#King Of The Wild Frontier Shirt

[farlydatau]

Davy Crockett King Of The Wild Frontier T-Shirt David Crockett Vintage Illustration T Shirt Gift For Dad Davy Crockett Alamo Graphic Tee

#Texas Alamo Cowboy #alamo t shirt #Retro Davy Crockett #vintage alamo shirt #davy crockett alamo #wild frontier king #King Of The Wild Frontier Shirt #battle of alamo #davy crockett shirt #davy crockett tshirt #davy crockett wall art #davy crockett print #davy crockett art #classic tshirt #tshirts #tshirt design #tshirt #bestgift #gift ideas #gift idea #gift

[hibiscuspizza]

Check out this listing I just added to my Poshmark closet: Adam Ant - Kings of the Wild Frontier USA Tour 2017 Men's XL.

[loudlaundry]

Old school, KING OF THE WILD FRONTIER-era Adam & the Ants shirt, procured off Mr. Ant’s own website circa 2018 or 2019. My daughter hates the shirt, as she thinks it smacks of cultural appropriation, despite the fact that the Native American headdress is being sported by an anthropomorphic insect. 

[callmeblake]

I finally found the video those gifs are from, but I can’t figure out how to embed it, so have a shitty screencapped still of Frank and a link.

#frank iero #kings of the wild frontier #NME #2010 #november 2010 #green inside out airborne shirt

[ants-invasion]

Rare photo: Kings of the wild frontier The Greek theatre 1981 (Source: serendipity’s Instagram)

#rare photo #Adam Ant #serendipity #instagram #kings of the wild frontier #kings era #the greek theatre #1981 #black and white #ant warrior logo t shirt #pin stripes #young ant #young serendipity #ants-invasion

[thediaryofshanajeanne]

Adam's Iconic "Kings Of The Wild Frontier" costume:

📷 Photo by Richard Young, 1980.

▪ Costume worn by Adam Ant at the time of "The Kings of the Wild Frontier" album and tours.

▪ The jacket is part of the stage costumes as worn during the "Ants Invasion", "Kings Of The Wild Frontier" and "Stand and Deliver" tours in 1980 and 1981.

▪ Adam wore a white shirt for the 1980 tours and the black shirt on display here for the 1981 tour.

▪ The leather trousers, leather boots plus all of the extra items such as belts, chains, whistles, feathers and bandanas were mainly worn during the two 1980 tours.

▪ The jacket had previously been used and worn by actor David Hemmings for the 1968 film "The Charge of the Light Brigade".

📷 David Hemmings in "The Charge of the Light Brigade" (1968)

▪ This is probably the most famous and loved stage costume among Ant fans and the look most associated with Adam.

▪ Drawing on Adam’s fascination with Beau Brummell who had served with the 10th Hussars in the 1790s, the military jacket (8th & 11th Hussars).

▪ The costume is on display at the Victoria and Albert Museum, London.

🎥 "Kings Of The Wild Frontier" Video:

Info Credits:

✔ Victoria & Albert Museum.

✔ Adam Ant Net.

* Click here If you want see Adam's "Prince Charming" iconic costume. *

#adam ant #stuart leslie goddard #adam and the ants #kings of the wild frontier #stand and deliver #Ant music #victoria and albert museum #Adam Ant's Look #robert young #Video #80s music #80s style #80s men #80s mtv #adam...i love you! #Adam's look #my gifs #handsome #my man is the best #david hemmings #the charge of the light brigade #inspiration #music inspiration #art #Marco pirroni #Terry lee miall #Gary Tibbs #i love him #british #british music

[the-tardis-in-221b-baker-street]

ANT MUSIC FOR SEX PEOPLE SEX MUSIC FOR ANT PEOPLE Don't Be Square (Be There) - Adam and the Ants (1980) My denim jumpsuit embroidery project (2019 - ?)

This was the beginning of my love for embroidery. I bought this denim jumpsuit from Primark for about £20 around summer 2019 in the hopes of having a go at embroidering, painting, cutting and generally experimenting with it. Was I going to make a colourful ABBA worthy piece, Elton John Rocket Man VIBES or something you could trash around in paired with some Doc Martens along Kings Road in London in the 80s? I opted for an Adam Ant inspired piece. I took inspiration from a lot of the overalls, coveralls, boiler suits and even leather jackets some bands and punks were wearing back in the 70s. Personalised, embroidered, painted on, cut about, covered in trinkets to really show personality and to be worn as banners with pride. I embroidered 'ANT MUSIC FOR SEX PEOPLE' from the song Don't Be Square (Be There) off the Kings of the Wild Frontier album, one of the best albums out there. Skulls are a big thing for Adam and the Ants, what with the piratey feel to his music so I did a skull with his iconic white stripe across the nose. I decided to add a bit of the threading that is on is iconic hussar jacket around the skull as a nod to it. On the back, I embroidered every album Adam Ant has ever done in a colour I associate with each album. The leg writing I took inspiration from the Vivienne Westwood 'Only anarchists are pretty' shirts she made back in the late 70s. There was no rocket science to this, I literally took a stencil, some spray acrylic paint and went mad with it. I chose the lyrics "YOU MAY NOT LIKE IT NOW BUT YOU WILL", also from Don't Be Square (Be There), because it sounded rebellious and anarchistic, fitting the punk vibe I was going for. One thing I noticed a lot of from 70s punks clothing is, it's not the same without a few safety pins. So I put safety pins all around the collar. Adam Ant became a big thing for me back in 2019. It was his look, his punchy music and most of all his attitude to what was going on around him at that point in time that drew me in. He was making fresh music and a whole lot of noise for the kids that was just mesmerising to me. In an interview back in the 80s, he explained the term 'sex people' came from the fans who wrote to Adam about dressing up and in his eyes, fashion can be a 'pure sex, a very pure and enjoyable version of sex, an innocent form'. How I interpreted that, is that Adam Ant was here to say 'dressing up and fashion should be celebrated and you should feel confident in doing it!' I enjoy the thrill of dressing up, whether it's a costume or piecing together a vintage outfit. Another song from Adam Ant, Antmusic, also from Kings of the Wild Frontier is one of those songs where the lyrics along with it's meaning really stuck in my brain.

- "It's so sad, when you're young, to be told, you're having fun." - "Don't tread on an ant, he's done nothing to you, there might come a time when he's treading on you."

It makes you think about the music and be proud of who you are even if the older generation may look down on you. (Or this is how I interpreted it anyway) It's a very timeless piece of music history.

It was my first attempt at embroidery so it's not my finest work, but it's still a cool piece that I know for a fact is still nowhere near done. I almost inspired myself to then move onto embroidering my denim jacket which will also be an on going project. Hopefully i'll come back to this one soon though.

#Oh hey Rick trying to sneak in the photo there #this post ended up being longer than I was thinking hahaha #I originally wanted to post the photos of me wearing it because I was clearing some stuff out of my wardrobe recently #and tried a few things on while I was at it #as you do #when I originally got it I had to soak the entire thing put it on and do stretches in it to stretch the denim fabric #even thought I bought the biggest size available I was just too tall for it so I had to stretch it out so it didn't cut me in half! #last time I put it on it was a little tight around me and this time #it actually fits around me quite nicely now still a little snug but a lot better #this has just confirmed to me that i've been losing weight #that isn't a bad thing! I was just super happy I was able to do it up and move around without it being too tight! #So I felt a little bit more confident to take some photos of me wearing it #hopefully I can wear it out in the future with either my doc marten and Vivienne Westwood pirate hybrid boots #or my Vyvyan Bastard shit kickers now i've got those #RIGHT! Post over! thanks for making it this far if you have! #Adam Ant #Adam and the Ants #Embroidery #my art #denim jumpsuit

[noctuaas]

AS YOU WISH

synopsis; in this tale of romance, revenge, and treason, you, a beautiful commoner, are set to become the princess of aobajousai. will your one true love be able to save you in time?

pairing; kuroo tetsurou x reader

content; princess bride au (heavily based on both the movie and novel), medieval au, torture, mild violence, drama, fantasy/adventure, murder, minor character death, fem!reader

fic navigation

03 ; THE KIDNAPPING

ONE YEAR AFTER YOU agreed to marry Prince Oikawa, the great square of Seijoh City was filled to the brim. The people of Aobajohsai were awaiting the introduction of Prince Oikawa’s bride-to-be. The crowd had begun forming a whole 24 hours before, but at 15 hours before, it was no more than maybe a couple hundred people. But as the moment of introduction neared, people from all across the country gathered.

At noontime, Prince Oikawa appeared on the balcony of his father’s castle and raised his arms. The crowd, which was dangerously large at this point, slowly quieted down. Rumors were flooding the kingdom, that the King was dying, that he was already dead, that he was fine.

“My beloved people, today is a day of greeting. As you’ve probably heard, my father’s health is not what it once was. Now, in three months, our country celebrates its 500th anniversary.”

A few whoops echoed through the crowd, but most remained silent.

“To celebrate that celebration, I shall marry your future princess on that sundown,” Oikawa announced. “She was once a commoner like yourselves, but perhaps you will not find her to be so common anymore. I introduce to you the lady of the hour, (y/n).”

The Prince made a sweeping gesture and the doors swung open behind him, and you stepped out beside him on the balcony. The crowd gasped, and bowed, for their future princess truly was beautiful. A year spent in the castle, and your beauty had doubled, no, tripled.

You waved, looking down at the people fondly, but it was interrupted by Oikawa ushering you away.

“Alright, back inside. Don’t want to risk overexposure.”

“But some of them have waited so long,” you argued. “I’d like to walk among them.”

“We only walk among commoners when we need to,” said the Prince.

“I am a commoner,” you reminded him sharply, and with that you left the balcony before reappearing a few minutes later at the great steps of the castle.

Wherever you went the people parted. Most of them there would certainly never forget that day. The great majority adored you instantly. Sure, there were some that withheld judgement until they could see how fit you were as a queen, and even some who were frankly jealous. But very few hated you.

And only three of them were planning to murder you.

Naturally, you knew none of this. You were smiling. When the people wanted to touch your dress, you let them, and when they wanted to brush their skin against yours, you let them do that too. You studied hard to do things royally, and you wanted to succeed, so you kept your posture erect and your eyes gentle. If someone had told you your death was close, you would have laughed. But—

—in the farthest corner of the square, in the highest building of the land, deep in the deepest shadow, the man in black stood waiting.

His boots were black and leather. His pants were black and his shirt too. His mask was black, blacker than a panther. The only thing that wasn’t black was his flashing eyes; they were the color of centuries-old amber under the Aoban sun.

Flashing and cruel and deadly.

You were more than a little weary after your triumph. Walking the crowds while remaining all royal-appearing was exhausting, so you rested a bit, before deciding around mid afternoon that you would go for a ride on Prince (the horse, of course). Riding was the one aspect of your life that hadn’t changed since agreeing to marry the Prince (the human, of course). You still loved to ride, and almost every afternoon, you rode alone in the wild land behind the castle.

You did your best thinking then. Not that your best thinking expanded any horizons; you weren’t even actually part of the royal family yet. Still, you told yourself, there was no harm in thinking.

Your brain was awhirl as you rode through woods and streams and heather. The walk through the crowds had moved you, and in a way most strange. For even though you had done nothing for a year now but train to be a princess and a queen, today was the first day you actually understood that it was all soon to be a reality.

You just didn’t like Prince Oikawa all that much. It wasn’t that you hated him, not at all. But you never really saw him; he was always off doing princely duties or on a hunting trip.

In your way of thinking, there were two main problems: (1) was it wrong to marry someone you didn’t much like, and (2) if it was, was it too late to do anything about it?

The answers, to your way of thinking, were: (1) no and (2) yes.

It wasn't wrong to marry someone you didn't like, it just wasn't right either. If the whole world did it, that wouldn't be so great, what with everybody kind of grunting at everybody else as the years went by. But, of course, not everybody did it, so it wasn’t a big problem.

The answer to the second question was even easier; you had given your word that you would marry, and that was that.

Since agreeing to marry, you had heard nonstop that you must be the most beautiful woman in the world, and soon you would also be the richest and the most powerful woman in the world too.

With a sigh, you told yourself that you shouldn’t be so ungrateful for all of this. You would have to learn to be satisfied with what you had.

Dusk was closing in, and you were probably a 30 minute ride from the castle, when you suddenly reined in your horse at the hillcrest; for in the dimness beyond stood quite possibly the strangest trio you had ever seen.

The man in front was pale, with a gentle face; his almost white-blonde hair made him appear angelic. He was long-legged and lanky, but when he moved toward you, he took surprisingly small, quick steps. (It reminded you of the way the Queen had trained you to walk, all feminine and princess-like.) The other two men remained rooted.

The second, also pale, appeared as cold and slender as the blade of steel at his side. The third man, broad, with strange two-toned hair, was easily the biggest man you had ever seen.

“Please, a word, miss?” the blonde raised his hand. His smile was almost more angelic than his face.

You nodded for him to go on.

“We are but poor, lost circus performers,” the blonde explained. “We were told there is a village nearby where we could settle for the night.”

“You’re mistaken,” you told him. What poor souls, you thought. “There is nothing nearby, not for many miles.”

“Then there will be no one to hear you scream,” the blonde said. As his angelic smile contorted into a wry, ugly sneer, he jumped with surprising agility toward your face.

That was the last thing you remembered. Perhaps you screamed, perhaps you didn’t, but if you had, it certainly wasn’t from the pain; the blonde man had expertly found a pressure point on your neck and knocked you out cold.

You awoke to the lapping of water. You were wrapped in a blanket, and the giant man was carrying you to place you in a boat. For a moment you almost screamed, but then you thought it might be better to listen. (It was a bit difficult though, considering the increasing pounding of your heart.

The sound of ripping cloth caught your attention first.

“What is that?” the swordsman asked.

“Same as I attached to her saddle,” the blonde replied. “Fabric from the uniform of a Shiratorizawa soldier.”

Suddenly you heard Prince (the horse, you see) squeal slightly, and then his thundering hooves retreating far away.

“Once the horse reaches the castle, the fabric will make everyone suspect that the Shiratorizawans abducted the Prince’s fiance. Once she is found dead at the Shiratorizawa frontier, there’ll be no denying it.”

“Wait, you never said anything about killing anyone,” said the giant, looking a little distraught.

“We’ve been hired to start a war, it’s kind of in the job description,” the blonde bit back.

“Well, I just don’t really think it’s right to kill an innocent girl.”

The blonde’s eyebrows furrowed and face twitched in sudden irritation.

“Have I gone mad, or did the word ‘think’ just escape your lips?” he stood up defiantly, but even with his lanky frame, the giant dwarfed him. “I did not hire you for your brains!”

“I agree with Bokuto. Let’s just make it seem like she was taken for ransom,” the slender swordsman finally spoke up.

“Yes, that sounds like a good idea, Akaashi.”

“It’s too late,” the blonde said. “She’s been awake this whole time, so she already knows our plans.”

You lay under the blanket, unmoving. How could he have known that?

“The Great Tsukishima senses all,” the blonde seemed to answer you. Was he a mind reader? (A conceited one, if he was.)

It didn’t matter if he was or not, for now you were all setting sail. Not once did you speak a word, not when it grew dark, and not when the moon rose high into the night sky.

“We’re making good time, we should be at the cliffs by dawn,” the blonde announced aloud. “Why do you keep looking back?”

The swordsman turned around, shifting uncomfortably.

“Making sure no one is following us.”

“Ha! That would be inconceivable,” laughed the blonde.

The boat went silent again for a few minutes. The swordsman continued to glance back. Something was bothering him.

“Stop doing that!” the blonde sounded more exasperated than before.”You’re overthinking it. No one in Shiratorizawa knows what we’ve done, and no one in Aobajohsai could have gotten here so fast.”

“Are you sure nobody is following us?” insisted the swordsman.

“Like I said, that would be absolutely, totally, and in all other ways inconceivable.”

A long pause.

“Out of curiosity, why do you ask?” he added in.

“No reason,” the swordsman tried to play it off. “It’s only that I happened to look behind us and something is there.”

They all whirled.

There was indeed something there. Just a mile behind them, across the moonlight, was another sailing boat, small, with a giant sail that billowed black in the night, and a single man at the tiller. A man in black.

“Probably just some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise at night, through eel-infested waters,” the blonde trailed off as he went, each word less confident than the last.

SPLASH!

They all whirled again, this time to see that you had thrown yourself straight into the Aoban Channel and were beginning to swim away.

“Go! Go in after her!” the blonde yelled.

“I can’t swim,” said the swordsman.

“I only doggy paddle,” said the giant.

You continued to leave them behind you. It wasn’t long before your arms began to tire, but you gave them no rest.

“Veer left!” instructed the blonde.

You ignored your kidnappers, but you couldn’t ignore the strange shrieking that began all around you. The sound made you stop and whipped around, looking for the source as you treaded water.

“Do you know what that sound is, your highness?” asked the blonde. The boat was getting closer again. “Those are the shrieking eels. If you don’t believe me, just wait. They always grow louder when they’re about to feed on human flesh!”

The screeching was growing louder, and if you looked closer into the water, you could see slimy tails flicking out the water all around you.

“Come back now,” the blonde went on, “and I promise when I kill you, you’ll die a painless death. I doubt you’ll get such an offer from the eels.”

They were shrieking wildly now, and they were whipping their heads out of the water. Their teeth were razor sharp, glinting in the moonlight, and the sight had you frozen in fear. When one came charging at you, there was quite literally nothing you could do but close your eyes and pray.

Fortunately for you, there was a giant on board of the boat you had just escaped from. He leaned over the edge of the boat, grabbed you by one arm, and hoisted you back to the safety onboard before the eel got you.

“Keep her warm,” the swordsman tossed his cloak to the giant.

“Don’t catch cold, miss,” said the giant, wrapping the cloak around you and holding you tight.

“It doesn’t seem to matter all that much,” your teeth chattered, “considering that you’re killing me at dawn.”

The blonde knelt in front of you and began binding your wrists together. The swordsman was shooting glances back again.

“I think he’s getting closer,” he said, in reference to the boat behind them.

“He’s no concern of ours! Sail on!” the blonde snapped once again. He sure was a grouchy fellow.

“I suppose you think you’re brave, Princess?” he now turned to you.

“Only compared to some,” you bit back.

The boat was approaching the Cliffs of Insanity now. They rose straight and sheer from the water, a thousand feet into the sky. They provided the most direct route between Aobajohsai and Shiratorizawa, but no one ever used them, sailing instead the long way around.

The swordsman maneuvered the watercraft up to the cliff face, and immediately the blonde jumped out and found a giant rope dangling from the cliffs. He tugged, once, twice, and it held firm; it must have been tethered to something at the top.

You watched in confusion as the trio got to work. The giant robed himself in some fancy harness, with loops hanging off every which way; the swordsman cinched you into one of the loops, before cinching himself in another. The blond took the last loop, practically nose-to-nose with the giant.

“All aboard.”

And with that, the giant began climbing the rope.

It was at least a thousand feet and he was carrying the three, but he was not worried. When it came to power, nothing worried him. When it came to reading or writing, he got terrible knots in his stomach, and when addition was mentioned or, worse, long division, he broke out in hives. But strength had never been his enemy. He could take the kick of a horse on his chest and not fall backward. He could take a hundred-pound flour sack between his legs and scissor it open without thinking.

But his real might lay in his arms. There had never, not in a thousand years, been arms to match Bokuto's. His arms were gargantuan and obedient and flashy, but most of all, they were tireless. If you gave him an ax and told him to chop down a forest, his legs might give out or the ax might shatter, but Bokuto's arms would be as fresh tomorrow as today.

And so, with the blonde around his neck and both the swordsman and the Princess both wrapped around his waist, Bokuto felt his most confident. It was only when he was requested to use his might did he not feel like a bother to everybody.

Hand over hand, arm over arm, Bokuto climbed. Three hundred feet over the water now, seven hundred left to go.

The blonde man was in fact afraid of heights, more than anything. But right now, he could not allow it.

Where he could not succeed with his body, he relied on his mind. He had fought it, trained it, forced it to heel. In moments like this, when he should have been trembling, it all paid off, because he was not trembling. Instead, he was thinking of the man in black.

There shouldn’t have been any way that someone could have been quick enough to follow them, and yet that billowing black sail had appeared. How? The blonde couldn’t find an answer, no matter how hard he tried. In wild frustration, he took a deep breath and, in spite of his terrible fears, he looked back down toward the dark water.

The man in black was there, tying off his boat at the base of the cliffs. With ease, he then leapt onto the rope and began to climb as well.

“He’s climbing the rope,” the swordsman commented.

“I can feel him,” said the giant.

“And he’s gaining on us.”

“Inconceivable,” the blonde blubbered, for when he looked down again, the man in black seemed to be flying up the rope. “Faster!”

“I thought I was going faster.”

“You were supposed to be this colossus,” the blonde grit his teeth, nose-to-nose with the giant again. “This great legendary thing! And yet, he gains.”

“Well, I’m carrying three people, and he’s only got himself.”

“I’ll just have to find myself a new giant then.”

“Awh, don’t say that Tsukki. Please?”

By now, the man in black had gained maybe 200 feet on them, but they were only maybe 150 feet from the tops of the cliffs.

Bokuto flew. He cleared his mind of everything but ropes and arms and fingers, and his arms pulled and his fingers gripped and the rope held taut as he flew.

“He’s halfway,” remarked the swordsman.

“It doesn’t matter, we’re but 50 feet from safety!”

Bokuto pulled—

Forty feet.

—And pulled—

Fifteen feet.

—And heaved them to the top.

And like that, it was over. Bokuto had done it. They had reached the top of the Cliffs, and first the blonde jumped off and ran to the rock the rope was tethered to. He pulled out a dagger and began slicing as fast as he could. He sliced and sliced, all the while the swordsman and the princess were untying themselves from the giant, until the rope snapped and whipped across the clifftop before disappearing to the depths below.

The other men peered over the cliffside curiously, until the swordsman mumbled, “He’s still there.”

“What?” the blonde came scurrying to the edge of the cliff. The man in black was hanging precariously to the cliff face. “He didn’t fall? Inconceivable!”

“You keep using that word,” the swordsman looked at the blonde. “I do not think it means what you think it means.”

When they looked back, the man in black had begun climbing.

“Whoever he is, he’s clearly seen us with the princess and must therefore die!” cried the blonde. “Bokuto, carry the princess. We’ll head straight for the Shiratorizawa frontier. Akaashi, catch up when he’s dead. If he falls, fine, but if not, the sword.”

The swordsman nodded.

The blonde and the giant began hobbling away with you. Just before he was out of sight, the giant turned and hollered, “Catch up quickly!”

“Don’t I always?” the swordsman waved. “Farewell, Bokuto.”

“Farewell, Akaashi,” the giant replied, and then he was gone, and the swordsman was alone.

Akaashi moved to the cliff edge and knelt with his customary quick grace. One hundred and fifty feet below him now, the man in black continued his painful climb. It was becoming easier to see him, what with the sun starting to break. He was a good learner, so he had to study. Finally, he realized that somehow, by some mystery, the man in black was making fists and jamming them into the rocks, and using them for support as he climbed.

Akaashi marveled. What a truly extraordinary adventurer this man in black must be. He was close enough now for Akaashi to realize that the man was masked. Another outlaw? Perhaps. It was a shame that such a fellow must die though, but he had his orders, so there it was. Sometimes he did not like Tsukishima’s commands, but what could he do? Without the brains of the blonde, he wouldn’t be able to command jobs of this caliber. The blonde was a master planner. Akaashi was a creature of the moment.

There was nothing to do but wait for the man in black now. He was still a ways away, but Akaashi didn’t particularly like waiting. So to make the time more pleasant, he pulled from the scabbard his prized possession:

A six-fingered sword.

Oh, how it danced in the rising sun. Akaashi inspected it fondly, with all the fervor in his Fukurodanian heart, awaiting the arrival of the man in black.

#haikyuu #hq #kuroo #kuroo tetsurou #kuroo x reader #haikyuu x reader #hq x reader #kuroo imagine #haikyuu imagine #hq imagine #kuroo scenario #haikyuu scenario #hq scenario #kuroo fanfic #haikyuu fanfic #hq fanfic

[imbicuriousyeah]

princess bride: chapter three

pairing: Jiyong/reader

genre: angst/drama/fantasy

word count: 11.5k

The great square of Florin city was filled as never before, awaiting the introduction of Prince Seungri’s bride-to-be, Princess Y/N of Meath. The crowd had begun forming some forty hours earlier, but up to twenty-four hours before, there were still fewer than one thousand. But then, as the moment of introduction grew nearer, from across the country the people came. None had ever seen the Princess, but rumors of your beauty were continual and each was less possible than the one before.

At noontime, Prince Seungri appeared at the balcony of his father’s castle and raised his arms. The crowd, which by now was at the danger size, slowly quieted. There were stories that the King was dying, that he was already dead, that he had been dead long since, that he was fine.

“My people, my beloveds, from whom we draw our strength, today is a day of greeting. As you must have heard, my honored father’s health is not what it once was. He is, of course, ninety-seven, so who can ask more. As you also know, Florin needs a male heir.”

The crowd began to stir now—it was to be this lady they had heard so much about.

“In three months, our country celebrates its five hundredth anniversary. To celebrate that celebration, I shall, on that sundown, take for my wife the Princess Y/N of Meath. You do not know her yet. But you will meet her now,” and he made a sweeping gesture and the balcony doors swung open and you moved out beside him on the balcony.

And the crowd, quite literally, gasped.

The twenty-one-year-old Princess far surpassed the eighteen-year-old mourner. Your figure faults were gone, the too bony elbow having fleshed out nicely; the opposite pudgy wrist could not have been trimmer. Your hair, which was once the color of autumn, was still the color of autumn, except that before, you had tended it yourself, whereas now you had five full-time hairdressers who managed things for you. (This was long after hairdressers; in truth, ever since there have been women, there have been hairdressers, Adam being the first, though the King James scholars do their very best to muddy this point.) Your skin was still wintry cream, but now, with two handmaidens assigned to each appendage and four for the rest of you, it actually, in certain lights, seemed to provide you with a gentle, continually shimmering as you moved, glow.

Prince Seungri took your hand and held it high and the crowd cheered. “That’s enough, mustn’t risk overexposure,” the Prince said, and he started back in toward the castle.

“They have waited, some of them, so long,” you answered. “I would like to walk among them.”

“We do not walk among commoners unless it is unavoidable,” the Prince said.

“I have known more than a few commoners in my time,” you told him. “They will not, I think, harm me.”

And with that you left the balcony, reappeared a moment later on the great steps of the castle and, quite alone, walked open-armed down into the crowd.

Wherever you went, the people parted. You crossed and recrossed the Great Square and always, ahead of you, the people swept apart to let you pass. You continued, moving slowly and smiling, alone, like some land messiah.

Most of the people there would never forget that day. None of them, of course, had ever been so close to perfection, and the great majority adored you instantly. There were, to be sure, some who, while admitting you were pleasing enough, were withholding judgment as to your quality as a queen. And, of course, there were some more who were frankly jealous. Very few of them hated you.

And only three of them were planning to murder you.

You, naturally, knew none of this. You were smiling, and when people wanted to touch your gown, well, let them, and when they wanted to brush their skin against yours, well, let them do that too. You had studied hard to do things royally, and you wanted very much to succeed, so you kept your posture erect and your smile gentle, and that your death was so close would have only made you laugh, if someone had told you. But—

—in the farthest corner of the Great Square—

—in the highest building in the land—

—deep in the deepest shadow—

—the man in black stood waiting.

His boots were black and leather. His pants were black and his shirt. His mask was black, blacker than raven. But blackest of all were his flashing eyes.

Flashing and cruel and deadly…

You were more than a little weary after your triumph. The touching of the crowds had exhausted you, so you rested a bit, and then, toward midafternoon, you changed into your riding clothes and went to fetch Horse. This was the one aspect of your life that had not changed in the years preceding. You still loved to ride, and every afternoon, weather permitting or not, you rode alone for several hours in the wild land beyond the castle.

You did your best thinking then.

Not that your best thinking ever expanded horizons. Still, you told yourself, you were not a dummy either, so as long as you kept your thoughts to yourself, well, where was the harm?

As you rode through woods and streams and heather, your brain was awhirl. The walk through the crowds had moved you, and in a way most strange. For even though you had done nothing for three years now but train to be a princess and a queen, today was the first day you actually understood that it was all soon to be a reality.

And I just don’t like Seungri, you thought. It’s not that I hate him or anything. I just never see him; he’s always off someplace or playing in the Zoo of Death.

To your way of thinking, there were two main problems: (1) was it wrong to marry without like, and (2) if it was, was it too late to do anything about it.

The answers, to your way of thinking, as you rode along, were: (1) no and (2) yes.

It wasn’t wrong to marry someone you didn’t like, it just wasn’t right either. If the whole world did it, that wouldn’t be so great, what with everybody kind of grunting at everybody else as the years went by. But, of course, not everybody did it; so forget about that. The answer to (2) was even easier: you had given your word you would marry; that would have to be enough. True, he had told you quite honestly that if you said “no” he would have to have you disposed of, in order to keep respect for the Crown at its proper level; still, you could have, had you so chosen, said “no.”

Everyone had told you, since you became a princess-in-training, that you was very likely the most beautiful woman in the world. Now you were going to be the richest and most powerful as well.

Don’t expect too much from life, you told herself as you rode along. Learn to be satisfied with what you have.

Dusk was closing in when you crested the hill. You were perhaps half an hour from the castle, and your daily ride was three-quarters done. Suddenly you reined Horse, for standing in the dimness beyond was the strangest trio you had ever seen.

The man in front was dark, Sicilian perhaps, with the gentlest face, almost angelic. He moved forward toward you with surprising speed and nimbleness. The other two remained rooted. The second, also dark, probably from Busan, was as erect and slender as the blade of steel that was attached to his side. The third man, mustachioed, perhaps a Turk, was easily the biggest human being you had ever ever seen.

“A word?” the Sicilian said, raising his arms. His smile was more angelic than his face.

You halted. “Speak.”

“We are but poor circus performers,” the Sicilian explained. “It is dark and we are lost. We were told there was a village nearby that might enjoy our skills.”

“You were misinformed,” you told him. “There is no one, not for many miles.”

“Then there will be no one to hear you scream,” the Sicilian said, and he jumped with frightening agility toward your face.

That was all that you remembered. Perhaps you did scream, but if you did it was more from terror than anything else, because certainly there was no pain. His hands expertly touched places on your neck, and unconsciousness came.

You awoke to the lapping of water.

You were wrapped in a blanket and the giant Turk was putting you in the bottom of a boat. For a moment you were about to talk, but then when they began talking, you thought it better to listen. And after you had listened for a moment, it got harder and harder to hear. Because of the terrible pounding of your heart.

“I think you should kill her now,” the Turk said.

“The less you think, the happier I’ll be,” the Sicilian answered.

There was the sound of ripping cloth.

“What is that?” the Korean asked.

“The same as I attached to her saddle,” the Sicilian replied. “Fabric from the uniform of an officer of Guilder.”

“I still think—” the Turk began.

“She must be found dead on the Guilder frontier or we will not be paid the remainder of our fee. Is that clear enough for you?”

“I just feel better when I know what’s going on, that’s all,” the Turk mumbled. “People are always thinking I’m so stupid because I’m big and strong and sometimes drool a little when I get excited.”

“The reason people think you’re so stupid,” the Sicilian said, “is because you are so stupid. It has nothing to do with your drooling.”

There came the sound of a flapping of sail. “Watch your heads,” the Korean cautioned, and then the boat was moving. “The people of Florin will not take her death well, I shouldn’t think. She has become beloved.”

“There will be war,” the Sicilian agreed. “We have been paid to start it. It’s a fine line of work to be expert in. If we do this perfectly, there will be a continual demand for our services.”

“Well I don’t like it all that much,” the Korean said. “Frankly, I wish you had refused.”

“The offer was too high.”

“I don’t like killing a girl,” the Korean said.

“God does it all the time; if it doesn’t bother Him, don’t let it worry you.”

Through all this, you had not moved.

The Korean said, “Let’s just tell her we’re taking her away for ransom.”

The Turk agreed. “She’s so beautiful and she’d go all crazy if she knew.”

“She knows already,” the Sicilian said. “She’s been awake for every word of this.”

You lay under the blanket, not moving. How could he have known that, you wondered.

“How can you be sure?” the Korean asked.

“The Sicilian senses all,” the Sicilian said.

Conceited, you thought.

“Yes, very conceited,” the Sicilian said.

He must be a mind reader, you thought.

“Are you giving it full sail?” the Sicilian said.

“As much as is safe,” the Korean answered from the tiller.

“We have an hour on them, so no risks yet. It will take her horse perhaps twenty-seven minutes to reach the castle, a few minutes more for them to figure out what happened and, since we left an obvious trail, they should be after us within an hour. We should reach the Cliffs in fifteen minutes more and, with any luck at all, the Guilder frontier at dawn, when she dies. Her body should be quite warm when the Prince reaches her mutilated form. I only wish we could stay for his grief—it should be Homeric.”

Why does he let me know his plans, you wondered.

“You are going back to sleep now, my lady,” the Korean said, and his fingers suddenly were touching your temple, your shoulder, your neck, and you were unconscious again…

You did not know how long you were out, but they were still in the boat when you blinked, the blanket shielding you. And this time, without daring to think—the Sicilian would have known it somehow—you threw the blanket aside and dove deep into Florin Channel.

You stayed under for as long as you dared and then surfaced, starting to swim across the moonless water with every ounce of strength remaining to you. Behind you in the darkness there were cries.

“Go in, go in!” from the Sicilian.

“I only dog paddle,” from the Turk.

“You’re better than I am,” from the Korean.

You continued to leave them behind you. Your arms ached from effort but you gave them no rest. Your legs kicked and your heart pounded.

“I can hear her kicking,” the Sicilian said. “Veer left.”

You went into your breast stroke, silently swimming away.

“Where is she?” shrieked the Sicilian.

“The sharks will get her, don’t worry,” cautioned the Korean.

Oh dear, I wish you hadn’t mentioned that, you thought.

“Princess,” the Sicilian called, “do you know what happens to sharks when they smell blood in the water? They go mad. There is no controlling their wildness. They rip and shred and chew and devour, and I’m in a boat, Princess, and there isn’t any blood in the water now, so we’re both quite safe, but there is a knife in my hand, my lady, and if you don’t come back I’ll cut my arms and I’ll cut my legs and I’ll catch the blood in a cup and I’ll fling it as far as I can and sharks can smell blood in the water for miles and you won’t be beautiful for long.”

You hesitated, silently treading water. Around you now, although it was surely your imagination, you seemed to be hearing the swish of giant tails.

“Come back and come back now. There will be no other warning.”

You thought, If I come back, they’ll kill me anyway, so what’s the difference?

“The difference is—”

There he goes doing that again, you thought. He really is a mind reader.

“—if you come back now,” the Sicilian went on, “I give you my word as a gentleman and assassin that you will die totally without pain. I assure you, you will get no such promise from the sharks.”

The fish sounds in the night were closer now.

You began to tremble with fear. You were terribly ashamed of herself but there it was. You only wished you could see for a minute if there really were sharks and if he really would cut himself.

The Sicilian winced out loud.

“He just cut his arm, lady,” the Turk called out. “He’s catching the blood in a cup now. There must be a half-inch of blood on the bottom.”

The Sicilian winced again.

“He cut his leg this time,” the Turk went on. “The cup’s getting full.”

I don’t believe them, you thought. There are no sharks in the water and there is no blood in his cup.

“My arm is back to throw,” the Sicilian said. “Call out your location or not, the choice is yours.”

I’m not making a peep, you decided.

“Farewell,” from the Sicilian.

There was the splashing sound of liquid landing on liquid.

Then there came a pause.

Then the sharks went mad. All around you, you could hear them beeping and screaming and thrashing their mighty tails. Nothing can save me, you realized. I’m a dead cookie.

Fortunately for all concerned save the sharks, it was around this time that the moon came out.

“There she is,” shouted the Sicilian, and like lightning the Korean turned the boat and as the boat drew close the Turk reached out a giant arm and then you were back in the safety of your murderers while all around them the sharks bumped each other in wild frustration.

“Keep her warm,” the Korean said from the tiller, tossing his cloak to the Turk.

“Don’t catch cold,” the Turk said, wrapping you into the cloak’s folds.

“It doesn’t seem to matter all that much,” you answered, “seeing you’re killing me at dawn.”

“He’ll do the actual work,” the Turk said, indicating the Sicilian, who was wrapping cloth around his cuts. “We’ll just hold you.”

“Hold your stupid tongue,” the Sicilian commanded.

The Turk immediately hushed.

“I don’t think he’s so stupid,” you said. “And I don’t think you’re so smart either, with all your throwing blood in the water. That’s not what I would call grade-A thinking.”

“It worked, didn’t it? You’re back, aren’t you?” The Sicilian crossed toward her. “Once women are sufficiently frightened, they scream.”

“But I didn’t scream; the moon came out,” answered Y/N somewhat triumphantly.

The Sicilian struck her.

“Enough of that,” the Turk said then.

The Sicilian looked dead at the giant. “Do you want to fight me? I don’t think you do.”

“No, sir,” the Turk mumbled. “No. But don’t use force. Please. Force is mine. Strike me if you feel the need. I won’t care.”

The Sicilian returned to the other side of the boat. “She would have screamed,” he said. “She was about to cry out. My plan was ideal as all my plans are ideal. It was the moon’s ill timing that robbed me of perfection.” He scowled unforgivingly at the yellow wedge above them. Then he stared ahead. “There!” The Sicilian pointed. “The Cliffs of Insanity.”

And there they were. Rising straight and sheer from the water, a thousand feet into the night. They provided the most direct route between Florin and Guilder, but no one ever used them, sailing instead the long way, many miles around. Not that the Cliffs were impossible to scale; two men were known to have climbed them in the last century alone.

“Sail straight for the steepest part,” the Sicilian commanded.

The Korean said, “I was.”

You did not understand. Going up the Cliffs could hardly be done, you thought; and no one had ever mentioned secret passages through them. Yet here they were, sailing closer and closer to the mighty rocks, now surely less than a quarter-mile away.

For the first time the Sicilian allowed himself a smile. “All is well. I was afraid your little jaunt in the water was going to cost me too much time. I had allowed an hour of safety. There must still be fifty minutes of it left. We are miles ahead of anybody and safe, safe, safe.”

“No one could be following us yet?” the Korean asked.

“No one,” the Sicilian assured him. “It would be inconceivable.”

“Absolutely inconceivable?”

“Absolutely, totally, and, in all other ways, inconceivable,” the Sicilian reassured him. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” the Korean replied. “It’s only that I just happened to look back and something’s there.”

They all whirled.

Something was indeed there. Less than a mile behind them across the moonlight was another sailing boat, small, painted what looked like black, with a giant sail that billowed black in the night, and a single man at the tiller. A man in black.

The Korean looked at the Sicilian. “It must just be some local fisherman out for a pleasure cruise alone at night through shark-infested waters.”

“There is probably a more logical explanation,” the Sicilian said. “But since no one in Guilder could know yet what we’ve done, and no one in Florin could have gotten here so quickly, he is definitely not, however much it may look like it, following us. It is coincidence and nothing more.”

“He’s gaining on us,” the Turk said.

“That is also inconceivable,” the Sicilian said. “Before I stole this boat we’re in, I made many inquiries as to what was the fastest ship on all of Florin Channel and everyone agreed it was this one.”

“You’re right,” the Turk agreed, staring back. “He isn’t gaining on us. He’s just getting closer, that’s all.”

“It is the angle we’re looking from and nothing more,” said the Sicilian.

You could not take your eyes from the great black sail. Surely the three men you were with frightened her. But somehow, for reasons you could never begin to explain, the man in black frightened you more.

“All right, look sharp,” the Sicilian said then, just a drop of edginess in his voice.

The Cliffs of Insanity were very close now.

The Korean maneuvered the craft expertly, which was not easy, and the waves were rolling in toward the rocks now and the spray was blinding. You shielded your eyes and put your head straight back, staring up into the darkness toward the top, which seemed shrouded and out of reach.

Then the Sicilian bounded forward, and as the ship reached the cliff face, he jumped up and suddenly there was a rope in his hand.

You stared in silent astonishment. The rope, thick and strong, seemed to travel all the way up the Cliffs. As you watched, the Sicilian pulled at the rope again and again and it held firm. It was attached to something at the top—a giant rock, a towY/Ng tree, something.

“Fast now,” the Sicilian ordered. “If he is following us, which of course is not within the realm of human experience, but if he is, we’ve got to reach the top and cut the rope off before he can climb up after us.”

“Climb?” You said. “I would never be able to—”

“Hush!” the Sicilian ordered you. “Get ready!” he ordered the Korean. “Sink it,” he ordered the Turk.

And then everyone got busy. The Korean took a rope, tied your hands and feet. The Turk raised a great leg and stomped down at the center of the boat, which gave way immediately and began to sink. Then the Turk went to the rope and took it in his hands.

“Load me,” the Turk said.

The Korean lifted you and draped your body around the Turk’s shoulders. Then he tied himself to the Turk’s waist. Then the Sicilian hopped, clung to the Turk’s neck.

“All aboard,” the Sicilian said. (This was before trains, but the expression comes originally from carpenters loading lumber, and this was well after carpenters.)

With that the Turk began to climb. It was at least a thousand feet and he was carrying the three, but he was not worried. When it came to power, nothing worried him. When it came to reading, he got knots in the middle of his stomach, and when it came to writing, he broke out in a cold sweat, and when addition was mentioned or, worse, long division, he always changed the subject right away.

But strength had never been his enemy. He could take the kick of a horse on his chest and not fall backward. He could take a hundred-pound flour sack between his legs and scissor it open without thinking. He had once held an elephant aloft using only the muscles in his back.

But his real might lay in his arms. There had never, not in a thousand years, been arms to match Jungkook’s. (For that was his name.) The arms were not only gargantuan and totally obedient and surprisingly quick, but they were also, and this is why he never worried, tireless. If you gave him an ax and told him to chop down a forest, his legs might give out from having to support so much weight for so long, or the ax might shatter from the punishment of killing so many trees, but Jungkook’s arms would be as fresh tomorrow as today.

And so, even with the Sicilian on his neck and the Princess around his shoulders and the Korean at his waist, Jungkook did not feel in the least bit put upon. He was actually quite happy, because it was only when he was requested to use his might that he felt he wasn’t a bother to everybody.

Up he climbed, arm over arm, arm over arm, two hundred feet now above the water, eight hundred feet now to go.

More than any of them, the Sicilian was afraid of heights. All of his nightmares, and they were never far from him when he slept, dealt with falling. So this terrifying ascension was most difficult for him, perched as he was on the neck of the giant. Or should have been most difficult.

But he would not allow it.

From the beginning, when as a child he realized his body would never conquer worlds, he relied on his mind. He trained it, fought it, brought it to heel. So now, three hundred feet in the night and rising higher, while he should have been trembling, he was not.

Instead he was thinking of the man in black.

There was no way anyone could have been quick enough to follow them. And yet from some devil’s world that billowing black sail had appeared. How? How? The Sicilian flogged his mind to find an answer, but he found only failure. In wild frustration he took a deep breath and, in spite of his terrible fears, he looked back down toward the dark water.

The man in black was still there, sailing like lightning toward the Cliffs. He could not have been more than a quarter-mile from them now.

“Faster!” the Sicilian commanded.

“I’m sorry,” the Turk answered meekly. “I thought I was going faster.”

“Lazy, lazy,” spurred the Sicilian.

“I’ll never improve,” the Turk answered, but his arms began to move faster than before. “I cannot see too well because your feet are locked around my face,” he went on, “so could you tell me please if we’re halfway yet?”

“A little over, I should think,” said the Korean from his position around the giant’s waist. “You’re doing wonderfully, Jungkook.”

“Thank you,” said the giant.

“And he’s closing on the Cliffs,” added the Korean.

No one had to ask who “he” was.

Six hundred feet now. The arms continued to pull, over and over. Six hundred and twenty feet. Six hundred and fifty. Now faster than ever. Seven hundred.

“He’s left his boat behind,” the Korean said. “He’s jumped onto our rope. He’s starting up after us.”

“I can feel him,” Jungkook said. “His body weight on the rope.”

“He’ll never catch up!” the Sicilian cried. “Inconceivable!”

“You keep using that word!” the Korean snapped. “I don’t think it means what you think it does.”

“How fast is he at climbing?” Jungkook said.

“I’m frightened,” was the Korean’s reply.

The Sicilian gathered his courage again and looked down.

The man in black seemed almost to be flying. Already he had cut their lead a hundred feet. Perhaps more.

“I thought you were supposed to be so strong!” the Sicilian shouted. “I thought you were this great mighty thing and yet he gains.”

“I’m carrying three people,” Jungkook explained. “He has only himself and—”

“Excuses are the refuge of cowards,” the Sicilian interrupted. He looked down again. The man in black had gained another hundred feet. He looked up now. The cliff tops were beginning to come into view. Perhaps a hundred and fifty feet more and they were safe.

Tied hand and foot, sick with fear, you weren’t sure what you wanted to happen. Except this much you knew: you didn’t want to go through anything like it again.

“Fly, Jungkook!” the Sicilian screamed. “A hundred feet to go.”

Jungkook flew. He cleared his mind of everything but ropes and arms and fingers, and his arms pulled and his fingers gripped and the rope held taut and-

“He’s over halfway,” the Korean said.

“Halfway to doom is where he is,” the Sicilian said. “We’re fifty feet from safety, and once we’re there and I untie the rope…” He allowed himself to laugh.

Forty feet.

Jungkook pulled.

Twenty.

Ten.

It was over. Jungkook had done it. They had reached the top of the Cliffs, and first the Sicilian jumped off and then the Turk removed the Princess, and as the Korean untied himself, he looked back over the Cliffs.

The man in black was no more than three hundred feet away.

“It seems a shame,” the Turk said, looking down alongside the Korean. “Such a climber deserves better than—” He stopped talking then.

The Sicilian had untied the rope from its knots around an oak. The rope seemed almost alive, the greatest of all water serpents heading at last for home. It whipped across the cliff tops, spiraled into the moonlit Channel.

The Sicilian was roaring now, and he kept at it until the Korean said, “He did it.”

“Did what?” The Sicilian came scurrying to the cliff edge.

“Released the rope in time,” the Korean said. “See?” He pointed down.

The man in black was hanging in space, clinging to the sheer rock face, seven hundred feet above the water.

The Sicilian watched, fascinated. “You know,” he said, “since I’ve made a study of death and dying and am a great expert, it might interest you to know that he will be dead long before he hits the water. The fall will do it, not the crash.”

The man in black dangled helpless in space, clinging to the Cliffs with both hands.

“Oh, how rude we’re being,” the Sicilian said then, turning to you. “I’m sure you’d like to watch.” He went to you and brought you, still tied hand and foot, so that you could watch the final pathetic struggle of the man in black three hundred feet below.

You closed your eyes, turned away.

“Shouldn’t we be going?” the Korean asked. “I thought you were telling us how important time was.”

“It is, it is,” the Sicilian nodded. “But I just can’t miss a death like this. If I could stage one of these every week and sell tickets, I could get out of the assassination business entirely. Look at him—do you think his life is passing before his eyes? That’s what the books say.”

“He has very strong arms,” Jungkook commented. “To hold on so long.”

“He can’t hold on much longer,” the Sicilian said. “He has to fall soon.”

It was at that moment that the man in black began to climb. Not quickly, of course. And not without great effort. But still, there was no doubt that he was, in spite of the sheerness of the Cliffs, heading in an upward direction.

“Inconceivable!” the Sicilian cried.

The Korean whirled on him. “Stop saying that word. It was inconceivable that anyone could follow us, but when we looked behind, there was the man in black. It was inconceivable that anyone could sail as fast as we could sail, and yet he gained on us. Now this too is inconceivable, but look—look—” and the Korean pointed down through the night. “See how he rises.”

The man in black was, indeed, rising. Somehow, in some almost miraculous way, his fingers were finding holds in the crevices, and he was now perhaps fifteen feet closer to the top, farther from death.

The Sicilian advanced on the Korean now, his wild eyes glittY/Ng at the insubordination. “I have the keenest mind that has ever been turned to unlawful pursuits,” he began, “so when I tell you something, it is not guesswork; it is fact! And the fact is that the man in black is not following us. A more logical explanation would be that he is simply an ordinary sailor who dabbles in mountain climbing as a hobby who happens to have the same general final destination as we do. That certainly satisfies me and I hope it satisfies you. In any case, we cannot take the risk of his seeing us with the Princess, and therefore one of you must kill him.”

“Shall I do it?” the Turk wondered.

The Sicilian shook his head. “No, Jungkook,” he said finally. “I need your strength to carry the girl. Pick her up now and let us hurry along.” He turned to the Korean. “We’ll be heading directly for the frontier of Guilder. Catch up as quickly as you can once he’s dead.”

The Korean nodded.

The Sicilian hobbled away.

The Turk hoisted the Princess, began following their leader. Just before he lost sight of the Korean he turned and hollered, “Catch up quickly.”

“Don’t I always?” The Korean waved. “Farewell, Jungkook.”

“Farewell, Jimin,” the Turk replied. And then he was gone, and the Korean was alone.

Jimin moved to the cliff edge and knelt with his customary quick grace. Two hundred and fifty feet below him now, the man in black continued his painful climb. Jimin lay flat, staring down, trying to pierce the moonlight and find the climber’s secret. For a long while, Jimin did not move. He was a good learner, but not a particularly fast one, so he had to study. Finally, he realized that somehow, by some mystery, the man in black was making fists and jamming them into the rocks, and using them for support. Then he would reach up with his other hand, until he found a high split in the rock, and make another fist and jam it in. Whenever he could find support for his feet, he would use it, but mostly it was the jammed fists that made the climbing possible.

Jimin marveled. What a truly extraordinary adventurer this man in black must be. He was close enough now for Jimin to realize that the man was masked, a black hood covering all but his features. Another outlaw? Perhaps. Then why should they have to fight and for what? Jimin shook his head. It was a shame that such a fellow must die, but he had his orders, so there it was. Sometimes he did not like the Sicilian’s commands, but what could he do? Without the brains of the Sicilian, he, Jimin, would never be able to command jobs of this caliber. The Sicilian was a master planner. Jimin was a creature of the moment. The Sicilian said “kill him,” so why waste sympathy on the man in black. Someday someone would kill Jimin, and the world would not stop to mourn.

He stood now, quickly jumping to his feet, his blade-thin body ready. For action. Only, the man in black was still many feet away.

There was nothing to do but wait for him. Jimin hated waiting. So to make the time more pleasant, he pulled from the scabbard his great, his only, love:

The six-fingered sword.

How it danced in the moonlight. How glorious and true. Jimin brought it to his lips and with all the fervor in his great Korean heart kissed the metal…

Almost twenty years earlier

At the base of the mountains of Korea, set high in the hills, was the city of Busan. It was very small and the air was always clear. That was all you could say that was good about Busan: terrific air—you could see for miles.

But there was no work, the dogs overran the streets and there was never enough food. The air, clear enough, was also too hot in daylight, freezing at night. As to Jimin’s personal life, he was always just a trifle hungry, he had no brothers or sisters, and his mother had died in childbirth.

He was fantastically happy.

Because of his father. Park Youngbae was funny-looking and crotchety and impatient and absent-minded and never smiled.

Jimin loved him. Totally. Don’t ask why. There really wasn’t any one reason you could put your finger on. Oh, probably Youngbae loved him back, but love is many things, none of them logical.

Park Youngbae made swords. If you wanted a fabulous sword, did you go to Park Youngbae? If you wanted a great balanced piece of work, did you go to the mountains behind Toledo? If you wanted a masterpiece, a sword for the ages, was it Busan that your footsteps led you to?

Nope.

You went to Seoul; because Seoul was where lived the famous Yeste, and if you had the money and he had the time, you got your weapon. Yeste was fat and jovial and one of the richest and most honored men in the city. And he should have been. He made wonderful swords, and noblemen bragged to each other when they owned an original Yeste.

But sometimes—not often, mind you, maybe once a year, maybe less—a request would come in for a weapon that was more than even Yeste could make. When that happened, did Yeste say, “Alas, I am sorry, I cannot do it”?

Nope.

What he said was, “Of course, I’d be delighted, fifty per cent down payment please, the rest before delivery, come back in a year, thank you very much.”

The next day he would set out for the hills behind Toledo.

“So, Youngbae,” Yeste would call out when he reached Jimin’s father’s hut.

“So, Yeste,” Park Youngbae would return from the hut doorway.

Then the two men would embrace and Jimin would come running up and Yeste would rumple his hair and then Jimin would make tea while the two men talked.

“I need you,” Yeste would always begin.

Youngbae would grunt.

“This very week I have accepted a commission to make a sword for a member of the Italian nobility. It is to be jewel encrusted at the handle and the jewels are to spell out the name of his present mistress and—”

“No.”

That single word and that alone. But it was enough. When Park Youngbae said “no” it meant nothing else but.

Jimin, busy with the tea, knew what would happen now: Yeste would use his charm.

“No.”

Yeste would use his wealth.

“No.”

His wit, his wonderful gift for persuasion.

“No.”

He would beg, entreat, promise, pledge.

“No.”

Insults. Threats.

“No.”

Finally, genuine tears.

“No. More tea, Yeste?”

“Perhaps another cup, thank you—” Then, big: “WHY WON’T YOU?”

Jimin hurried to refill their cups so as never to miss a word. He knew they had been brought up together, had known each other sixty years, had never not loved one another deeply, and it thrilled him when he could hear them arguing. That was the strange thing: arguing was all they ever did.

“Why? My fat friend asks me why? He sits there on his world-class ass and has the nerve to ask me why? Yeste. Come to me sometime with a challenge. Once, just once, ride up and say, ‘Youngbae, I need a sword for an eighty-year-old man to fight a duel,’ and I would embrace you and cry ‘Yes!’ Because to make a sword for an eighty-year-old man to survive a duel, that would be something. Because the sword would have to be strong enough to win, yet light enough not to tire his weary arm. I would have to use my all to perhaps find an unknown metal, strong but very light, or devise a different formula for a known one, mix some bronze with some iron and some air in a way ignored for a thousand years. I would kiss your smelly feet for an opportunity like that, fat Yeste. But to make a stupid sword with stupid jewels in the form of stupid initials so some stupid Italian can thrill his stupid mistress, no. That, I will not do.”

“For the last time I ask you. Please.”

“For the last time I tell you, I am sorry. No.”

“I gave my word the sword would be made,” Yeste said. “I cannot make it. In all the world no one can but you, and you say no. Which means I have gone back on a commitment. Which means I have lost my honor. Which means that since honor is the only thing in the world I care about, and since I cannot live without it, I must die. And since you are my dearest friend, I may as well die now, with you, basking in the warmth of your affection.” And here Yeste would pull out a knife. It was a magnificent thing, a gift from Youngbae on Yeste’s wedding day.

“Good-by, little Jimin,” Yeste would say then. “God grant you your quota of smiles.”

It was forbidden for Jimin to interrupt.

“Good-by, little Youngbae,” Yeste would say then. “Although I die in your hut, and although it is your own stubborn fault that causes my ceasing, in other words, even though you are killing me, don’t think twice about it. I love you as I always have and God forbid your conscience should give you any trouble.” He pulled open his coat, brought the knife closer, closer. “The pain is worse than I imagined!” Yeste cried.

“How can it hurt when the point of the weapon is still an inch away from your belly?” Youngbae asked.

“I’m anticipating, don’t bother me, let me die unpestered.” He brought the point to his skin, pushed.

Youngbae grabbed the knife away. “Someday I won’t stop you,” he said. “Jimin, set an extra place for supper.”

“I was all set to kill myself, truly.”

“Enough dramatics.”

“What is on the menu for the evening?”

“The usual gruel.”

“Jimin, go check and see if there’s anything by chance in my carriage outside.”

There was always a feast waiting in the carriage.

And after the food and the stories would come the departure, and always, before the departure, would come the request. “We would be partners,” Yeste would say. “In Seoul. My name before yours on the sign, of course, but equal partners in all things.”

“No.”

“All right. Your name before mine. You are the greatest sword maker, you deserve to come first.”

“Have a good trip back.”

“WHY WON’T YOU?”

“Because, my friend Yeste, you are very famous and very rich, and so you should be, because you make wonderful weapons. But you must also make them for any fool who happens along. I am poor, and no one knows me in all the world except you and Jimin, but I do not have to suffer fools.”

“You are an artist,” Yeste said.

“No. Not yet. A craftsman only. But I dream to be an artist. I pray that someday, if I work with enough care, if I am very very lucky, I will make a weapon that is a work of art. Call me an artist then, and I will answer.”

Yeste entered his carriage. Youngbae approached the window, whispered; “I remind you only of this: when you get this jeweled initialed sword, claim it as your own. Tell no one of my involvement.”

“Your secret is safe with me.”

Embraces and waves. The carriage would leave. And that was the way of life before the six-fingered sword.

Jimin remembered exactly the moment it began. He was making lunch for them—his father always, from the time he was six, let him do the cooking—when a heavy knocking came on the hut door. “Inside there,” a voice boomed. “Be quick about it.”

Jimin’s father opened the door. “Your servant,” he said.

“You are a sword maker,” came the booming voice. “Of distinction. I have heard that this is true.”

“If only it were,” Youngbae replied. “But I have no great skills. Mostly I do repair work. Perhaps if you had a dagger blade that was dulling, I might be able to please you. But anything more is beyond me.”

Jimin crept up behind his father and peeked out. The booming voice belonged to a powerful man with dark hair and broad shoulders who sat upon an elegant brown horse. A nobleman clearly, but Jimin could not tell the country.

“I desire to have made for me the greatest sword since Excalibur.”

“I hope your wishes are granted,” Youngbae said. “And now, if you please, our lunch is almost ready and—”

“I do not give you permission to move. You stay right exactly where you are or risk my wrath, which, I must tell you in advance, is considerable. My temper is murderous. Now, what were you saying about your lunch?”

“I was saying that it will be hours before it is ready; I have nothing to do and would not dream of budging.”

“There are rumors,” the nobleman said, “that deep in the hills behind Toledo lives a genius. The greatest sword maker in all the world.”

“He visits here sometimes—that must be your mistake. But his name is Yeste and he lives in Seoul.”

“I will pay five hundred pieces of gold for my desires,” said the big-shouldered noble.

“That is more money than all the men in all this village will earn in all their lives,” said Youngbae. “Truly, I would love to accept your offer. But I am not the man you seek.”

“These rumors lead me to believe that Park Youngbae would solve my problem.”

“What is your problem?”

“I am a great swordsman. But I cannot find a weapon to match my peculiarities, and therefore I am deprived of reaching my highest skills. If I had a weapon to match my peculiarities, there would be no one in all the world to equal me.”

“What are these peculiarities you speak of?”

The noble held up his right hand.

Youngbae began to grow excited.

The man had six fingers.

“You see?” the noble began.

“Of course,” Youngbae interrupted, “the balance of the sword is wrong for you because every balance has been conceived of for five. The grip of every handle cramps you, because it has been built for five. For an ordinary swordsman it would not matter, but a great swordsman, a master, would have eventual discomfort. And the greatest swordsman in the world must always be at ease. The grip of his weapon must be as natural as the blink of his eye, and cause him no more thought.”

“Clearly, you understand the difficulties—” the nobleman began again.

But Youngbae had traveled where others’ words could never reach him. Jimin had never seen his father so frenzied. “The measurements… of course… each finger and the circumference of the wrist, and the distance from the sixth nail to the index pad… so many measurements… and your preferences… Do you prefer to slash or cut? If you slash, do you prefer the right-to-left movement or perhaps the parallel?…When you cut, do you enjoy an upward thrust, and how much power do you wish to come from the shoulder, how much from the wrist?…And do you wish your point coated so as to enter more easily or do you enjoy seeing the opponent’s wince?…So much to be done, so much to be done…” and on and on he went until the noble dismounted and had to almost take him by the shoulders to quiet him.

“You are the man of the rumors.”

Youngbae nodded.

“And you will make me the greatest sword since Excalibur.”

“I will beat my body into ruins for you. Perhaps I will fail. But no one will try harder.”

“And payment?”

“When you get the sword, then payment. Now let me get to work measuring. Jimin—my instruments.”

Jimin scurried into the darkest corner of the hut.

“I insist on leaving something on account.”

“It is not necessary; I may fail.”

“I insist.”

“All right. One goldpiece. Leave that. But do not bother me with money when there is work that needs beginning.”

The noble took out one piece of gold.

Youngbae put it in a drawer and left it, without even a glance. “Feel your fingers now,” he commanded. “Rub your hands hard, shake your fingers—you will be excited when you duel and this handle must match your hand in that excitement; if I measured when you were relaxed, there would be a difference, as much as a thousandth of an inch and that would rob us of perfection. And that is what I seek. Perfection. I will not rest for less.”

The nobleman had to smile. “And how long will it take to reach it?”

“Come back in a year,” Youngbae said, and with that he set to work.

Such a year.

Youngbae slept only when he dropped from exhaustion. He ate only when Jimin would force him to. He studied, fretted, complained. He never should have taken the job; it was impossible. The next day he would be flying: he never should have taken the job; it was too simple to be worth his labors. Joy to despair, joy to despair, day to day, hour to hour. Sometimes Jimin would wake to find him weeping: “What is it, Father?” “It is that I cannot do it. I cannot make the sword. I cannot make my hands obey me. I would kill myself except what would you do then?” “Go to sleep, Father.” “No, I don’t need sleep. Failures don’t need sleep. Anyway, I slept yesterday.” “Please, Father, a little nap.” “All right; a few minutes; to keep you from nagging.”

Some nights Jimin would awake to see him dancing. “What is it, Father?” “It is that I have found my mistakes, corrected my misjudgments.” “Then it will be done soon, Father?” “It will be done tomorrow and it will be a miracle.” “You are wonderful, Father.” “I’m more wonderful than wonderful, how dare you insult me.”

But the next night, more tears. “What is it now, Father?” “The sword, the sword, I cannot make the sword.” “But last night, Father, you said you had found your mistakes.” “I was mistaken; tonight I found new ones, worse ones. I am the most wretched of creatures. Say you wouldn’t mind it if I killed myself so I could end this existence.” “But I would mind, Father. I love you and I would die if you stopped breathing.” “You don’t really love me; you’re only speaking pity.” “Who could pity the greatest sword maker in the history of the world?” “Thank you, Jimin.” “You’re welcome, Father.” “I love you back, Jimin.” “Sleep, Father.” “Yes. Sleep.”

A whole year of that. A year of the handle being right but the balance being wrong, of the balance being right, but the cutting edge too dull, of the cutting edge sharpened, but that threw the balance off again, of the balance returning, but now the point was fat, of the point regaining sharpness, only now the entire blade was too short and it all had to go, all had to be thrown out, all had to be done again. Again. Again. Youngbae’s health began to leave him. He was fevered always now, but he forced his frail shell on, because this had to be the finest since Excalibur. Youngbae was battling legend, and it was destroying him.

Such a year.

One night Jimin woke to find his father seated. Staring. Calm. Jimin followed the stare.

The six-fingered sword was done.

Even in the hut’s darkness, it glistened.

“At last,” Youngbae whispered. He could not take his eyes from the glory of the sword. “After a lifetime, Jimin. Jimin. I am an artist.”

The big-shouldered nobleman did not agree. When he returned to purchase the sword, he merely looked at it a moment. “Not worth waiting for,” he said.

Jimin stood in the corner of the hut, watching, holding his breath.

“You are disappointed?” Youngbae could scarcely get the words spoken.

“I’m not saying it’s trash, you understand,” the nobleman went on. “But it’s certainly not worth five hundred pieces of gold. I’ll give you ten; it’s probably worth that.”

“Wrong!” Youngbae cried. “It is not worth ten. It is not worth even one. Here.” And he threw open the drawer where the one goldpiece had lain untouched the year. “The gold is yours. All of it. You have lost nothing.” He took back the sword and turned away.

“I’ll take the sword,” the nobleman said. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t take it. I only said I would pay what it was worth.”

Youngbae whirled back, eyes bright. “You quibbled. You haggled. Art was involved and you saw only money. Beauty was here for the taking and you saw only your fat purse. You have lost nothing; there is no more reason for your remaining here. Please go.”

“The sword,” the noble said.

“The sword belongs to my son,” Youngbae said. “I give it to him now. It is forever his. Good-by.”

“You’re a peasant and a fool and I want my sword.”

“You’re an enemy of art and I pity your ignorance,” Youngbae said.

They were the last words he ever uttered.

The noble killed him then, with no warning; a flash of the nobleman’s sword and Youngbae’s heart was torn to pieces.

Jimin screamed. He could not believe it; it had not happened. He screamed again. His father was fine; soon they would have tea. He could not stop screaming.

The village heard. Twenty men were at the door. The nobleman pushed his way through them. “That man attacked me. See? He holds a sword. He attacked me and I defended myself. Now move from my way.”

It was lies, of course, and everyone knew it. But he was a noble so what was there to do? They parted, and the nobleman mounted his horse.

“Coward!”

The nobleman whirled.

“Pig!”

Again the crowd parted.

Jimin stood there, holding the six-fingered sword, repeating his words: “Coward. Pig. Killer.”

“Someone tend the babe before he oversteps himself,” the noble said to the crowd.

Jimin ran forward then, standing in front of the nobleman’s horse, blocking the nobleman’s path. He raised the six-fingered sword with both his hands and cried, “I, Park Jimin, do challenge you, coward, pig, killer, ass, fool, to battle.”

“Get him out of my way. Move the infant.”

“The infant is ten and he stays,” Jimin said.

“Enough of your family is dead for one day; be content,” said the noble.

“When you beg me for your breath, then I shall be contented. Now dismount!”

The nobleman dismounted.

“Draw your sword.”

The nobleman unsheathed his killing weapon.

“I dedicate your death to my father,” Jimin said. “Begin.”

They began.

It was no match, of course. Jimin was disarmed in less than a minute. But for the first fifteen seconds or so, the noble was uneasy. During those fifteen seconds, strange thoughts crossed his mind. For even at the age of ten, Jimin’s genius was there.

Disarmed, Jimin stood very straight. He said not a word, begged nothing.

“I’m not going to kill you,” the nobleman said. “Because you have talent and you’re brave. But you’re also lacking in manners, and that’s going to get you in trouble if you’re not careful. So I shall help you as you go through life, by leaving you with a reminder that bad manners are to be avoided.” And with that his blade flashed. Two times.

And Jimin’s face began to bleed. Two rivers of blood poured from his forehead to his chin, one crossing each cheek. Everyone watching knew it then: the boy was scarred for life.

Jimin would not fall. The world went white behind his eyes but he would not go to ground. The blood continued to pour. The nobleman replaced his sword, remounted, rode on.

It was only then that Jimin allowed the darkness to claim him.

He awoke to Yeste’s face.

“I was beaten,” Jimin whispered. “I failed him.”

Yeste could only say, “Sleep.”

Jimin slept. The bleeding stopped after a day and the pain stopped after a week. They buried Youngbae, and for the first and last time Jimin left Busan. His face bandaged, he rode in Yeste’s carriage to Seoul, where he lived in Yeste’s house, obeyed Yeste’s commands. After a month, the bandages were removed, but the scars were still deep red. Eventually, they softened some, but they always remained the chief features of Jimin’s face: the giant parallel scars running one on each side, from temple to chin. For two years, Yeste cared for him.

Then one morning, Jimin was gone. In his place were three words: “I must learn” on a note pinned to his pillow.

Learn? Learn what? What existed beyond Seoul that the child had to commit to memory? Yeste shrugged and sighed. It was beyond him. There was no understanding children any more. Everything was changing too fast and the young were different. Beyond him, beyond him, life was beyond him, the world was beyond him, you name it, it was beyond him. He was a fat man who made swords. That much he knew.

So he made more swords and he grew fatter and the years went by. As his figure spread, so did his fame. From all across the world they came, begging him for weapons, so he doubled his prices because he didn’t want to work too hard any more, he was getting old, but when he doubled his prices, when the news spread from duke to prince to king, they only wanted him the more desperately. Now the wait was two years for a sword and the line-up of royalty was unending and Yeste was growing tired, so he doubled his prices again, and when that didn’t stop them, he decided to triple his already doubled and redoubled prices and besides that, all work had to be paid for in jewels in advance and the wait was up to three years, but nothing would stop them. They had to have swords by Yeste or nothing, and even though the work on the finest was nowhere what it once was (Youngbae, after all, no longer could save him) the silly rich men didn’t notice. All they wanted was his weapons and they fell over each other with jewels for him.

Yeste grew very rich.

And very heavy.

Every part of his body sagged. He had the only fat thumbs in Seoul. Dressing took an hour, breakfast the same, everything went slowly.

But he could still make swords. And people still craved them. “I’m sorry,” he said to the young Korean who entered his shop one particular morning. “The wait is up to four years and even I am embarrassed to mention the price. Have your weapon made by another.”

“I have my weapon,” the Korean said.

And he threw the six-fingered sword across Yeste’s workbench.

Such embraces.

“Never leave again,” Yeste said. “I eat too much when I’m lonely.”

“I cannot stay,” Jimin told him. “I’m only here to ask you one question. As you know, I have spent the last ten years learning. Now I have come for you to tell me if I’m ready.”

“Ready? For what? What in the world have you been learning?”

“The sword.”

“Madness,” said Yeste. “You have spent ten entire years just learning to fence?”

“No, not just learning to fence,” Jimin answered. “I did many other things as well.”

“Tell me.”

“Well,” Jimin began, “ten years is what? About thirty-six hundred days. And that’s about—I figured this out once, so I remember pretty well—about eighty-six thousand hours. Well, I always made it a point to get four hours sleep per night. That’s fourteen thousand hours right there, leaving me perhaps seventy-two thousand hours to account for.”

“You slept. I’m with you. What else?”

“Well, I squeezed rocks.”

“I’m sorry, my hearing sometimes fails me; it sounded like you said you squeezed rocks.”

“To make my wrists strong. So I could control the sword. Rocks like apples. That size. I would squeeze them in each hand for perhaps two hours a day. And I would spend another two hours a day in skipping and dodging and moving quickly, so that my feet would be able to get me into position to deliver properly the thrust of the sword. That’s another fourteen thousand hours. I’m down to fifty-eight thousand now. Well, I always sprinted two hours each day as fast as I could, so my legs, as well as being quick, would also be strong. And that gets me down to about fifty thousand hours.”

Yeste examined the young man before him. Blade thin, six feet in height, straight as a sapling, bright eyed, taut; even motionless he seemed whippet quick. “And these last fifty thousand hours? These have been spent studying the sword?”

Jimin nodded.

“Where?”

“Wherever I could find a master. Venice, Bruges, Budapest.”

“I could have taught you here?”

“True. But you care for me. You would not have been ruthless. You would have said, ‘Excellent parry, Jimin, now that’s enough for one day; let’s have supper.’”

“That does sound like me,” Yeste admitted. “But why was it so important? Why was it worth so much of your life?”

“Because I could not fail him again.”

“Fail who?”

“My father. I have spent all these years preparing to find the six-fingered man and kill him in a duel. But he is a master, Yeste. He said as much and I saw the way his sword flew at Youngbae. I must not lose that duel when I find him, so now I have come to you. You know swords and swordsmen. You must not lie. Am I ready? If you say I am, I will seek him through the world. If you say no, I will spend another ten years and another ten after that, if that is needed.”

So they went to Yeste’s courtyard. It was late morning. Hot. Yeste put his body in a chair and the chair in the shade. Jimin stood waiting in the sunshine. “We need not test desire and we know you have sufficient motive to deliver the death blow,” Yeste said.

“Therefore we need only probe your knowledge and speed and stamina. We need no enemy for this. The enemy is always in the mind. Visualize him.”

Jimin drew his sword.

“The six-fingered man taunts you,” Yeste called. “Do what you can.”

Jimin began to leap around the courtyard, the great blade flashing.

“He uses the Agrippa defense,” Yeste shouted.

Immediately, Jimin shifted position, increased the speed of his sword.

“Now he surprises you with Bonetti’s attack.”

But Jimin was not surprised for long. Again his feet shifted; he moved his body a different way. Perspiration was pouring down his thin frame now and the great blade was blinding. Yeste continued to shout. Jimin continued to shift. The blade never stopped.

At three in the afternoon, Yeste said, “Enough. I am exhausted from the watching.”

Jimin sheathed the six-fingered sword and waited.

“You wish to know if I feel you are ready to duel to the death a man ruthless enough to kill your father, rich enough to buy protection, older and more experienced, an acknowledged master.”

Jimin nodded.

“I’ll tell you the truth, and it’s up to you to live with it. First, there has never been a master as young as you. Thirty years at least before that rank has yet been reached, and you are barely twenty-two. Well, the truth is you are an impetuous boy driven by madness and you are not now and you will never be a master.”

“Thank you for your honesty,” Jimin said. “I must tell you I had hoped for better news. I find it very hard to speak just now, so if you’ll please excuse me, I’ll be on my—”

“I had not finished,” Yeste said.

“What else is there to say?”

“I loved your father very dearly, that you know, but this you did not know: when we were very young, not yet twenty, we saw, with our own eyes, an exhibition by the Corsican Wizard, Bastia.”

“I know of no wizards.”

“It is the rank beyond master in swordsmanship,” Yeste said. “Bastia was the last man so designated. Long before your birth, he died at sea. There have been no wizards since, and you would never in this world have beaten him. But I tell you this: he would never in this world have beaten you.”

Jimin stood silent for a long time. “I am ready then.”

“I would not enjoy being the six-fingered man,” was all Yeste replied.

The next morning, Jimin began the track-down. He had it all carefully prepared in his mind. He would find the six-fingered man. He would go up to him. He would say simply, “Hello, my name is Park Jimin, you killed my father, prepare to die,” and then, oh then, the duel.

It was a lovely plan really. Simple, direct. No frills. In the beginning, Jimin had all kinds of wild vengeance notions, but gradually, simplicity had seemed the better way. Originally, he had all kinds of little plays worked out in his mind—the enemy would weep and beg, the enemy would cringe and cry, the enemy would bribe and slobber and act in every way unmanly. But eventually, these too gave way in his mind to simplicity: the enemy would simply say, “Oh, yes, I remember killing him; I’ll be only too delighted to kill you too.”

Jimin had only one problem: he could not find the enemy.

It never occurred to him there would be the least difficulty. After all, how many noblemen were there with six fingers on their right hands? Surely, it would be the talk of whatever his vicinity happened to be. A few questions: “Pardon, I’m not crazy, but have you seen any six-fingered noblemen lately?” and surely, sooner or later, there would be an answering “yes.”

But it didn’t come sooner.

And later wasn’t the kind of thing you wanted to hold your breath for either.

The first month wasn’t all that discouraging. Jimin criss-crossed Spain and Portugal. The second month he moved to France and spent the rest of the year there. The year following that was his Italian year, and then came Germany and the whole of Switzerland.

It was only after five solid years of failure that he began to worry. By then he had seen all of the Balkans and most of Scandinavia and had visited the Florinese and the natives of Guilder and into Mother Russia and down step by step around the entire Mediterranean.

By then he knew what had happened: ten years learning was ten years too long; too much had been allowed to happen. The six-fingered man was probably crusading in Asia. Or getting rich in America. Or a hermit in the East Indies. Or… or…

Dead?

Jimin, at the age of twenty-seven, began having a few extra glasses of wine at night, to help him get to sleep. At twenty-eight, he was having a few extra glasses to help him digest his lunch. At twenty-nine, the wine was essential to wake him in the morning. His world was collapsing around him. Not only was he living in daily failure, something almost as dreadful was beginning to happen:

Fencing was beginning to bore him.

He was simply too good. He would make his living during his travels by finding the local champion wherever he happened to be, and they would duel, and Jimin would disarm him and accept whatever they happened to bet. And with his winnings he would pay for his food and his lodging and his wine.

But the local champions were nothing. Even in the big cities, the local experts were nothing. Even in the capital cities, the local masters were nothing. There was no competition, nothing to help him keep an edge. His life began to seem pointless, his quest pointless, everything, everything, without reason.

At thirty he gave up the ghost. He stopped his search, forgot to eat, slept only on occasion. He had his wine for company and that was enough.

He was a shell. The greatest fencing machine since the Corsican Wizard was barely even practicing the sword.

He was in that condition when the Sicilian found him.

At first the little Sicilian only supplied him with stronger wine. But then, through a combination of praise and nudging, the Sicilian began to get him off the bottle. Because the Sicilian had a dream: with his guile plus the Turk’s strength plus the Korean’s sword, they might become the most effective criminal organization in the civilized world.

Which is precisely what they became.

In dark places, their names whipped sharper than fear; everyone had needs that were hard to fulfill. The Sicilian Crowd (two was company, three a crowd, even then) became more and more famous and more and more rich. Nothing was beyond or beneath them. Jimin’s blade was flashing again, more than ever like lightning. The Turk’s strength grew more prodigious with the months.

But the Sicilian was the leader. There was never doubt. Without him, Jimin knew where he would be: on his back begging wine in some alley entrance. The Sicilian’s word was not just law, it was gospel.

So when he said, “Kill the man in black,” all other possibilities ceased to exist. The man in black had to die…

masterpost

#kwritersworldnet #jiyong fic #jiyong fanfic #kwon jiyong #bigbang fic #bts fic #park jimin #lee seunghyun #jiyong princess bride #jiyong westley #sylvanwriting #gdragon fic #long post #idk what to tag thisssss #introducing my weird versions of jimin and kook since they seemed to fit fezzik and inigo the best

[damedarcy]

https://youtu.be/o8e_YDZ2y94 ♥️ So my highschool bf put this song on a mixed tape for me when I was 16. I'm obsessed with this song. Everything about it is perfect. I literally searched for years trying to find it again because I couldn't remember it was A.R. Kane. I didn't realize the lyrics were so secretly dirty. Teen Me thought this song was the epitome of romance. I just may still think that. Also on this mixed tape was Haunted by Love and Rockets Birthday by Sugar Cubes "we lie in the bathtub, a chain of Flowers". The orchid and the metal by Psychic TV, (featuring oboes!) In My Garden by the Swans sung by Jarboe whose voice sounds like a flute. ....Basically the slow jams of 80s Goth. I found Lollita again because I was looking for songs while getting my set together for @sailorhankproductions birthday. Who is turning 16! 🌈❤️ I'm packing to go on tour for a month to promote the new book. His birthday is 80's theme so thus the rememberances of highschool favs. Practicing and relearning them also mixing new versions of them to sing live while wearing what I would have worn in highschool. An @adamantofficial shirt @kookteflon gave me ♥️ black leggings as pants, lace glovelettes and goth boots with Priss from Blade Runner makeup. Anyways it was a tough decision, but Lollita is too obsure and I want to do a set that people remember as iconic goth songs from the 80s (called Death Rock back then) not to be confused with Death Metal as the kids do today. But not so common because I don't wanna accidentally do the same song as someone else in the show. Btw my voice is sounding folk/ goth/ jazz now if that's a thing , and I'm just trying to remember what my singing teacher said n stay in (my now kinda limited) range. Anyways, I decided to read a passage from Hi Jax about my Native American friend and I being in love with Adam Ant that leads into Kings of the Wild Frontier, then The Cure The Walk, to Death In June Black Angel, Siouxsie Lunar Camel, and end with Enjoy the Silence by Depeche Mode. That's my #80s 😉 @damedarcy 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 https://www.etsy.com/listing/658780569/hi-jax-hi-jinx-graphic-novel https://www.instagram.com/p/BuJaM42FeWv/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=eg808bhelqv0

#80s

[farlydatau]

Davy Crockett Silhouette T-Shirt Texas Map Davy Crockett Hatchet Graphic Shirt - T Shirt Gift for David Crockett Texas Alamo Fan

#wild frontier king #King Of The Wild Frontier Shirt #king of the wild frontier #davy crockett gift #davy crockett tshirt store #davy crockett tshirt designer #davy crockett tshirts #davy crockett tshirt #Crockett Silhouette #texas revolution #David Crockett Vintage T-Shirt #David Crockett #alamo souvenir #battle of alamo #texas history #davy crockett art #davy crockett print #davy crockett #gift ideas #etsy gifts #bestgift #gift idea #giftideas #giftshop #gift

[killmongerdreams]

teorainn

summary: Inspired by Netflix’s Frontier. || Irishman!Bucky Barnes x Native!Reader 

warnings: lots of cursing, overuse of the word fuck, mention of blood and death, kindnapping, clint is a grumpy man

author’s note: Teorainn is Gaelic for frontier. Reader is a POC, and if you don’t like it, you can fucking fight me. Also, I’m back, hoes. 

Bucky keeps a strong hand on his satchel as he weaves in between the market stalls, dark hair flying in the brisk wind as he sprints for his life. The motley butcher follows not too far behind him with an  arm high in the air as he fists the thick hilt of a meat cleaver.

“Get back here, you fuckin’ harpie!” Bucky yelps as the cleaver sails past his head, the sharp metal scraping his cheek. He jumps over a cart of hay as he hisses through his teeth at the stinging pain. A few drops of blood drip down his cheek, staining the collar of his already ruined shirt. 

He turns a sharp corner, making a beeline for the stables when he realizes the butcher is nowhere in sight. The door creaks open with a quiet groan, and Bucky slips in unnoticed. There, in the middle of the freezing, hay-ridden ground are his two best friends, looking worse for wear as they huddle together under a moth-eaten blanket in a feeble attempt to salvage warmth. 

Winter was an unforgiving bitch; Bucky longed for the scorching heat of the summer to warm his chilled bones. 

He throws the satchel in front of them, the worn leather giving away quickly as it falls open with a thud. Inside were a few legs of roasted chicken, courtesy of the butcher with one hell of an aim. Bucky reaches into his pocket and pulls out two bruised apples and a decent handful of partridge berries. 

Bucky settles onto the ground with a sigh, rubbing at the abrasion on his cheek angrily. “I fuckin’ hate this shite. Next time one of you cunts are goin’ out and riskin’ your arse.” his muddled accent is thicker with anger, and Clint and Steve have a hard time not snickering at the fact. Bucky’s been in London since he was a tot, and he still hasn’t shaken off his mother’s thick, south-western Irish drawl; it pisses him off to no end. He’s already different enough, and no matter how hard he tries to mimic the English, anyone can tell he’s not from there. 

Steve reaches over with a wry grin, thumbing at the stray streaks of crimson coating Bucky’s cheek and jaw. “You could always let me go,” Steve offers, ignoring Bucky’s wince. 

“You know damn well no one will let you go anywhere.” Clint rolls his eyes, huffing. “You’re too small.”

“Exactly. With this body -” Steve gestures to his frail, sickly frame, waving a bony wrist in the air. “ - I can get in and out faster than you two.”

“No.” The word is spoken in unison by both Bucky and Clint, followed by twin sets of narrowed blue eyes. 

“You’re not goin’ anywhere, idiot.” Bucky mutters angrily. He shoves two of the four chicken legs and the berries into Steve’s lap while he and Clint get a leg and an apple to themselves. It’s quiet for a few moments as the dig in like a pack of wolves, not bothering to save the long-awaited meal as their state of hunger catches up with them. 

“There’s a feast tonight at the Gallery,” Steve tells them, wiping at his berry stained mouth. “I could slip in and out, steal enough food to last us a few days.”

“You’re insane. That’s the Governor’s feast.” the incredulous stare decorating Clint’s filthy face would’ve been comical if not for the fact it was coming from the King of Stupidity himself. Clint was at least a dozen different shades of crazy, and barely anything phased him in this day and age, so if the man was labeling someone other than himself as psychotic, then that person was a true-bred dumbass through and through. And the look was leveled at Steve, who, even in his hungriest, savagest state, kept the clearest head out of the trio. He was usually the one keeping Bucky and Clint out of monumental trouble.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Bucky claps Steve on the back gingerly, shaking his head. “Like I said before, you’re not goin’ anywhere, idiot.”

In hindsight, he should’ve known better. No one tells little Steven G. Rogers he can’t do something and get away with it.

Bucky wakes up in the middle of the night, shivering when he notices the warmth of the smaller man isn’t pressed against his front anymore. He sits up abruptly, fast enough that it startles Clint from where he was curled around Bucky’s back The blonde rises slowly, squinting in equal parts grogginess and annoyance. 

“What. The. Fuck.” Clint hisses. 

“Steve’s gone.” Bucky says, voice raising in alarm. “The fucker actually went.”

“What. The. Fuck.” Clint repeats. For a man who was roused rather rudely from his sleep, he rises to his feet with an eerie amount of grace. He shrugs on his battered boots, glancing at Bucky from over his shoulder. “C’mon, then, let’s go find his sorry ass before he gets himself killed. We’re gonna bring him back here and tie him to a post, and then I’m going back to fuckin’ sleep.” 

Clint throws open the stable doors with the fury of a man on a mission, grumbling under his breath. “Stupid fuckin’ asshole. This is what I get for associating with someone from fuckin’ Newcastle. Should’ve fuckin’ known....C’mon, Barnes! I don’t have all night!”

Outside the gallery lays the bodies of many fallen English soldiers. Clint lets loose a string of expletives so filthy that even Bucky winces. 

“Maybe he got away.” Bucky suggests quietly. Clint throws him a dirty look for his efforts of reassurance. 

Stepping over the bloodied, mangled men, they head into the Galley, finding a red-haired woman making a half-assed attempt to clean blood off her bar. “You! Woman!” Clint barges through, blue eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why aren’t you dead?”

The red-haired wench rolls her eyes. “They wanted the Governor. They got him.”

“Who the fuck is they?” Clint demands. He slams his hands down on the countertop, right into the pool of crimson. Bucky nearly gags. 

“Y/N Y/L/N and her crew.” she informs, making all the color drain from his face. Bucky doesn’t understand the significance of her name, but apparently it’s profound.

“Did you happen to see a little blonde man?” Bucky questions. “He goes by the name of Steve.”

“He’s a girlish little thing, has an attitude worthy of a pack of wolves, and stupidity that knows no bounds.” Clint tacks on. 

The woman nods. “He tried to sneak in and grab food, and Governor Stark caught him. He was gonna execute him in front of everyone, but Y/L/N burst through the door right before his throat was gonna be slit. She took him with her.”

“Fuckin’ hell!” Clint curses. He looks to Bucky with wide eyes. “He’s as good as dead.”

“I don’t understand.” Bucky bites at his lip, worried. 

“I forget you lived under a rock for-fuckin’-ever.” Clint insults quietly. “Y/L/N is a former Irishwoman, brought over here with her little brother and sister on a slave ship coming from Canada. Stark bought all three of ‘em, slaughtered the little ones right in front of her.”

“What do you mean by “former irishwoman?”‘ Bucky questions. 

“Her father was an Irish fur trapper, a man by the name of James Y/L/N, and her mother was Native. Cree, I believe.” the red-head supplies. “The girl lived good for a while, but then Stark’s company invaded their camp one night, found the family sleeping in a tent. Killed her mother and took the children.”

“Where was her pa?” 

“Cock-deep in an American girl, according to what I’ve heard.” she shrugs, smirking a little as Bucky cringes. “She has her own vendetta with that man. I figure she’ll settle that score when she’s done with Stark.”

“And ya sure she has Steve?” Bucky asks, making her nod.

“He got all mouthy, and Y/N herself dragged him out the front door by his pretty blonde hair.” 

Bucky and Clint groan as one. They knew that mouth of his would get him killed one day.

“You think he’s alive?” Clint inquires. 

“Only one way to find out, isn’t there?” the red-head counters.

“If he’s alive, I’m gonna string him up by his ankles on a tree and beat him with a fuckin’ stick.” Clint growls, stepping carefully over a fallen tree branch. “And, if he’s dead, I’m gonna bring him back to life just so I can be the one to fuckin’ kill him.”

Bucky stuffs his hands deep in his pockets, navigating the uneven terrain with unsure footing. They were deep in the wilderness, far past the rural outskirts of London, in the middle of the night. He was sure they were going in circles, everything looking the exact same under the barely lit sky.

“Ma always said not to fool with the world.” Bucky informs sagely. “You’ll lose yer soul playin’ ‘round with witchcraft like that.”

“Your ma can suck my fat cock.” Clint snaps. “I’m gonna fuckin’ torch him and then piss on his fuckin’ ashes.”

Bucky opens his mouth to reply, only to get cut off as an arrow whistles through the air. It embeds itself into the rough bark of the tree in front of him and both men freeze in their tracks. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ scream, Barnes.” Clint whispers harshly. “Move slowly, and try not to make a sound.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were ya,” a voice calls out. “You’re surrounded by a good twenty men.” 

“Y/L/N?” Clint asks, back straightening. 

“Do I know you?” the source of the voice steps out of the brush, and Bucky can feel his eyes go wide. Standing before him is the most beautiful woman he’s ever laid eyes on. She’s beautifully wild with long, dark hair twisted into different braids, thick fabric woven between the strands. Her furs are strung tight around her body, but not tight enough that her weapons are completely concealed. Hanging from a leather sash strung around her body are a multitude of knifes and an axe, the sight of them setting off a cascade of alarms in both men’s heads. Intelligent, daunting eyes appraise both of them in turn, and Bucky feels his blood freeze when her dark gaze lingers on him a tad bit longer.

“Do I know you?” she repeats, and Bucky thinks he can hear a trace of Irish in her flat tone.

“We’re looking for our friend.” Clint explains. “Steve Rogers. He was at the feast when your band crashed the party. By the way, I commend you on your style - brutal and bloody. It leaves a statement that can’t be ignored.”

“Shut up.” Bucky grinds out through gritted teeth.

Something akin to amusement passes through Y/N’s eyes. “I’d listen to your friend, boy. A smart mouth like that will get you killed.”

“Tryin’ to see if Steve’s smart mouth got him killed.” Clint retorts.

“If you want to see, then follow me.” she says. Without another word, she turns on her heel and starts to walk away, leaving them to scramble at her heels.

 “I’d suggest you stay close,” she said without looking behind her. “You never know what lurks in the dark.”

“Yep,” Clint mutters. “I’m gonna fuckin’ kill him.”

“She might kill us first.” Bucky says back, sneaking a glance at the woman before him. “Let’s hope the fuck not. I’m too young to die.”

“And I’m too old for this shit.”

#bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x reader smut #bucky barnes x reader fic #bucky barnes x reader fluff #bucky barnes x reader imagine #sebastian stan smut #sebastian stan x reader #sebastian stan fluff #sebastian stan imagine

[callmeblake]

MCR specific tags (WIP)

 EDIT: This is no longer being updated please go HERE for an updated version.

I had this in a page but it kept losing the tags. I have not the patience to put them all in again today.

Please just put it in manually for now on unlinked ones until I do.

Magazine Posters and Articles Lists - all members

Frank-

Instagram: frankieromustdie

Body: frank’s hands, bare chest, frank’s tummy, frank’s legs, moustache frank,  frank on his knees,  frank's smile

Bands: steve weil and the disco kings, Hybrid, Sector 12,  Pencey Prep, I am a graveyard, LeATHERMØUTH, Frnkiero andthe cellabration, bloodNUN, frank iero and the patience, fiatfv, frank iero and the future violents

Frank’s covers

Frankie in red

Frank in Purple

Frank in Camo

Frank’s hair

Frank in jean jackets

Other: Frank in aviators, white wrist cuff with studs, skeleton gloves, pink and blue striped tie, tiara frank, frank spitting, padlock necklace, bandana frank, misfits gloves, electrified frankie, pimp frank, frank with dogs, shirtless frank, shower frank, frank drinking water, macaroni necklace, mardi gras beads, frank all in black, red and black bandana, frank in a choker, shovel tie, shorts, american flag guitar strap,  frankenstein guitar strap , blindfolded, frank in a suit, pinstripe suit, snap hospital gown, checkered vans, green scarf, frank in glasses, yellow and black shoes, he's wearing a fucking belt/leather strap around his wrist,  frank with records,  fidget spinner, zombie sticker, arizona tea shorts,  transparent sunglasses

Hats: checkered earflap hat, cheese hat, newsies hat, sailor hat, hawaii stocking cap, stocking cap frank, engineer hat, green hat,  riot fest sucks hat,  i need my space nasa hat,  pink milk teeth hat,  carhartt beanie

Shirts: Death Spells Arm Stripe Shirt, jail stripe shirt , hostage shirt , yourcodenameis:milo shirt, gray soft looking sweatshirt, faded wash blue button up shirt, I am a monster shirt, brown velour striped shirt, blue arm stripe shirt, steelers 32 shirt , long sleeved polka dot shirt, protect each other shirt , red sweatshirt with foot on fire, green cunt shirt, inside out shirt, kill shirt, lehigh army rotc shirt, hostage shirt, christian death shirt, hi how are you? shirt, eagle sweatshirt, blue short sleeved shirt with white stitching, browns sweatshirt, danzig shirt, bahama mama cat shirt, navy blue V neck sweater, red shirt under black sweater, voice in the wire shirt, kill 'em all shirt, black flag shirt, bart shirt , green inside out airborne shirt , legalize gay shirt , fred perry polo , raglan shirt , gray sweater, yellow morrissey rose shirt , no love shirt , son of a beach shirt , gray and burgundy striped sweater , blue shoulder adidas shirt t, black shirt with yellow arm stripe , white titty pocket shirt , blue denim titty pocket shirt, yellow and blue stripe plaid shirt, black long sleeved shirt with thin white stripe, wu tang clan shirt , faded wash blue button up shirt , duck hunting shirt , hole heart shirt , plaid titty pocket shirt, ramones shirt, white wives shirt, U.S. army patch shirt , bathory sweatshirt, i got crabs at fisherman's wharf in san francisco shirt , dare shirt, x files shirt, boozey shirt, steel city shirt, short sleeve polo with white trim,  short sleeve polo with white trim button flap, fuck your crew shirt, inside out rick springfield shirt, red muscle shirt, black muscle shirt, dead animal skeletons sleeveless shirt, LBCB shirt, mystery arm stripe shirt, jawbreaker muscle shirt, two tone blue stripe shirt, boozey shirt, inside out holy family nutley shirt, holy family nutley shirt, smiley face shirt, lumberjack shirt, red shirt with white ribbing, green army shirt , kangaroo shirt, chocolate starlight mint shirt, red dad sweater, black short sleeve center buttons shirt, yellow shirt,  black shirt with face on it, royal blue shirt, joy division shirt, coca cola shirt, gray plaid shirt, pizza shirt,  No5 Rescue shirt ,  plaid titty pocket shirt, batman shirt,  nails shirt,  black short sleeved shirt with orange cold button,  white short sleeved shirt with orange cold button,  black t shirt,  frankly scallop I don't give a clam,  goodwill blouse,  steel city shirt,  burgundy trash talk destroy peace sign shirt, navy blue t shirt,  rose bowl 1987 sweatshirt, dave hause starbucks shirt,  grateful dead shirt,  NVRNDR shirt,  blue firmino shirt,  harley davidson eagle shirt,  green striped soccer jersey,  green and blue striped shirt, bleeding smiley face shirt,  soccer jersey,  batman shirt

striped sailor shirt  not to be confused with  black sailor striped shirt or  sailor blue striped shirt

Jackets and hoodies:

patience windbreaker,  cunt sweatshirt , button up hoodie , burgundy hooded sweatshirt, red hoodie , lonsdale london jacket , that damn jacket with the orange pockets , burgundy hoodie , scotch tape jacket , zipper jacket , gray and yellow striped sweater , own name hoodie , racing jacket , white levi denim jacket, denim vest, the banner hoodie, thin white striped hoodie, skeleton crew hoodie, dawn of the dead hoodie, vampire mouth hoodie, adidas windbreaker , jacket with pentagram and finger missing, flair navy blue hoodie. levi fleece lined jacket, skull hoodie, duck hunting hoodie, walt disney world jacket , navy blue hoodie, olive dad sweater, brown dad sweater, never fails to fail me sweatshirt , green coat, carhartt jacket, gray dad sweater with pockets, nylon windbreaker, skeleton ribs hoodie,  skeleton jacket , I heart hoodie, SSE hoodie, wallpaper hoodie, purple cable knit sweater, blue cable knit sweater, black v neck sweater, hoodie with strings,  blue mustangs sweatshirt,  yellow windbreaker,  white stringed neck collar hoodie,  blue alligator dad sweater,  alligator dad sweater,  yellow windbreaker,  fur trimmed coat,  boston hooded sweatshirt,  gray windbreaker,  skull hoodie,  green army sweater,  american nightmare hoodie,  biker jacket,  blue alligator dad sweater with welcome button,  blue alligator dad sweater,  black hoodie,  champion windbreaker,  camo windbreaker,  red and orange V jacket,

Pins/badges: I’m a mess pin, skeleton crew button

Guitars: Gibson ES,  cheap trick bullseye guitar, phant o matic, green guitar, epiphone 50th, blue guitar, red guitar, orange guitar, yellow guitar, guitar with metal front, ftw guitar

Gerard-

Gerard’s art, bat buckle, striped scarf, blue suit, checkered shoes, gerard way smoking, purple gerard, velvet suit, bat buckle

Jackets:

jacket with diamond shapes, kill blazer, black and white coat, white levi denim jacket, candy apple red jacket, C.Taylor Jacket, thin white striped hoodie, black poncho , vomit poncho, T jacket, dead pegasus jacket, faux fur coat, green perry jacket

Hats: beanie gerard, ‘70s hat

Hair: orange hair gerard, red hair gerard, scarecrow hair, lemon gerard, blonde gerard, two tone hair, platinum gerard

Shirts:

green t shirt, LA Co. jail shirt , western rose shirt, motorhead shirt, danzig shirt, red white and blue star shirt , madonna shirt, black flag shirt, sternum shirt, rolling stones shirt, polka dot shirt , faded wash blue shirt, green schoeneck shirt, , dr. pepper shirt, alkaline trio shirt, pink lips shirt, quiet riot shirt, inside out quiet riot shirt, iron maiden shirt, HAMBURGLAR SHIRT, number 5 shirt, green army shirt, planet of the apes shirt, christmas plaid shirt, plaid shirt, hawaiian shirt , iggy pop shirt, blue shirt with yellow arm stripe, green skull and crossbones shirt,  skull and crossbones tie,  blue gingham shirt,  the crow shirt,  planets shirt, t

Events: nccc2016, NYCC2016, twitch stream 2016, twitch stream 2017, wondercon, morrisoncon,

Other:

gerard way smoking, black tie with thin white stripe, velvet suit, zero mask, camo gee, red and black bandana, orange sunglasses, unicorn pin

Ray:  blue heart hoodie, Ray’s HAIR

Mikey:  Mikey in green sailboat shirt, misfits vans,  red scarf mikey, mikey in beach shirt, blue and orange skeleton shirt

Photographers:

neil krug, ture lillegraven, justin borucki,  andrew lipovsky, marvin scott jarrett, trip fontaine, Matthias Clamer, brinson banks, rich gaccione, max fairclough, lisa johnson, gene ambo, sarah louise bennett, brandyn leigh,  dani silvia, ben gibson, Chris Anthony, Dave Willis,Dave Hill, paul harries,  jelle wagenaar, chapman baehler, jenny lewis, eddie malluk, danielle levitt, david reich, micah smith, david ellis, tina korhonen, carter, john mcmurtrie, naki, BJ papas, daragh mcdonagh, tony woolliscroft, andrew kendall, jeremy harris, marvin scott jarett, dean chalkley, scarlet page, greg watermann, lego, sean murphy, martin schoeller, pamela littky steve brown, phil mucci, jennifer tzar, brinson banks, jeremy saffer, roberto chamorro, kevin scanlon, daniel meilniczek, derrick santini, jayme thornton, 

Photoshoots:

school desks photoshoot, chinatown photoshoot,  red jacket photoshoot, fingerchin photoshoot, roses photoshoot, frank and roses, crooked wallpaper photoshoot, storage unit photoshoot, storage unit photoshoot 2, purple curtain photoshoot,  three cheers photoshoot, palm springs, quarter machine photoshoot,  gravel photoshoot, bus photoshoot, abandoned house photoshoot, organ photoshoot, yellow bleachers photoshoot,  chinatown photoshoot, movie theatre photoshoot, flower photoshoot,  log photoshoot , headphones photoshoot,  fire mural, brick photoshoot, teal and brick wall photoshoot,  orange picture photoshoot, green wall photoshoot,  big head photoshoot, twig photoshoot, rolled magazine photoshoot, priest photoshoot, cinder block photoshoot,  bar photoshoot, tunnels, saw blade, shore photoshoot, shore photoshoot 2, shore photoshoot 3, umbrella photoshoot, school desks photoshoot,  kings of the wild frontier, bowie face photoshoot, clockwork photoshoot,  frank holding gerard’s leg, way family home shoot, three cheers photoshoot, yellow skeleton outfit photoshoot, water photoshoot, they came from outer jersey, ray in a tree photoshoot, diner pics for kerrang, never washed denim jacket photoshoot, rolled magazine photoshoot, willow tree photoshoot, scumbag shirt photoshoot, green coat photoshoot t, stairs photoshoot , orange pole photoshoot , gray siding photoshoot , garrote photoshoot , pink hotel photoshoot , bench photoshoot , gold slats photoshoot, gear case photoshoot, carousel photoshoot, radiator photoshoot, motorcycle photoshoot

#blog upkeep #MCR specific tags

[usashirtstoday]

Never Underestimate An Old Woman With Cats And Books Sphynx Cat Vintage Retro T Shirt

You asked we heard you so the Never Underestimate An Old Woman With Cats And Books Sphynx Cat Vintage Retro T Shirt eleased all 5 shades our new matte liquid lip collection is finally here at just 5 each matte is where it’s at playbeautifully. Watch out for therealphilx in the upcoming documentary hired gun to be released august 1st learn the untold stories of your favorite musicians pre order your copy today or on itunes. Today is the second day of the blm wild horse and burro advisory board meeting awhc staff is onsite and will be delivering public comments to the board from 2 00 to 4 30 p m mdt you can tune in live here www blm gov live

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[rauliskafan]

The Doctor and His Doll: Story Hour

Authors’ Note: Thank you so very much to everyone who enjoyed the first part of this story. What will happen when the Doctor and His Doll focus on costumes? Read on for more!!! Enjoy, and check out the first part below in case you missed it!!!

Tagging @vintagemichelle91, @yourtropegirl, @mrschiltoncat

The Doctor and His Doll

All signs point to yes.

Dr. Frederick Chilton was quick to get into the spirit of the thing. You helped him to one suit after another, liking an almost neon blue best. He gravitated towards a chocolate brown. Telling yourself that the customer was always right, and wanting to okay anything so as not to scare him off, you nearly rang up the latter when he took a step back.

“Problem?” you asked.

“Well… what are you planning to wear?”

The feathers were still draped around your shoulders, and you lifted your eyebrows over a smirk.

“Maybe just this,” you teased. “You like?”

Damn! You saw one eyebrow arch as he tried and failed to suck on his left cheek under a discolored pupil. Who did you think you were? So far from a sexpot, and you were ready to swap out the boa for a witch’s cape, an extra-large clown costume, anything to cover your shame, when he suddenly reached for your wrist.

“I fear it is not the polite thing to say,” he started. “But I am intrigued.”

He didn’t need to finish the sentence. The silence and his stare, tinted with the trace of injury, flooded the space with flirtation, and you winked over the feathers when he finally released a heavy sigh.

“As pleasing as that would be, there is a dress code,” he said. “We should complement one another.”

Looking to the rack that had to hold your costume, he thumbed through a few frocks before his fingers settled on a garment adorned with glittering beads.

“Would this work?”

“I have a say?” you teasingly asked.

“Naturally,” he confirmed. “Despite my comment, I can assure you I am not some brute.”

His scar suggested a different story, seemed to sketch a portrait of a man who had to have gone up against dark forces from some uncharted corner of the universe before whipping back around the moon and falling to earth. All that remained was to tell the tale.

“Yes, Doc,” you said. “I do get the gentleman vibe from you.”

He lengthened up the back of his neck, his head just bobbing over his shoulders, his fingers twirling his cane. The limp aside, he had the limbs of a dancer. You wanted to see him at the ball and watch his moves…

…be a part of every twist and turn upon a smooth floor that you imagined as marble, catching your interlocked reflections under some magnificent chandelier.

“Success is sweet,” he quipped. “But you failed to answer my question.”

“Sorry,” you said through a blush. “I really do kind of like this one.”

Sucking the inside of his cheek again, the faintest tinge of metal hitting the air as he parted his lips, Frederick pressed the garment to your form. Could he hear your teeth chattering or your knees knocking together? Holding your breath and hoping to go still, you finally froze at the feel of one long finger stroking your cheek.

“Very lovely,” he said.

“You think so, Doc?” you exhaled.

He nearly nodded his head as you glanced down at the dress. Would it fit? Should you stick to salads for the next few weeks to make it work? As you wondered, Frederick suddenly pulled the dress away and shifted his stare back to the suits.

“The question that was your costume has an answer,” he said. “But I am afraid my choice will not make for a matching mate.”

“I… yeah,” you said. “I kind of have to agree.”

“What do you plan to do about it?” he asked.

Remembering that you still had a job to do, you sifted through the rack.

“All black?” you said as you pulled out yet another jacket and a set of slacks. No doubt he could make it...

“No,” you quickly said in the wake of his flat gaze. “It’ll make you look like a villain.”

“Are you so sure that I am not?” he challenged as he leaned forward on his cane. Chills rivaling winter’s deepest frost danced up and down your spine. The sensation had nothing to do with the man’s supposed malice. The mask he wore concealed much. But not the sweetness in his stare.

“Very sure,” you said. “It’s not you. Don’t worry. I’ll get it right.”

“Please do not stress yourself,” he said, his tone gentle, supporting your mind’s argument better than your intuition. “It is only one night.”

“One night where you have to look sensational!” you said, focusing on the task at hand. “Can I ask why you don’t want to go?”

“You can,” he said, the speed of his response stunning you. You felt your eyes growing wider, waiting for his story that slipped through the stars.

“But I am not necessarily going to tell you.”

Quickly turning back to the rack, you forced a laugh. And was that a shrug from your shoulders?

“Some other time then,” you said. Did it sound casual enough? Only able to hope, you pushed past one item of clothing after another until you came to a white suit, crisp and perfectly tailored for his frame.

“This is it you remarked,” pulling out the jacket and trousers.

“I am not sure if---”

“Well I am!” you stated quickly, cutting him off, your excitement getting the better of you. “Picture it; you’re the gangster with a heart of a gold.”

“I thought you said I was Scarface,” he shot back.

“That was only my way into the world,” you said, talking a mile a minute or more. “It doesn’t mean that you’re not like a fierce fighter. I mean you have the scars to prove it and---”

“You would be surprised.”

He said nothing else as his free hand came to rest on his chest before slowly sliding down to his belly. Knowing that something stranger than his mismatched eyes had to lurk beneath his checkered shirt, you decided not to indulge in that dance again.

Not when you were about to sell more than a suit, something intangible that only fetched a fee in your wildest dreams.

“I know you’re not giving up that ghost,” you said. Was that too much? He… he couldn’t be a killer. Could he? Pushing the thought aside, you ran through your version of events.

“You… you’ve only ever drawn blood if like someone is disloyal,” you continued. “Now not everyone is as noble, and you command so much respect. It lets you live like a king. And you treat your doll right.”

Snatching a pair of cheap glass passing for diamonds, you held them up to your ears.

“With the spoils of war, you take care of all the orphans from the tenement where you cut your teeth. Because you’re their hero. Rivals can’t help but seek your counsel. They can’t get their soldiers to stay in line like you. Why? Cause you’re all about honey instead of vinegar?”

His eyes began to glisten. Were those the start of tears? Should you keep going?

“It’s your secret, and no one needs to know it but you,” you said. “In the end, more people see you as an angel than a devil. So it’s all white all the way!”

Beaming at the end of your story, you watched him reach for the sleeve of the jacket, his fingers closing around the cuff. Frederick’s eyes ran up of the length of the sleeve, came to rest on the collar, and slowly his stare drifted to your costume.

“With you and your ivory magic at my side.”

“Well I’m just the angel’s doll,” you said. “But in time, I bet you rub off on me.”

The more you rolled the story around your mind, the sweeter it sounded. A small part of it wondered if you had chanced upon his truth without even realizing it. Stepping closer to his sphere of light, you stopped short when you felt a new chill and the light going out. Was it a cloud passing over the sun from the world outside, trickling through the plate glass. Instinctively, you reached for his hand…

…and couldn’t help but gasp when he pushed back.

“Doll, you have a wild imagination,” he sadly said.

“Now why would you say… hey! Doc?”

For a second your feet were glued to the floor as you watched him limp away. Recovering your senses, you made a mad dash after him.

“Where are you going?” you asked.

Reaching for his arm, you flinched when he shrugged, pushing you into a new kind of darkness, and you felt your jaw unhinge as he faced you straight on.

“Out of the nursery,” he said. “The hour is late for fairy tales. And angels. I am sorry… I am sorry to have troubled you, Miss.”

Watching him leave, your soul sank. Why hadn’t you just let him stick with the brown? Seen your Scarface story through to its conclusion? Sticking your head out the door, you saw Dr. Frederick Chilton shuffling down the street and out of your life. When were you going to learn the lesson already? No one wanted to hear your stories. Except for children. Probably why you were your block’s go-to babysitter growing up. But in the realm of the real world? You were left with costumes that no one wanted to wear. Better to stay in The Devil’s Den, pull the reverse Icarus and keep far away from the sun.

The sun being...

You went through the motions for the balance of your shift. A jock wanting to play cowboy without knowing which frontiers required conquering. Another mother and daughter. This little one wanted to take on the shape of a cat. You failed to tell her that if she wished hard enough she could jump from the highest points and always land on her feet.

And someone took the feathers. With that your Halloween dream, all your imaginings seemed buried with no way of ever clawing through the earth. Maybe no visible scars to show for the moment. If only you could open your chest and reveal your heart. But to who? Who really cared what pumped the blood, what coursed through your veins?

After counting out the register and locking up, you started down the same street as your late, lamented angel. Time to head back to the dorms, lose yourself in Shakespeare or Spielberg. Both better storytellers than you could ever hope to---

“Doll!”

Looking towards the nearest streetlight, you saw the doctor bathed in the lamp, clutching his cane so tightly that you could see the white of his knuckles. Frederick paused, his mouth open, but no sound came forth. You wanted to hurry in his direction, your heart in all its frailty ready to rattle off endless rounds of apologies when he held up one hand.

“I… I take it your work day is done?” he asked.

“Yes,” you answered quickly. “Have you been waiting here this whole time?”

“Nearly,” he confessed. “I did pop into the pub for a drink.”

“Oh,” you started, drawing closer and inhaling the scent of white wine mixing with metal. Why was…?

“You didn’t go home?” you dumbly asked.

“I could not,” he said. “Not… not until…”

Startled, you looked down to see his fingers brushing against the edge of your hand. For a second he stayed like that, but slowly his hold curled around yours. He clasped your hand as if he was afraid that you would run off. Or disappear. Or were you just seeing scenes that could never come to pass?

“Not until I hear the end of your story.”

Exhaling and seeing your breath become smoke in the autumn air, you hung your head and wanted this moment to be forever. Especially when he touched your face again, when he reached under your chin and made you meet his eyes.

“What… what happens to the angel?” he asked. “Even if he is only that in his doll’s gaze?”

Returning his hold, rubbing one finger against the surface of his large palm, you started to speak when you shook your head.

“They start to live happily ever after,” you weakly said.

“So why don’t sound glad about that?” he asked.

Strange. The first time you had heard him use a contraction. It was telling, and you smiled with a sigh.

“The doll lost her feathers,” you admitted, the spell broken. He seemed to pull away when he brought you closer.

“But you still have wings, doll. And I want to keep flying in your world.”

His pure poetry caused you to bite down on your lip. How you wanted to meet his mouth, to taste the wine and understand the metal, the mystery.

No. Do not make the same mistake twice.

“How about a cup of coffee first?”

Because he was everything other than an error. And as he offered his arm, you told yourself to be wary. But to wonder where this map of a new world might lead.

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