned it, I did. Every second I rot here is justice, but that doesn't change the fact that I hate it.

It is cold here. I have a single concrete cot and toilet. My clothes itch and are too thin to keep any chills out. The walls are a grey with a sickly green tint due to the dull, swamp-like tile that sends a grossly colored glow into the room reflecting the buzzing florescent light above me. The door is thick and unmoving. They paint it the same shade of sickly green as the floor. I assume it is lead based to save on cost. (Maybe, if I lick it enough times, maybe I can kill enough brain cells to forget I’m here.) I have no roommate, as many don’t who are perceived as “extreme risks.” Thankfully I can still have time outside and shower without being entirely supervised. More than I can say for many in here.

My only commodity is my toilet paper and my journal. I earned the journal through much work and good behavior. The pencil I write with is dull and has no eraser; like that a golfer would use to keep scorecards. I am allowed 4 hours per day with it: between breakfast and lunch. I receive the journal and pencil with my meal and return it in kind. If the pencil has any pieces missing or there are any extensive tears in the pages then I will lose it for the following day. So I comply. I comply so I may have some mild comfort in this concrete cage in which I slowly die.

Again, I definitely earned it, but that doesn't change the fact that prison is hell.

I earned my place here because I killed people.

I killed many people.

I killed 20 people to be exact.

This is the first time I’ve actually written it.

I beat the Cannibal’s number, which for some reason gave me a sense of accomplishment. However, what gave me more satisfaction was the evenness of the number. Twenty.

Two, ZERO.

2 0

2-0

2....0

Even and smooth.

My Compulsion made it this way. 21 would have made getting arrested a living hell. 15 would’ve been ok, but 20 was much cleaner. Increments of five. Always increments of five. Sometimes during a shopping trip I would grab a stick of gum so as to have 20 or 10 or 30 items even. However, in the case of the killings it was much more intense.

The problem was the itch I felt in between. It was a gnawing pain in my mind from 1-4 and 6-9. The itch was not as bad during 5’s but 10’s were the best. However, that number will eventually attract attention. That number is partially what got me caught, but I had to “scratch the itch” so to speak. It made me empathize with vampires in the old horror stories- the sensation of aching thirst that cannot be quenched. It is nightmarish.

The same remained true for my age: 40. I finished at 40, which made me content. I hated not having an even age. I could force down the bad feelings my age ended in 5s or even numbers but I always had bad years with 1s, 3s, 7,s and 9s.

I digress. I understand it is abnormal behavior, but it’s a compulsion. I have it manageable so that most would never notice in a day to day routine.

I have to reminisce on these pages because I have no way of going back. It started many years ago, and the urge only grew from there.

The first time I killed was interesting. I should have felt the need to immediately kill again, as I did in later years, but I didn’t. They say mental illness worsens with age. I guess that’s what kept me from acting again so soon, but I’m not sure.

The first time I killed was pretty lackluster. . I was walking home from school through the woods where very few kids were bold enough to cross. While walking, I stumbled upon a man. He was clearly injured and even at the age of 12 I knew he had little time left. He sat, holding his side, panting in labored breaths. He didn’t see me yet. From my vantage point I could see a long, white bone jutting from his leg, which tells me the pain from what his ribs were doing was worse than that of a broken leg. That, or he was just in shock.

Far above this section of woods was a road, and from what I could see a vehicle burst through railing. The wrecked vehicle, a ‘69 Chevy C20 truck, lay decimated some 40 feet below the roadway in the brush and rocks. I remember this truck, because I wound up purchasing one many, many years later in a secret nostalgia for myself. Either way, the driver had pulled himself from the wreckage and crawled in agony upwards of 50 feet to the nearest tree, where his strength was slowly failing him.

I remember seeing a large shard of metal which had been ripped from the side of the truck and picking it up. I walked slowly to the man who reached pitifully towards me for help. I slowly shoved the sharp edge of the metal into the man’s throat and watched as blood began to spurt from the wound and his mouth. He gargled like a drowning sow on his own blood, and after a time he ceased all movement, forever.

It was a rush of which I cannot explain. The excitement of ending a human life is next to none. I was content for a fleeting moment. I stared at the body for some time before taking a bloody shred of his pant leg that was hanging by a thread. I just wanted to have a keepsake.

That was my first kill. I was never caught, nor even suspected. Growing up in the mountains of the south allowed much privacy, and it allowed me to get away with murder. As time grew, so did the feeling of power and accomplishment. I felt like God.

No one even knew I was the way I was. I would never be a suspect, because I knew to hide.

I hid well, because I knew how to hide. From the time I was a boy I knew how to blend in. Sometimes it was a challenge because of my appearance, but I learned a simple skill: how to hide in plain sight.

I was able to work hard in the background. I made good grades and maintained very few close friendships throughout school, so no one would discover anything about me. However, I made sure everyone had a nice thing to say about me, carrying groceries, helping kids with studying, always using manners. I graduated in the upper ranks of my class and soon attended the local college. After I earned a degree in business, I worked hard where I could and raised enough money to buy my own Rig. I worked by riding the highways as a trucker for years and eventually bought 2 more rigs. By 35 I was a respectable business owner in my old town with a dispatch and a few drivers. I obviously still drove, even as the owner, because it kept me close to my only real passion.

I hid well in plain sight because white people love a nigger. In a town of 90% white and 10% “other” I learned to blend despite being a minority. Learn to talk like them, learn to walk like them and you can manipulate them into whatever you want.

I hate them. Not white people; all people.

My mother died shortly after I graduated high school from heart failure, and I felt liberated, for I held her opinion highly. Her opinions often kept me in line and respectable. When she died, I was free to pursue my own interests. My father, while a good man in his own right, never held much weight in my actions, so I walked the path I chose for myself despite what his feelings may be.

Either way, I dwindled for some time after the first murder. The urge slowly grew. By high school I kept my eyes peeled for another opportunity to snuff out a life. Finally, that day came.

The second time I murdered was equally uninspiring. I found myself at a graduation party and the whole senior class was drinking heavily. All except me that is. We were at the home of a wealthier student who had maintained a spotless record through both junior high and high school and wanted to go out in a way where she could get out of her preverbal box.

I learned two things that evening. The first, that a well mannered, well educated young lady was no different than anyone else in regards to having a darker side. She wanted to be remembered for a party. Not her good grades, not her generous deeds, not her modest manner of dress, but a party. Everyone has a dark side in some way. This was the first thing I learned. The second was that if everyone is drunk and dancing on the roof, you could bump a certain young lady discreetly enough to send her three stories down into the concrete and make it look like an accident. She landed with a smack that can only be replicated in my dreams. This was the first time I was aroused by a killing. I’m not sure why. She was in a two-piece (which I assume her parents knew nothing about) and her skin was pale, and smooth. Her deep brown hair flowed past her shoulders and the look of utter confusion and terror in the face of innocence was priceless. Blood pooled from her head and seeped into her nearby swimming pool. I fancied her you could say, but only because she represented something that does not exist. Human innocence. When her skull cracked hard against the pavement, I was instantly excited. I had to sneak away to handle it, and steal a memento from the girl’s room. Meanwhile, the remaining partygoers descended into madness trying to repair a situation that was far beyond broken. The chaos I caused that night again resurfaced my deep sense of accomplishment that only comes from death.

This was the second time I killed. 18 years of age. By the time I hit my stride I stood at 6”2’ at 260lbs. I had always enjoyed lifting weights and working towards my overall health. A fat predator is a bad predator. I maintained this level of fitness for most of my adult life. I had to in order to pursue my passion.

Of course, things would have a way of catching up with me. I was incarcerated with an unfortunate mountain of evidence. I wouldn’t say I covered every base perfectly to ensure not getting caught, but I felt like I was careful enough. I guess not in hindsight.

I remember the day I was arrested. I had turned 40 the month prior and was on the road delivering a shipment of plywood. I was behind the wheel of my rig in rural Alabama. I was taking a back road because I enjoy the scenery, and when you’re the boss you can set your own schedule. At this point, I had killed 19 people and the itch was present. I would have to rub the back of my neck when I thought about it. It needed to be scratched. I needed to take care of it.

That’s when I saw her.

Miles from any structure or any living person was a broken down, baby blue Volkswagen Beetle. The emergency lights were flashing and a woman was looking into her engine compartment. The height of my Truck allowed my to scan both her car, and the area surrounding us. It was tall, uncut grass and trees, covered in utter blackness due to the overcast night. There was no one for miles and miles. We could be alone together. I pulled in behind her, with my low lights so as not to scare her.

When I stepped out of the truck I addressed her.

“Pardon me ma’am,” I said calmly. I know how to disarm. I have worked on my speaking voice for years in order to betray their security into my hands, “Are you alright?” She stepped out from behind her hood and I saw her in better light.

She was a young, Hispanic woman. Her clothes were tattered, but I think that was intentional. She had silky, dark hair to her shoulders and black librarian glasses. She was pretty, which was a bonus for me. Consider it like a dinner. You’re going to get your meal, but when it includes dessert then it is all the better. I also knew she could complete this cycle. She could be the 20th and I could rest. Best yet, she was petite, so there would be little fight.

“I think the engine is shot,” She said in a desperation that these dark woods certainly played well into. She just wanted to get out of danger... little did she know.

“I can give you a ride, I own this company so I can make the time,” I didn’t want to sound presumptuous, but I knew by making myself a manager it would remove the “creepy truck driver” mentality.

“I don’t know...”

“I promise,” I edged, in my best “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” voice, “I’ll take you straight into town and we can find you a phone. My wife would kill me if I let a young lady stay stranded in the woods.”

I wasn’t married, but that is another way of disarming her. A spouse always makes a man less dangerous, or again, as she thought.

“Ok,” She said, with her fear betraying her skepticism, “Thank you.”

“I’ll get the door for you.”

As she walked to the passenger side I held the door open for her. As she took her first step up I grabbed her ankle and pulled her straight down with as much force as I could manage.

Her jaw connected with the studded metal stairs full force. I know some teeth were broken by the crunch that emanated from her skull. She fell limp to the dirt as I lifted her onto my shoulder. She didn’t stir long enough for me to grab a large socket wrench from my rig. I could feel the warm blood from her mouth pouring down my shoulder.

I carried her into the tall grass, just out of sight. We made love then. I had made love before to some, but this was special. She was the 20th. She would complete the need. Halfway through she began to wake and struggle. From there I had to act. I took the socket wrench and began to hit her. She struggled to scream due to her shattered jaw. I hit her in her pretty face, over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over, and over and over.

When I had finished on all fronts I took her wallet from her jeans off beside us. Hannah, I believe her name was. I took her glasses as the fell off when her face collided with my truck and avoided the wrath of the socket wrench. They had her name engraved inside the temple.

I drove. Leaving the scene entirely. I had to re-enter the highway some time later and saw lights in my mirror. I had been stopped before. Once even with a body in the back, so I was not worried.

The officer walked to the side and called me out. “You Williams (my last name)?” He asked with an unreadable demeanor.

“Yes sir,” I answered coolly, holding my id and paperwork for the truck and delivery.

He then spoke into his radio.

“Yeah, we found him.”

“Officer what’s this ab-“ I was cut short.

“Sir, please turn around and place your hands behind your back.”

“Why?” I demanded, I was not about to be cuffed and restrained for no good reason.

He then turned me violently to my truck and slapped cuffs around my wrists. From there He sat me on the pavement and called for backup.

When other officers arrived one finally noticed the blood on my back. They then found the glasses. They then found the poorly wiped down socket wrench. They then received word of a brutal mutilation several towns over.

They had stopped me initially because one of my drivers was caught with a brick of marijuana and they wanted to stop all trucks from my dispatch to make sure we were legitimate. It would be funny if it weren’t so infuriating. I was brought down on a technicality.

My run lasted from 12 to 40. I was undetected for that entire time. I changed my MO. I killed strangers only. I was so careful. A technicality was the only thing that could have done this.

My simple home was turned about until they found my treasure box (a shoebox of souvenirs and news clippings). From there it was easy to put me at every single murder. Every homeless person stabbed to death in cities. Every transient prostitute with their heads missing. Every unsupervised child in crowded streets. I was linked to them all.

Now, one may ask, “Why would you be so stupid as to keep mementoes?”

To that I would say I had to. It was my passion and the only thing that gave me meaning. I had to keep something around. They were the only memories I could have of those times.

Like I first wrote, I deserve to be in prison, but I don’t regret in the slightest what I’ve done.

The trial was grueling and irritating. Since I killed across state lines there was arguments as to where to have my trial, but it became a federal issue, which only meant more bureaucracy. My lawyer explained many of the killings would be circumstantial at best, but just as many have my now connected DNA to the scene and are going to be nearly impossible to deny. I decided to throw in the towel. The media was out for blood, the public was out for blood, and the jury was out for blood. I had my fill, so now it was time to pay the favor forward. There was no way to avoid a life sentence so I may as well come clean and get regale the tales of my exploits to a room of terrified jurors and family members burning with hatred.

Despite the difficulties of finding some evidence of murders, I was still convicted for 18 of the 20. However, I was punished for them all regardless.

The day of sentencing I stood still and stoic before the judge. I could feel the eyes of all those present attempting to sear me, but failing.

The Judge looked down at me and rambled on about my cruelties and resentment for man. The entire time he droned I stood with the thought that the death penalty was illegal in this state. It was utterly satisfying to know the uproarious crowds calling for my head when the law wouldn’t allow it. I snapped out of it when he got to the sentence.

“Seeing as how the death penalty is illegal in this state, I can only do the most with that in light. I hereby sentence you to one thousand and one life sentences.”

He was being melodramatic. Not in history had there been such an absurd sentence. What's worse, The number was uneven. Meaning the rest of my life I would have to say one thousand and ONE when discussing my sentence. He knew this.

My demeanor slightly shaken, I asked the Judge, “Why 1000 and one?”

The courtroom was silent. The families, friends and jury looked at me with contempt, but that didn’t matter then, even less now.

The Judge leaned over his podium. He smiled with a smugness that still boils my blood and he calmly replied... “To torment you.”

That’s how I got where I am now. I don’t interact with the other inmates or the guards. I just mind my business as best I can. I don’t like to think about my sentence because it makes me itch. Similar to when you haven’t paid a certain bill, but don’t have the funds. It’s a wincing, mental discomfort.

I write the rest of this in a testament to what happened yesterday in hopes it reaches someone on the outside. My day started normally. A loud bell rang and I stood to my feet. From there, my door opened and I walked to the shower facility. I tried to find myself at the end of the line so as to get the most time out of my cell. I also like my privacy. The inmates here are insufferable. They are uneducated criminals who would have no life outside of these walls. My fellow black inmates gave me hell for being “crazy” since African American serial killers are considered such an abnormality. The other races tended to stay to themselves, minus a few Aryan brotherhood members casting the occasional slur my direction. I entered the shower as normal, but I felt an innate sense of dread that I don’t know how to describe. I just felt... unpleasant. I felt watched and alone at the same time. I felt completely hopeless and near despair. I quickly finished my shower and left the facility. The halls were quiet and the stationary guard was not at his post in front of my cell. I was alone in this hallway.

Suddenly, I felt a large hand grip my shoulder and order me forward. The next thing I knew I was being escorted to the Warden’s office. I was somewhat stunned, but complied.

I walked the tight enclosed halls until I reached the last room on the right. Inside was totally dark apart from a dim lamp illuminating a desk. The hand shoved me in and slammed the door behind me.

I saw the silhouette of Warden and he beckoned me to sit. I sat across from him in uncomfortable silence. He didn’t move and neither did I. I would force him to make the first move.

After what felt like an eternity he spoke up.

“Let’s go over your file.” His voice carried, a mild southern accent sprinkled in.

I did not respond. He gave no indication as to why, so I would bide my time.

From here I will paraphrase what was said, as my memory can’t perfectly recreate the entire conversation.

“Count 1. Confessed. Not convicted. Man falls off cliff and you assist him in passing. You were 12 so it wasn’t included in your final file, but it warrants mentioning.

Count 2. Confessed. Convicted. You confessed to shoving a young woman off a roof and then robbing her home of a trophy. You were 18

Count 3. Confessed Convicted. Homeless man near your college, you stabbed him and cut out a tooth. You were 20

Count 4. Confessed. Not Convicted. You claim to have shot a prostitute in Texas. The souvenir you took could not link you to the crime and she had no family. You were 24. Not convicted, but you know what you did.

Counts 5 through 9. Confessed. Convicted on all counts. You killed five lot lizards before changing your MO. That was smart. They were all strangled and you kept a lock of hair. Left them on the highway.

Count 10. Confessed. Convicted. You took a lost 12-year-old and drowned him. You kept his retainer. You were doing well in life by this point, but murder still called. Didn’t it?

Count 11. Confessed. Convicted. Ah, this one was special wasn’t she? That Gas station employee who you stalked for a while? Followed her home and broke in. Took your time and did it right. She broke your perfect streak and you were going to make her pay right? Kept her locket as a token of your affection.

Count 12. Confessed. Convicted. You took a young man to your from a local club in Missouri. Strangled him the moment the door was closed. Chopped him up and kept his teeth.

Counts 13 through 17. Confessed. Convicted on all counts. The Hitchhiker phase. Here it seems you just wanted to close the gap. You got sloppy. Left a lot of evidence behind. I guess because they were vagrants it wouldn’t have mattered.

Count 18. Confessed. Convicted. You killed a Housewife in Florida. You were on vacation at them time. You spotted her and just had to do something. Waiting until her husband left and had yourself a time. Another rape and strangling. You took her bloodsoaked necklace.

Count 19. Confessed. Convicted. You saw a jogger one morning and followed in your truck. When you knew their routine you waited in the bushes until he passed. You killed him with a hammer and took one of his shoes.

Count 20. Confessed. Convicted. The one that brought you down. You couldn’t resist her. You were too careless. Too excited. Now you’re here. You took her glasses and bashing her head in and assaulting her.”

He took a deep breathe and his outline sat back.

“Do you know you know what they call you?” He asked me incredulously.

I was livid. He completely bastardized my work. I had done so much and he swept over it like an obituary column. I glared at him in the dark before answering, “The Scavenger Hunt Killer?”

I hated that name. They donned me the Scavenger Hunt Killer because my murders spanned so far and I collected odd, disconnected items. Again, my works and efforts were reduced to a joke. It still makes me sick. The warden spoke up again, “Are you sorry?”

I sat for a moment before responding, “Would it matter?” He chuckled in a deep throaty laugh. “No,” He said settling in, “I guess it wouldn’t.”

He continued, “I don’t get it really. You’re a highly intelligent, healthy and well spoken man, why on earth would you throw that away?”

I sat in angry silence. I refused to give this man the satisfaction of an answer.

“Do you believe in God?” The Warden asked, his tone now changed.

I chewed my tongue before responding, “No.”

“Pity,” he responded lackadaisically, as if my response didn’t really matter, “That would make what I’m about to tell you much better.”

I waited for him to continue.

“Your sentence is being commuted.”

I raised an eyebrow in disbelief, “really?”

“Yes,” He sat, still shadowed, but I knew he was smirking.

“What does that have to do with God?”

I know I should have had much more important questions to ask in that moment, but I was curious. I assumed he meant I should be thankful.

“Well,” he said, his voice trailing, “That would make this next part easier. You passed away this morning, son.” Before I could respond, his hand tossed a few photos in front of me.

It was me. I lay covered in blood on the shower floor. I had been stabbed from the looks of it.

“Yeah,” The Warden, or who I thought was the warden spoke up, “some Aryan fellow wanted to prove his might by stabbing a serial killer to death in the shower. Didn’t work though, since he was caught and will most likely be in solitary until it does irreparable damage. If that’s some comfort.”

I stared at him. I stared at the photographs.

I simple could not accept it.

“This is absurd,” I felt insulted and the prospect.

“I know it seems odd, but hear me out,” He sat upright, ready to make his case, “Do you know what the Universalists are?”

“No”

“Well,” He continued without missing a beat. “Basically it states that everyone gets into heaven. Even if you aren’t necessarily in their denomination.”

“This is heaven?” I was ready to laugh. This was a joke.

“No, see that’s the bad news,” He continued, “Catholics, Muslims, some Buddhists, see they believe in a temporal plane so they’re also sort of right. See everyone does eventually move on, but before anyone can move on, they must resolve all their earthly obligations... and judgments."

Before I could remark, he caught his breath and explained further.

“You died this morning. You served ONE of your 1001 life sentences. Welcome to number 2."

I stood up, “This isn’t funny. I’m leaving.”

I couldn't move. I was frozen in place. Unable to use my body. My eyes felt like they were being pried towards the seat.

“Please,” I heard The Warden, though his voice was now much deeper, sinking my gut, “sit.” I returned to my seat with a sensation that was new to me: fear.

“Now,” he continued, his voice returning to normal, “You are not dead. You just started another sentence. Everything will be back to normal when you leave. When I dismiss you, you will leave here and return to your bunk, do you understand?”

I nodded. Still stunned by what I then knew as truth. His voice. The unexplained dread I felt that morning.

I walked out of the Warden’s office that day, feeling a hopelessness I have never known. The prison was the same, but it wasn’t. It was lonelier. Darker.

That feels like forever ago. I learned since then.

First, “Lifetime” does not mean from the age you are incarcerated. I expected a 40-year “life” sentence. But after speaking with a few other inmates serving like myself, who I see sometimes sparingly, I learned that it varies somewhere from 80 to 120 years. It varies, but it is always at least 80.

I guess the guards don't notice after a certain point. Also, I assume they don't register that we never seem to leave. Inexplicable, but that's what's happening.

Second, each go around... changes you. The prisoners don't notice you. The others like you have fewer words. The guards seemed always outside of the line of sight, even when they would interact. They were like fleeting shadows.

I am cracking mentally. I will walk into the showers and see someone shaving, even speak with him at length. However, when I turn a corner or close a stall door, he’ll be gone when I return.

Next, I learned that suicide doesn’t work. I learned the same way every inmate in here like me does. I slit my wrists and they just ached for a week. I swallowed bleach and had a miserable stomachache, but no death. I hung myself where I choked and flailed, fully conscious, for 8 straight hours until a guard found me while bringing my breakfast the following morning.

I learned that being murdered decreases time, but murdering adds it, so no one on life row attempts murder here.

Finally, escaping isn't an option. We have runners sometimes. Men, who just finished their first sentence. The guy just snapped. I guess he pulled maybe 60 years before dying in his sleep. He just panicked and ran. The snipers didn't even turn. He grabbed the fence and immediately fell to the ground. From there he shook violently. He died right there of a heart attack.

I saw him a week later. 3rd life sentence. Half crippled. I guess we get punished if we try to leave. I don't know if its permanent. He was a wreck upon returning. It reminded me of the cats in my neighborhood as a boy. The first time you hurt it, the animal twitches and becomes neurotic, but given enough time, it accepts its fate. The man now spends his days staring silently behind dead eyes at whatever light source is around.

To some this is limbo. Where we remain trapped in the prison in which we were condemned until our body, and soul, have finished their sentences. To others this is some kind of purgatory. Where we are groomed for eternity in paradise. Either way, we are forced to remain, forced to live until we pay our dues. Never truly dying.

I don't even know if time is the same now, but if you're reading this I managed to successfully get these pages out.

I have handful of plans, which I cannot record. I cannot risk ant future attempts should this fail.

I’m leaving this journal for anyone who is a criminal or wants to become one. I have between 80,000 too= 100,000 years left. I do not feel remorse, but I do wish I knew then what I know now. This is simply a warning.

100,000 years on a concrete slab. A hard, unforgiving surface.

100,000 years with one hour a day in a dying earthscape I barely recognize.

100,000 years of sickly green floors and cold steel doors that move for nothing.

100,000 years of mopping floors, or scrubbing toilets

100,000 years of being monitored by beings I cannot fully comprehend as their burning horror erupts in the back of my mind.

1001 life sentences.

1000 to go.

Only one small thing gives me comfort.

With 1000 life sentences at least it’s a nice a clean number.

I hope I don’t die too soon and ruin this nice, even lifetime...

...because the next one will be hell.

#Prison is Hell #Horror Story #Scary Story #Creepy Story #Reddit NoSleep #TTOH

17 notes · View notes

stroud5aside · 5 years

Text

Match Report - Friday 30 August - I Was Shaken, Not Stirred!!

Thank you for all your attempts at sarcasm tonight regarding last week’s match report. It was very much appreciated! Not!

However, in a week when ‘sex on the beach’ had to be re-branded by M & S due to complaints of glorifying the sex industry, we had a ‘cocktail’ of excitement in the FNL with Neil playing like a right ‘Slippery Nipple’ and with Phil’s arm injury seeing him leave for home leave in a ‘Singapore Sling!’

PREMIERSHIP

Breakaway Boys FC maintained their 100% record at the top of the Premiership with a 7-4 victory over out of sorts Nawachusai FC. It was another ‘Gin Fizz’ performance by the Premiership newcomers at a time when Nawachusai look a little ‘punch drunk!’ Whilst the youngsters are Break-ing-away at the top, Now-wha-you-say are looking lonely at the basement!

Joe has his Netsix and Chill team in ‘party mood’ at the moment and they had Not So Athletic ‘on the rocks’ right from the start of this match. Netsix, however were thwarted time and time again by Scott, in the NSA goal, in another scintillating performance by him. Essa was again outstanding for Netsix, as they went onto win 5-2.

Lurking just behind the leaders is Stroud Old Boys after their 9-2 demolition of SWR Youth FC. They remain the team to beat with their ‘intoxicating’ football. Tonight SWR had no answer to their attacking ‘punch’ and smooth ‘Black Velvet’ football. They also have a game in hand!

There was a ‘Rum’ old battle between Coaley Crows and Lioncourt Legends. In the end Ollie was the difference between the teams with a fantastic performance that made the opposition look like ‘Zombies’ at times, as Lioncourt produced a ‘Pina Colada’ performance to win 4-2. For Coaley, James had a ‘Champagne’ finish in an otherwise strangely ‘sober’ performance by him!

DIVISION ONE

With the top of the table clash between Average Joe’s and Ebley Street Elite postponed until later in the season, Adidas took full advantage to join them at the top with a convincing 8-1 victory over Hot ‘Toddy’ Coles! But this game was tighter than the score line suggests, with Tom in the Adidas goal claiming man of the match. And if only Neil hadn’t played like a ‘Bellini’ in front of goal then this game could and should have been much closer.

The Spice Boys returned to winning ways in an extremely close contest against the out of form Vic Vets. Josh spearheaded the Spice Boys in a ‘Jäger Bomb’ performance whilst Vic Vets though must be wondering what they have to do to get points on the board this season!

The match between Walker Construction and Warehouse Warriors was also postponed until later in the season.

DIVISION TWO

Stroud7 continued their impressive start to the season with another clinical performance of ‘chilling’ efficiency. Tom put in a ‘Martini’ performance as he was ‘anytime any place anywhere’ to score 5 goals in a ‘delicious’ display! To be fair Making Emile Of It had key players arriving late, but based on this battering, they must be wishing the match report was lost this week! The once Premier League runners up looked ‘punch drunk’ tonight, and not just Phil in goal!

How I Met Your Mata are also on maximum points but boy oh boy were they in a ‘session’ tonight with The Legends. Jamie hit two first half goals to give the Legends a 2-0 interval lead but a ‘Harvey Walbanger’ second half performance from the Mata boys and an ‘Alabama Slammer’ performance from Joel recovered this game to give them a 5-2 victory!

The match between Automech Spanner’s and Odd Balls will be best remembered for the 2 surreal goalkeeping performances. At this stage I have to say that it is the referee who makes the decision over man of the match but I delightfully accepted this award after 2 months out of the game and as the oldest recipient of the match award in the history of the FNL. Although I say it myself, it was a James Bond action performance where I was 'shaken, not stirred!' Automech dominated for long periods of this game but thankfully Odd Balls had Pietro to hold up the ball to give his team mates a much needed breather, at times, in another magical performance by him. Both teams exchanged the lead on a number of occasions but Odd Balls somehow held out to win 6-5.

Without the influential backbone to the Randwick Warriors team, they have stalled in recent times. Matt continues to suffer with his lower back problems, but then he always was a pain in the ass, and Poweller is recovering from a pain in the neck. Some treatments work and some don’t and I suspect that Poweller will always be a pain in the neck! Their match tonight against TGR was a cracking encounter but at times it was almost an unearthly encounter with decision making being made by 'Alien Brains.’ In the end both teams had to settle for a pint, sorry a point, in a highly entertaining 4-4 draw.

That’s it lads. Another intoxicating night of football with a touch of ‘Hanky Panky,’ a few ‘Moscow Mule’ tackles and a sprinkle of ‘Manhattan’ elegance, at times!

I just can’t wait for next week’s tasty treats!

0 notes

jmuo-blog · 6 years

Photo

New Post has been published on https://jmuo.com/strawberry-shortcake-ice-cream-bars-are-better-hom/

Strawberry Shortcake Ice Cream Bars Are Better Hom...

amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit0"; amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "fresh17-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "search"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_title = "Shop Related Products"; amzn_assoc_default_search_phrase = "cooking"; amzn_assoc_default_category = "Kitchen"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "51fe4d035c7af8dc5928e6f5e5b79c4e"; amzn_assoc_default_browse_node = "284507"; amzn_assoc_rows = "4"; amzn_assoc_design = "text_links";

[Photographs: Vicky Wasik. Video: Serious Eats Team]

I was well aware of Strawberry Shortcake Bars from an early age. Their picture was plastered to the side of the ice cream truck, and I used to find the individually wrapped bars in the local gas station novelty bin. In my memory, they were as crisp on the outside as a frozen Crunch bar, but fruity and soft within.

My adulthood experience of them, however, has fallen a little short. The topping is soft, stale, and scant—a mere scattering of crumbs—while the filling itself tastes like a chemical approximation of berries and cream.

But, fresh from my adventures with homemade Klondike Bars, and armed with popsicle molds from my time spent making DIY Pudding Pops, I knew a homemade solution was close at hand—one with an intense (and all-natural) strawberry flavor and the creamy, crunchy contrast I longed for.

I knew from my success with fruity whipped cream that freeze-dried strawberries would be potent enough (in both flavor and color) to make a strawberry filling, and crunchy enough for the topping as well. And, per my childhood recollection of the original bars, if not reality, I coated the whole thing in puffed rice to give it that frozen-Crunch-bar vibe.

The Equipment

Aside from the essential gear I recommend for any baker, Strawberry Shortcake Bars require a few special pieces of equipment, namely popsicle molds and sticks.

Of course, the recipe will work with any mold, but the yield will vary depending on capacity, and smaller or skinnier pops will have a higher proportion of coating relative to the ice cream, which can affect the overall sense of balance. Not exactly a world-ending problem; just something to be aware of.

If you don’t have (or want to buy) popsicle molds, these Strawberry Shortcake Bars can also be prepared just like my Homemade Klondike Bars, in an eight-inch-square cake pan, but with two flavors swirled together rather than just one. Freeze and cut as directed in that recipe, but dip and coat as directed here.

The “Ice Cream” Filling

Although the assembly method is quite different, the “ice cream” base itself comes together in exactly the same way as the filling for my homemade Klondike Bars.

I’ve covered the technique in depth already, but in short: No homemade ice cream can compare with the pure and fluffy ice cream found in frozen novelties. So, instead of compromising with a true ice cream—delicious, but relatively dense and custardy—I start with a super-airy Swiss meringue. Combined with a splash of milk and cream, it freezes with an ice cream–like flavor and texture.

To create the dueling flavors of strawberries and cream for my homemade ice cream bars, I divide the meringue mixture roughly in half.

One portion is folded with vanilla extract, then transferred to a disposable pastry bag.

The remainder gets color and flavor from freeze-dried-strawberry powder (plus a few drops of rose water, for an aromatic boost).

After bagging up the fillings, I like to pause and tidy my work area; a sense of clutter inevitably leaves me feeling overwhelmed, at which point my work gets a little sloppy. The same applies if you rush to pipe the fillings—the meringue is quite stable, so there’s no harm in pausing to regroup.

To form the bars, I fill each mold about halfway with the vanilla cream. (The exact amount will vary depending on the specific size of your molds.) Because the filling is fluffy rather than fluid, it won’t settle down on its own into the corners of the mold, so I use a knife or popsicle stick to release the air and help the filling settle.

Next, I divide the strawberry filling evenly between the molds, aiming to pipe it as close to the center of each mold as possible, then top it off with the remaining vanilla cream.

After leveling the bars with an offset spatula, I cover them with a sheet of foil. Aluminum foil’s sturdy construction seems to better protect the bars from absorbing odors in the fridge, as plastic doesn’t stick well to cold surfaces and may come loose. Plus, it’s easy to poke a popsicle stick through the rigid foil.

To help the bars release cleanly later on, it’s important to make sure each popsicle stick reaches down to within just a half inch of the bottom. If not, the bottom edge of the ice cream bar may tear away when the popsicle is pulled free.

Pop the molds into the freezer until the ice cream bars have chilled down to 0°F (-18°C); the exact amount of time required will vary depending on the size and shape of the molds, but 12 hours is a safe bet.

Meanwhile, line two large plates or quarter-sheet pans with parchment and place them in the freezer as well. (When you’re unmolding the bars, splitting them up between two plates or pans will make it easy to keep them cold, allowing you to work in stages during the dipping process later on.)

Unmolding the Bars

Once the bars are fully frozen, gently warm the molds under running water, working to make sure it flows over all the molds’ surfaces. Slide a small offset spatula into the mold to confirm that a thin layer of ice cream has melted. If the spatula can’t slide in, the ice cream is still frozen against the mold.

Carefully wiggle the popsicle stick, then lift each bar from the mold and place it on one of the frozen plates or quarter-sheet pans. It takes practice to perfectly unmold all of the popsicles, but working gently will go a long way toward ensuring success.

After unmolding all the bars, cover the trays or plates of bars with plastic and freeze them until needed, or up to three days. The longer the uncoated bars stay in the freezer, the greater the risk of freezer burn, so be sure to wrap them tightly if you plan on leaving them in for a while.

The Shortcake Coating

White chocolate may not be an official ingredient in real Strawberry Shortcake Bars, but it plays an important role in the homemade version by creating a sticky, low-moisture surface to capture the crumb coating.

This twofold role helps ensure maximum coverage for each bar, so it can be loaded up with crispy freeze-dried strawberries and crunchy cereal bits, while simultaneously keeping those very bits from softening against the cream.

As with the chocolate coating for homemade Klondike Bars, mixing in a generous portion of refined coconut oil ensures the shell itself is ultra thin and crisp. The coconut oil also serves to dilute the flavor of the white chocolate, so what’s left tastes like little more than milk and vanilla.

To make the coating, simply melt the two ingredients together, then cool to about 80°F (27°C) on a digital thermometer. Pour the mixture into a small jar for dipping, and reserve the rest until needed. For the molds I have, a pint jar is the perfect size, but a small drinking glass will work just as well.

While the white chocolate is cooling, prepare the crumb topping by grinding some freeze-dried strawberries in a food processor. When they’re powdery and fine, add a few cups of puffed-rice cereal and pulse just enough to break up some of the pieces.

This gives the coating a mix of big, chunky pieces and fine but crispy crumbs to fill in the cracks, for maximum coverage and crunch. If you don’t have a food processor, a blender will work well, too. Or, put everything in a zip-top bag and have at it with a rolling pin.

Time to Dip!

Set up a dipping station with a tray of frozen ice cream bars on one side and the white chocolate coating in the middle, followed by the crumbs. Since I’m right-handed, I like to work right to left; lefties may want to set things up in reverse.

Dip each bar as far as you can into the white chocolate, then let the excess drip off before laying it in the tray of crumbs. Roll the bar around to ensure it’s evenly coated, and grab a spoon if you need to touch up any particular spots.

Return each bar to the chilled plate or tray, using a fresh sheet of parchment to keep things tidy.

Along the way, top off the jar of white chocolate as needed, and stir the crumbs around to maintain an even layer.

Return the bars to the freezer until the coating has fully hardened, about 30 minutes, then transfer to an airtight container (I like to use a gallon-sized zipper-lock bag) and continue freezing for another hour or so. Though that last step isn’t strictly necessary; there is an undeniable allure to ice cream bars that are still a little soft and melty.

With proper storage, these DIY Strawberry Shortcake Bars will keep at least a month in the freezer. Thanks to the thin white chocolate shell, the crunchy coating will stay crispy and fresh around the layers of berries ‘n cream filling.

This post may contain links to Amazon or other partners; your purchases via these links can benefit Serious Eats. Read more about our affiliate linking policy.

amzn_assoc_placement = "adunit0"; amzn_assoc_search_bar = "true"; amzn_assoc_search_bar_position = "bottom"; amzn_assoc_tracking_id = "fresh17-20"; amzn_assoc_ad_mode = "search"; amzn_assoc_ad_type = "smart"; amzn_assoc_marketplace = "amazon"; amzn_assoc_region = "US"; amzn_assoc_title = "Shop Related Products"; amzn_assoc_default_search_phrase = "cookware"; amzn_assoc_default_category = "All"; amzn_assoc_linkid = "b45319dac495d29e17b5eff312392025"; Source link

0 notes